The Shan Speaks: Notes from the Small but Wise

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Brooklyn Bitch

I have a show tomorrow night in Brooklyn, land where I sleep and pee. I don't think I've ever performed in Brooklyn before, probably because I am not nearly cool enough, and I insist on buying NEW clothes. I was in Park Slop looking around at the Cattyshack crowd this weekend, one question kept popping up, haunting me until I felt like I had to know. And though the question is sort of wise-ass-y, like most of my quesitons, I really do want to know the answer. Incidentally, the only other place I ache to ask this same question is in the East Village, mid afternoon on a weekday. You know what? I've just lied. They're a series of questions, all off-shoots of one basic question: Do you have a fucking job? With that hair? And the tats on your neck? And all those piercings? How do you afford your life? Ever gotten laughed out of a job interview? Is your apartment a shit heap? Do you hang out there all day smoking pot while you make Art out of handle bars and old shoes? Does your dentist stare at you funny? Do you shower? No, seriously, do you?

The answer to all those questions: Shannon, you're so 30.

So I was emailed a little blurb about tomorrow's show (see if you can tell where I've added a few things). If you'd like to see me be a bitch in person, I encourage you to come. I've been particularly witchy lately. It'll be the most crusty pleasure you've had in a long time. Put a mic in my hand and duck for cover. My cranky 'tude will test your compassion and tolerance. The other day, my therapist sucker punched me.

Come to laugh, stay to "worship" ME at Becky & Claudia's SupremeOffering, a new stand-up comedy show in Williamsburg, co-hosted by roommates extraordinaire, Claudia Cogan and Becky Poole. BTW, roommates extraordinaire wash their dishes before they're even dirty, always have 6 cold beverages in the fridge (OJ, Milk, Beer, Soda regular, Soda diet, water) and never leave errant pubic hair in the bathroom.

This week's most exalted line-up of comedians you've never heard of - Lubka Bubkova, Carolyn Castiglia, EricDeskin, Shannon Ennis, Eric Kirchberger, Jack Kukoda, and FlorenceYoo!

Wednesday, July 27th at 8:00 PM @ The Graham Lounge 312 Graham Ave
((b/w Devoe and Ainslie))

Take the God Damn L train to Graham Ave (3rd stop in Brooklyn) Walk a block and a half south on Graham to Ainslie. You'll know you're there when you can catch the scent of The Shan in the air.

TODAY IS MY MOM'S BIRTHDAY - I LOVE YOU MOM! EVERYONE SHOULD LEAVE A COMMENT AND TELL MY MOM HAPPY BIRTHDAY...

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Tuesday, July 26, 2005 | 4 comments

Monday, July 25, 2005

Rejoice! Behold the Spawn of The Shan


I gave birth to a litter of pandas this weekend. That's little Fred on the left. And Sally, on his right, is my precious baby girl. They are resting on a pelt I made for them..from their dear departed Daddy's skin. And, yes, I am aware that they have no eyes or ears. Yet. They're coming soon. I got free shipping from Amazon. End of Summer/Baby Panda Parts promotion.Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Monday, July 25, 2005 | 1 comments

THIS GUY FROM THE FEDERAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMISSION IS NOT


Sweet chair. Sweeter suit. Uber sweet hair and glasses combo. If there isn't a "HOTTIES OF THE FCC" calendar already, then get this hunk in front of a camera! Stat! Before he realizes that he must follow his true calling: Lead dancer at the Sugar Shack in Piramus, NJ. Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Monday, July 25, 2005 | 0 comments

BEACH VOLLEYBALL IS COMPELLING


The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, blah, blah, blah... Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Monday, July 25, 2005 | 0 comments

Thursday, July 21, 2005

God This, God That, God Everything!

LAST NIGHT AT THE LATEST INSTALLMENT OF ‘STILL STANDING’ AT JUVIE HALL (9:30 PM TUESDAYS, YOU SHOULD REALLY GO), I PERFORMED THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL. ‘STILL STANDING’ IS AN EXPERIMENTAL SORT OF SHOW, AND THE COMEDIANS ARE GIVEN A TOPIC TO EXPLORE, HOPEFULLY RESULTING IN A FUNNY BIT OF 5 MINUTE STAND UP. IN MY CASE, IT’S A WEE LITTLE SOAP BOX. IF SOMEONE LAUGHS DURING MY TIRADE, GREAT. IF NOT, LICK MY BALLS.

MY BACKGROUND: IRISH CATHOLIC, RAISED IN THE MIDWEST. PRETTY TRADITIONAL FAMILY. NOT STRICT BUT DEVOTED TO STRUCTURE. ATTENDED CATHOLIC SCHOOL UNTIL I WAS A SOPHOMORE IN HIGH SCHOOL.

O.K. BITCHES, I’M GONNA FRY UP THE NICENE CREED FOR YOUR ASSES. CATHOLICS SAY THIS DURING EVERY MASS AS SOON AS THE PRIEST FINISHES HIS HOMILY. THERE IS NO CUE. NO ONE EVEN SAYS, ‘WAKE UP! TIME FOR THE CREED!’ WE’RE EXPECTED TO KNOW INSTINCTIVELY WHEN TO PROFESS THE FACTS OF OUR FAITH. I’VE BEEN GOING TO MASS SINCE I WAS A ZYGOTE AND I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO OR WHEN TO DO IT. I MIMIC. THIS ISN’T A PROBLEM FOR THE OTHER WORSHIPERS. THEY’RE WELL TRAINED. MAYBE I’D HAVE THAT KIND OF INTUITION IN MY SOUL IF I HAD ONE.

SO, THE BLACK THE TEXT IS THE CREED TALKIN’. AND THE RED IS ME SPEAKIN’ MY MIND, WHICH IS SOMETHING THAT CATHOLIC WOMEN ARE NEVER SUPPOSED TO DO. WE DO NOT SPEAK. WE SERVE, AND IT’S HARD TO TALK WHEN YOU’RE BUSY SERVING EVERYONE.

IN MY RELIGION, WOMEN ARE NUNS, OR TEACHERS IN THE PARISH SCHOOL MAKING $2.50 AN HOUR. WE ALSO WORK IN THE RECTORY COOKING FOR THE PASTOR. SURE, WE CAN’T BECOME A PRIEST BUT WE CAN FEED THEM OUR TUNA CASEROLE. (SMILE). AND, LIKE MARY HAD JESUS, WE CAN GIVE BIRTH. BUT DOCTRINE HANDED DOWN FROM GOD HIMSELF TO THE VATICAN INSISTS THAT WE CAN’T CHOOSE IF OR WHEN WE WANT TO. THAT'S A BUMMER. IN ADDITION, TO HAVE THE SEX NECESSARY TO MAKE THE BABIES, YOU MUST BE JOINED IN HOLY MATRIMONY TO ANOTHER CATHOLIC, ANOTHER CATHOLIC PERSON WHO'S A DIFFERENT GENDER THAN YOU. B/C GOD ALMIGHTY, YOU BETTER NOT GET IT ON WITH SOMEBODY WHO HAS IDENTITCAL PLUMBING! NO GREY AREA HERE, KIDS. TAKE IT FROM A SINNER. AS A LESBIAN, I’M NO LONGER WELCOMED TO RECEIVE COMMUNION. AS I SIT, RISE AND KNEEL DURING THE LITURGY, I’M PREPARED TO DIE SHOULD LIGHTENING STRIKE. POPES PAST AND PRESENT—IN MY LIFETIME, OLD JOHNNY 2 TO THE 3 AND BENEDICT BACKWARD— HAVE LED ME TO BELIVE THAT THE LIGHTENING SCENARIO ISN'T OUT OF THE QUESTION. I AM THE MODERN TOWER OF BABLE. MY, HOW ABOMINATION DOES KEEP A DYKE ON HER TOES!

SO, YEAH, BACK TO THE CREED….
We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.
IN MY VERSION, THERE IS NO MENTION OF THE FATHER…NOT B/C I THINK GOD IS A WOMAN…BUT THE WORDS MOTHER AND FATHER EACH HAVE SPECIFIC CONNOTATIONS— THE FATHER IS STRONG BUT STERN, AUTHORITATIVE AND INTIMIDATING. WHEREAS MOTHER IS THE NURTURER, UNCONDITIONALLY LOVING, GENTLE AND WARM. BOTH MAKE ME FEEL SAFE, BUT IN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT WAYS. DAD WILL PROTECT, MOTHER WILL SHELTER. DAD WILL KICK YOUR ASS IF YOU FUCK UP. MOTHER TOLD HIM TO.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father. Through him all things were made.

OK, SO GOD IS JESUS’ DADDY. COOL. BUT THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN ‘BEGOTTEN’ AND ‘MADE’ CANNOT BE GRASPED BY A 7 YEAR OLD WITH A.D.D. ALL THE CHARACTERS IN THE OLD TESTAMENT ARE BEGAT BY SEX, PHYSICAL PROCREATION. APPARENTLY, THOUGH, IN THE NEW TESTAMENT, HOLY SPIRITS CAN MAKE BABIES THROUGH OSMOSIS. A LIGHT SPRINKLING OF MAGIC CHRIST CHILD DUST IN THE PROXIMITY OF A PRESELECTED VIRGIN BLESSES THE FRUIT OF HER WOMB, JESUS.

YOU’RE GOING TO NEED A XANAX, SOME OPIATES AND A LAXATIVE IF YOU’RE CONSIDERING THE PHILOSOPHY BEHIND THE WHOLE ‘ONE IN BEING’ BIT. I HAD A SEIZURE.

WE MUST DRIVE HOME THE POINT THAT THERE’S ONE LORD, THE CATHOLIC ONE. THIS MAKES HIM THE ONLY, ONLY RIGHT ONE. EVERYONE ELSE’S LORD IS FAKE, WHICH MAKES THEIR RELIGION WRONG and STUPID…and GAY. WANNA KNOW WHO’S RELIGION REQUIRES THAT THEY ACKNOWLEDGE AND ACCEPT THE GOD OF THE CHRISTIANS AND THE GOD OF THE JEWS? THOSE AFFABLE MUSLIMS. AND WE GIVE THEM A HARD TIME!

For us men and our salvation he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

BORN OF THE VIRGIN? PLEASE. HOW DID SHE GET AWAY WITH THAT BULLSHIT? CALL ME A DOUBTING THOMAS, BUT IF SHE WERE MY DAUGHTER, I WOULDN’T LET HER LIVE UNDER MY ROOF SPINNING YARN LIKE THAT, MAKING A FOOL OF ME. I COUDN’T TELL THE SCHOOL BOARD, “YES MY GIRL, MARY, IS THE VIRGIN MOTHER,” AND KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

ALSO FOR OUR SAKE, MEL GIBSON MADE THIS MOVIE WHERE YOU CAN SEE ALL THE SHIT THAT LEADS UP TO THE CRUCIFICTION. I’M TALKING, ‘HOLY MARY MOTHER OF…’ BLOOD AND GUTS!

IT WAS HARD TO HATE PONTIOUS PILATE FOR CRUCIFYING JESUS, HANGING HIM UP ON THE CROSS LIKE THAT. HOW COULD A GUY WITH SUCH A COOL NAME BE SUCH A DICK?

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

JESUS “I AM LIKE A BIRD” CHRIST FLIES UP TO HEAVEN IN AN ELEVATOR THAT WORKS LIKE WONDER WOMAN’S INVISIBLE JET AND HE SITS DOWN NEXT TO HIS DAD. ONCE JESUS GETS INTO THE SWING OF THINGS IN HEAVEN, HE HANGS OUT WITH GOD AND SAINT PETER AND JFK. THEY SIT WITH ALL YOUR MEAN, OLD, DEAD RELATIVES ON COULD 9, SIPPING MINT JULIPS, CLOSELY MONITORING YOUR EVERY MOVE. THEY CAN WATCH YOU MASTURBATE.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshipped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

NO ONE GETS WHO THE HOLY SPIRIT IS, REALLY. GOOD THING HE’S THE ‘GHOST.’

We believe in one holy, Catholic and apostolic Church.

I DIDN’T PICK THIS CHURCH. I INHERITED IT, SAME AS MY SWEATY FEET AND ARMPITS, MY GIGANTIC FOREHEAD, HEART DISEASE, AND ALL THAT INVISIBLE MONEY.
P.S.--
DURING MY CONFIRMATION CEREMONY, WHERE THE BISHOP PRONOUNCED MY LAST NAME ‘ENIS’ LIKE ‘PENIS,’ I KIND OF PROMISED TO DEFEND THE MOLESTER PRIESTS, JUST A LITTLE, FOR THE SAKE OF P.R. WHILE THEY DENIED EVERYTHING AND TOOK COLLECTIONS FOR HUSH MONEY, I WAS OBLIGATED TO SUGGEST CONSPIRACY. THAT MADE ME AN ADULT IN THE EYES OF MY BRETHREN.

We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

CATHOLICS BELIEVE YOU ENTER THIS WORLD A FILTHY, DIRTY, BAD, DEPLORABLE NEWBORN CHILD. SO THEY DUMP WATER ON YOUR HEAD TO REDEEM YOU, TO WELCOME YOU INTO THE FOLD AND SEE IF THEY CAN’T RINSE OFF A LITTLE ORIGINAL SIN.

MOST SINS ARE THOROUGHLY UNORIGINAL, BY THE WAY. MURDER, ADULTERY, FORNUCATION, HATE, SLOTH, VANITY. I AM YET TO FIND AN AUTHENTIC ORIGINAL SIN. UPON ARRIVING IN HELL, I WILL TURN TO MY NEIGHBOR AND ASK, “SO WHAT YOU DO TO GET IN HERE?” AND HOPE I HEAR SOMETHING NEW FOR ONCE. C’MON, SHOCK ME FOR ALL FIREY ENTERNITY.


MY SIN? SELF-LOATHING. BUT IT AIN’T ORIGINAL EITHER. I DIDN’T COME OUT OF MY MOMMY'S BELLY WITHOUT SELF ESTEEM. IT'S A HATEFUL ACQUISITION. MY FIRST WORDS WEREN’T “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WORK WITH THIS SHIT?”

We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.


I USED TO STAY UP SOOOOOOOOOOOO LATE LOOKING FOR THE RESURRECTING DEAD. BUT MY MOM TOLD ME THAT A WATCHED POT NEVER BOLIS. I CAN CONFIDENTLY SAY THAT THE ONLY REASON I HAVE NO PROOF OF THIS RESURRECTION BUSINESS IS B/C, LIKE MOST OF MY LIFE, I SLEEP THROUGH IT.
AND UM, GOD? I’D LIKE MY LIFE IN THE WORLD TO COME….TO COME NOW.

Amen.


WHAT ELSE SHANNON?

1. Catholic kids can pray wicked fast. In school, everything we did that was cool or fun had to be prefaced by a prayer. Like, when we got out of school, we had to stack our chairs up on our desks and say a prayer when the bell rang. Ever hear 40 11-year olds set a record time chanting The Memorare? We broke the sound barrier.

2. Jews and Catholics will argrue about who’s got the worse case of The Guilts until the end of time. I think we’re equal, but our guilt manifests in unique ways. Think of the Catholic mother’s guilt as a badminton birdie in the air, lightly stuck and floating, almost as though you’re not sure where it’s gonna land. And you definitely didn’t hear it struck. It’s the best backhand in the Guilt game. “Well, Shannon, we just expected a little more from you.” See? No real criticism there. It’s merely suggested that I could have done better, not that I totally screwed the pooch. The Jewish mother is far more direct. She plays squash. She’s got this hard rubber ball and she’s whacking the life out of it and it noisily pounds wall after wall. She’ll tear you down and wear you out. “Oh, Shannon, come see your mother. I miss you. I’ve got gout. Who took care of your chicken pox and now you can’t be bothered? Don’t be gay, I got the number of a nice Doctor. Sure I like your Michele but I wish her name was Michael.”

3. We swear the best—WE ARE THE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S OF FOUR LETTER WORDS. MAYA ANGELOU’S CAGED BIRD CAN SING BUT THE BITCH CAN’T CUSS!

4. IN CATHOLIC SCHOOL, WE WERE ALL KNOWN BY OUR FIRST NAMES FOLLOWED BY THE FIRST LETTER OF OUR LAST NAME, LIKE ‘STEPHANIE M.’ I WAS SHANNON E. NATURALLY, I THEN ASSUMED THAT JESUS WOULD HAVE BEEN JESUS C. THAT MADE ME CURIOUS, AND I GOT IN TROUBLE FOR ASKING IF MARY’S LAST NAME WAS CHRIST, TOO. YOU KNOW, JESUS’ MOM, MARY C.

5. IN 1ST GRADE, WE WERE GIVEN THIS PIECE OF PAPER WITH MARY DRAWN ON IT. AND WE WERE TOLD TO COLOR HER SHMATEH AND PUT A NICE BORDER ALL AROUND HER, LIKE A FRAME. I ENDED UP IN THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE B/C MY BORDER WAS COMPOSED SOLELY OF DOLLAR SIGNS. MARY DESERVED NICE THINGS.

6. IF YOU WERE RAISED IN THE MIDWEST IN A CATHOLIC FAMILY, I TRUST YOU 72.3% MORE THAN I TRUST MOST PEOPLE.

7. IF YOUR FAMILY WAS AN ALCHOHOLIC IRISH CATHOLIC FAMILY, WE COULD SAVE A LOT OF MONEY PAIRING UP FOR THERAPY. SAME BACKGROUND, SO IT’LL SAVE TIME ON THE HISTORY ‘INTAKE’ SHIT. THEN, I’LL TAKE THE FIRST ½ HOUR, YOU THE SECOND AND WE’LL GO RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE W/ THE $200 FEE.

8. I CONSIDER MYSELF A CATHOLIC. JUST, LIGHT WITH 2 SUGARS.

THE GOOD STUFF ABOUT BEING A CATHOLIC

1. Having gone to Catholic school for through 8th grade and some of High School, too, my classmates weren’t just acquaintances or friends. They were my family, still are. I have met their spouses, know the names of their kids and got to see just who lost their hair and how much. And while I’m sure teachers and the church in its way guided me toward regarding them as such, this sense of community just reveled itself to me, like a new freckle. Weird at first, and it could potentially cause cancer. But mostly beautiful, a permanent part of me. That’s worth all the tuition Mom forked over. I’ll get back to you on whether or not it was worth my lack of fashion sense. In a way, I continue to wear a uniform. My wardrobe has no gloss. I remain an adolescent trapped in a navy wool sweater and white turtleneck. The loafers symbolize my freedom, so suck it.


2. The Sacrements. Baptisms, First Communions, Confirmations and weddings are the only time my family gets together to celebrate something that isn’t death. (For more on funerals, search my March 31st blog entry.) These rites of passage connected me to them, reminded who I was, where I came from and why I did these things. For the cash and prizes.
When I am hanging out with friends, they love hearing all of my ‘you won’t believe what I saw/listened to/did in church this one time’ stories. Classics, all of them.

3. If life is indeed a house, then my religion, for the most has been the best solid foundation. It’s also great fodder for comedy. Not to drag her in the dirt some more, but the whole Virgin Mary thing just KILLS ME.

4. The basis for my understanding of all virtues and truths is a gift of my faith. Public schools do not instruct their students in subjects like the Parables, the teachings and life of Christ. Ethics, from the time I was 5, was a cornerstone of my education. Religion was a class, same as Math, Science, Social Studies and Art. I was blessed with this instruction, and any redeeming values I maintain are to the credit of my Catholic education.

5. Sure, I’ve got some ‘issues’ about my upbringing. Who doesn’t? Mostly, though, I am incredibly thankful. Memories of my childhood don’t haunt me. I appreciate everyone who played a part in the development of my fascinating, sometimes shocking, fragile little mind. Thanks God! Thanks Jesus! Thanks Holy Spirit, whatever you are! Thanks church! Thanks Father Fielding, Sr. Dorothy, Sister de la Chapelle, Sister Theresita! Thanks to everyone at St. Colette and Woodlands Academy and (only some people at) Sacred Heart in Winnetka, IL! And thank you St. Thomas Moore parish. I became a member of the Catholic faith under your south side Chicago bricks and mortar. But I’m always gonna hate that asshole who eulogized my Grandma Ennis. He’s a poster boy for casting a wider net in order to catch better quality would-be men and women of The Cloth.


6. Because I live in New York City, I still say The Hail Mary every day. Every time I see an ambulance I rip out a few of them under my breath in the hopes that fate or karma or God or Budda or Mayor Bloomberg sees to it that that poor bastard makes it to the E.R. And I close with one more for his/her family. A mere 4 seconds later, I mutter ‘asshole’ to myself as some fat guy isn’t walking at a speed I find reasonable.

7. It’s a damn good thing that I make a conscious effort to show love and kindness to all of God’s children. Daktoa Fanning, should this cease, you’re a dead woman. Watch your back, too, Katie Couric.

8. Finally, and I mean FINALLY, I am not worried about life after death. I am well aware that I am going to Hell and I’ll know exactly how I got there, chapter and verse.

Peace Be With Me. (You, too.)

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Thursday, July 21, 2005 | 0 comments

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Inspired By Anonymous

The best Jim Brooks line EVER. Quite possibly my favorite movie quote EVER:

PAUL MOORE: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.

JANE CRAIG: No. It's awful.

---"Broadcast News"

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Wednesday, July 20, 2005 | 4 comments

PHOTO EDITOR WITH SENSE OF HUMOR. CLICK TO ENLARGE!


YESTERDAY'S "Metro" COVER PHOTO Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Wednesday, July 20, 2005 | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Hairball

Work has occupied my time this week. Almost all if it. It's not that I don't love my gazillion loyal fans, it's just that I haven't had an opportunity to blog it out lately. Be patient. Or don't. Go kick someone's ass and blame it on 'roid rage or your Uncle Cracker who used to put cigarettes out on your bare ass.

I'm going to see Augusten Burroughs, my Obi Wan, this evening. Until then...

"Sell crazy some place else. We're all stocked up here."
--From what movie?

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Tuesday, July 19, 2005 | 3 comments

Friday, July 15, 2005

Deep Friday

As my mother would say, "Who died and made you Duke?" That question used to baffle me. But as I've gotten older and older, its relevance has manifested itself on a frequent basis. Naturally, I am willful and arrogant, and love to show everyone just how smart I think I am. Case in point, here's a quote I used to love to throw around, “One thing only I know, and that is that I know nothing.” How's that for humble? Profound, too. That Shannon, she's a deep thinker. Oh, would that it were true! I prefaced that quote with one of my own, "We may acquire knowledge, we may gain experience, we may even grow in wisdom, but what is that, really? Wasn't it Aristotle who said 'One thing...'?" Me Now has a more appropriate quote for Me Then: Nobody likes a know-it-all. Your time is gonna come.

Yup, I knew everything, and top of that, I didn't need anyone's help either. I refused to ask for help, and when it was offered, I'd rudely dismiss it altogether. My philosophy was...I do it myself or I don't do it at all. Luckily, though, I didn't struggle very much as a kid. I was self-sufficient, pretty bright, athletic and I was audacious as hell. I'd try anything once. Wihtout many obstacles (like fear) in my path, I learned how to win, how to compete, how success felt, how approval felt and it was so easy. I also basked in victory and the fulfilling feeling that pure talent provided me. It was great to be 'better than', to have capabilities superior to those of my peers, without effort.

In my youth, I was unafraid because I didn't experience failure. Little did I know that, without invitation or instruction, failure would introduce itself, set up shop and dig in. In direct proportion to my age, fear evolved into a boomerang . At least that's my experience. Despite throwing it away again and again, it whacked me upside the noggin everytime I think I'd gotten rid of it for good. I had no idea I was only on probation. This general principle may very well apply to most people. As our earthly journey progresses, we become afraid of that which we do not know. Fear is nurtured, not innate. Until we repeatedy suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, nothing succeeds like our naivite. But the slings and arrows eventually strike, so we instinctively lay down and play dead. Some of us stay too long, others are condemned for eternity. Safety can result in stagancy. We're convinced we suck and we cannot do better and we will not risk another wound. Best to just lay low.

Not knowing any better worked toward my advantage. Even the occassional fall didn't stop me from getting up and trying again without hesitation. These days, the challenge isn't just to dust myself off after a wipeout. Rather the diffifulty lies in maintaining healthy self respect. That's what makes me want to get up in the first place, having a reference, remembering that I can do it because I have done it before. My fear will always fight my ambition & optimism, to the death if necessary. So, I have to practice a few new skills, namely willingness to ask for and gracefully accept help, to get better at gracefully accepting everything from how much money I make (or don't) to the size of my apartment on down to whether or not I've got enough clean underwear to last the week. I must learn that humility isn't the absence of dignity, it's seeing my strengths and weakness equally. All is not black and all is not white. I've been told there's this middle ground where egos doen't run amok, where seldom is heard a self loathing word and sky is not cloudy all day. Oh yeah, the Middle! I saw it while swinging from High to Low and back again. I just didn't bother to stay. How fuckin' boring!

Thankfully, my fearless inner child isn't dead. Ironically, she is the voice of wisdom because she speaks the truth I knew at 10 but cannot seem to remember at 30. Basic faith. Everything will be O.K.

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Friday, July 15, 2005 | 1 comments

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Read My Lips: Put Up, Don't Shut Up

I want Karl Rove to talk. Through my chakra, into my core, I honestly wish that he would open his fat face and spill the beans. And I can't believe it. The idea of him entertaining a thought disgusts me. And when he actually expresses those thoughts, I lose hair and faint. But as the investigation into the CIA leak at the White House heats up, that fucker had better get chatty. In an assist worthy of Magic Johnson, suddenly buttface Bush is all, “No comment.” Smooth pass, eh? Is that because speech writers haven't whipped up a clever sound bite or two? Or perhaps he's realized that he cannot speak extemporaneously without sounding like Kirk Douglas, post-stroke. But if it were Teddy Kennedy’s big red face saying, “No comment,” regarding a misstep taken by, let's say Al Gore or John Kerry, G.W. and Rove wouldn’t miss an opportunity to crap on their silent treatment. These guys are the hall monitors of the U.S. They're smarmy, obsequious, petty, insecure little pricks who'd tell on their own Mothers. "She drank. A lot." Like white on rice, like flies on shit, they’d mug it up for every news outlet until camera lenses melted and reporters bled from their fingers trying to capture their accusatory jargon. This is exactly the kind of hypocrisy practiced regularly by Bush and the boys. Hell count the girls in, too, because I'll say what everyone's thinking: Condi, you are a radioactive Uncle Tom.

Why do concepts like the TRUTH and rigorous HONESTY and HONOR and RESPONSIBILITY and ACCOUNTABILITY only matter to the President of the United States and his staff when they're pointing their collective fingers at everyone else? They point at whoever did this bad thing, and whoever says un-American 'stuff.' They also like to point at shit somebody didn't do, or something somebody might have done. Administration policy dictates that you get to point at 'em if you think they're thinking it. May I suggest aiming a good, solid forefinger toward the nearest mirror, West Wingers? I'll put it in terms the Prez can understand, "Gotcha!" "Tag, you're it!" It's about damn time, sirs, to live up to the principles you purport to embody, yet do not bother to practice.

So, start talkin’, homeboys. Open your flibity flabity jibber jabbers. How 'bout a little soft shoe while you sing like a birdie, cracka? If you ain’t hidin’ nuthin’ then why you ain’t sayin’ nuthin’? Damn, bitch! That’s the kind of guilty shit that gets a bitch fucked.

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Thursday, July 14, 2005 | 0 comments

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Tell Her She's a Pretty Preemie


9 days later, January 1975: Mom refuses to breast feed. Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Wednesday, July 13, 2005 | 0 comments

Texas will soon suck even More Juan, Dude

"Texans have made a decision about marriage, and if there is some other state that has a more lenient view than Texas then maybe that's a better place for them [gays] to live." -- Texas Gov. Rick Perry as he signed a resolution to amend the Texas Constitution to ban same-sex marriages, at Calvary Christian Academy in Fort Worth, June 5. Voters are expected to approve the amendment in November.

In related news, pundits predict that come 2008, Texas will be the safest state in which wannabes can commit a hate crime without fear of prosecution. By 2014, not a single woman in the entire state will be able to fix anything. Further, the occupation boasting the highest percentage of employment for Texans in 2020? Taxidermy. And in 2030, fat chance seeing a meritous theatrical performance in the Lone Star State ever again. A risky alternative would be to take the wife to Tijuana. She'll love what that donkey can do to that old Mexican hooker, or vice versa.

More Juan is good Juan...
I loaned Juan a couple DVDs because he said he wanted to laugh. So I gave him 'South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut' and 'Bowfinger.' There's a little humor for everyone in those selections. Little did I know that his children would be treated to the South Park movie so early in their viewing careers. "It's a cartoon," Juan said after I yelled, "You what?!?" My Catholic guilt gave birth to twins when he explained, "That scene with the devil and that guy [Saddam Hussein] in bed, and the guy pulls out that thing [a dildo remarkably resembling a real penis]." "Oh, and he goes, 'C'mon Satan, let's fuck!" "Yes. I told them that it looked like a hot dog. Poppy says it's a hot dog."

Every once in a while, I encounter a very attractive man. Today, I decided to grab a cup of coffee before work, throw the ol' routine to the wind. I live on the edge like that. So, I went to the coffe cart dude on the North side of 23rd St. between 5th and 6th Ave., directly beside the parking lot that's no bigger than a fart. To my surprise and delight, the man in the cart was gorgeous. Dark. Dark eyes, dark skin. Well built, perfectly unshaven and sportin' the salt and pepper look, which makes me weak in the knees. And he actually paid attention to me, the way you never get from the usual NYC coffee 'move it along, toots, I got customers' types. To seal the deal, when I started to walk away, head turned so I could stare back at Dark Cute Cart Man, he pointed to the guy behind me and says, "Dude, what can I get you?" Aww. He said dude. I say dude all the time. It's my sole vocabulary vice if you don't count the copious potty language. (Though you may have noticed that I've been real light on the 4 letter words and suggestive imagery lately.) He so didn't look like the dude type. He had the air of a Sir guy, not a Dude-r. Regardless, he's got my $1 for several mornings to come, dude.

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Wednesday, July 13, 2005 | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Announcing the Birth of Our Daughter


JANUARY, 1975: I was a preemie baby. Posted by Picasa

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Tuesday, July 12, 2005 | 0 comments

Monday, July 11, 2005

Jimmy the Cranky Pussy Who's Mom is Weird

Why does every lesbian in Brooklyn have (a.) an assortment of visible tattoos, or (b.) a mohawk, or (c) both? I don't even have a leather bracelet. Pick up a copy of my new non-fiction tell-all, Vanilla, due out Christmas 2007.

Yesterday, I got together with my former old lady. During an enjoyable breakfast, we got to talking about our child of divorce, our baby from a broken home, our kitten, Jimmy Carter. He currently lives with Mommy Michele and her new girlfriend, step-Mom Amanda. He's doing just fine. He's a big guy, very healthy, a tabby who looks more like a tiger/leopard half-breed with the most darling white paws. Jimmy, however, isn't the friendliest dude in the world. Much like his namesake, he is misunderstood. Jimmy does not like to be touched. Strangers and frequent visitors to the home had best step off, no exceptions. If you're his Mommy, be careful, go slowly. Sometimes emotional transference is cool with him. In the event of such an opportunity, observe the following guidelines, strictly.

  • Pet him only when he approaches you. Not the other way around.
  • If he is in the middle of something like destroying your New York Times, cuddling on the keyboard of your laptop or sitting in the kitchen sink admiring birds he'd like to kill, leave him alone. He doesn't care if you're Jesus, or better yet, the real Jimmy Carter. Back off, bitch. Because a hiss is a hiss and a growl is a growl, don't interrupt him. Why upset you both?
  • When Mommy Michele arrives home after work, he will lay flat on his back and offer his belly as a sign of love. This is the perfect time for petting. While he's prone and willing, show Jimmy affection. It doesn't matter if you're not in the mood, he IS. So get to nuzzlin'.
  • The more you feed Jimmy, the more reciprocal his demeanor toward you becomes. When he sees his Mommy, he thinks, "Awesome! Food." When he sees anyone else he thinks, "Keep your distance unless you're packing tuna. I am a predator. You are useless to me!"
  • Blame for his irascible personality may be placed on his Mommies. We waited a little too long to have him neutered. We were suspicious of his GINORMOUS kitty balls. (Oh my God, they were really huge. Everyone noticed them. Conversations revolved around Jimmy's jewels. They looked like he was hiding Chip and Dale in there. They were covered with soft baby fur, and we fell under their spell. We became obsessed with touching them, an act he loathed. Personally speaking, I found curiousity to feel his cat sack overwhelming. However, Jimmy's animal instincts were incredible. He'd swat at my hand and then show me his teeth. "Touch your own special place, Mom." Just like every man I've ever met, even a 5 month old boy kitty protects those puppies fervently.) But Jimmy wasn't old enough for the surgery, or so we thought. By the time his nuts got clipped, snipped and stripped, it was too late. An alpha male had set up shop.
  • Jimmy Carter is a ridiculously handsome devil. Seriously. He is Clark Gable meets Paul Newman meets Tigger. I find that he is very similar to newborn baby because he's so cute, you just want to snuggle and pet him and hold him and love him and play with him and share good times. He is also like a newborn baby in that he doesn't give a rat's ass what you want to do. He ain't gots no social skills. Hiss = tired cry. Growl = hungry cry. Hiss #2 = screaming for hours on end for no reason whatsoever. Poop in diapers = peeing in the closet because he's lonesome. Spit up on your shoulder = eating all the cutips from the garbage then stuffing them under the couch for safe keeping.
  • Ever seen that old SNL skit w/ Diana Ross where she's interacting with fans, and they're trying to shake her hand and they're sort of grabbing at her aggressively? Diana gets all creeped out by 'the little people' and repeats a quasi chant, "Don't touch me. I love you. I love you. Don't touch me." Jimmy is 92% diva. He makes Diana Ross look like Rosa Parks (???) He desires solace on his own terms. Don't mess with that. He's merely set boundaries. And through practiced hostile communication, he lets you know precisely what those boundaries are. Perhaps we should praise his candor.
  • Don't hate Jimmy Carter because he is so handsome. Don't smack talk about him because he has a temper and fierce privacy needs. Elvis was the same way. "I love you. Don't touch me. Watch me try to do karate tipping the scales at 406 lbs. Colonel, did you eat my banana and peanut butter sandwich, you fat bastard? Dammit! I gotta pop a downer with some scotch ASAP! Why can't I stop sweating? Somebody, rub my belly!" But Jimmy and Elvis are just big pussycats on the inside. You can love Jimmy, but you cannot touch Jimmy. Jimmy loves you. Don't touch him.

I have a debilitating case of the Mondays. My mind is on lazy overdrive. Sneak a peek: Sleep, new music I want, why anyone thinks Jessica Alba is hot, what to wear to physical therapy tomorrow, more diligent commitment to working on my 5th step, the commercial I hate that I want to make fun of but can't remember, lunch, I'm dehydrated, glad I cleaned my bedroom, why there are no naps during work hours, why I never napped during NAP TIME, my Mom wants grandchildren, have to make appointment to color hair, the lady on the subway with the ugly ass feet who smelled--like what, I do not know--how to make gay funny the way Chapelle has make black funny, 4 more hours 'til emancipation, if I can use emancipation in a sentence I shouldn't have to work, work blows, cash for blogging, is there anything decent on TV tonight? I am exhausted. Thank God I have nice feet. It would be cheaper if my therapist would read my blog and then just call to discuss it for 10 minutes every other day.

As if I wasn't facacta (shout out to my Hebrew homies!) enough, my Windows Media Player is screwing with me. As a brooding, misunderstood and tortured adolescent, Peter Gabriel's Love to be Loved was one of my favorite "no one knows my pain, well, maybe this guy, kind of" tunes for optimum wallowing. (For additional information on brooding, sulking and the dark dampness of self pity, google "how to be Irish" and "artist.") Back to Pete and self indulgent whining. The bridge is the best...

This old familiar craving

I've been here before, this way of behaving

Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore

Let it pass, let it go, let it leave

From the deepest place I grieve

This time I believe

And I let go

What do I know from happiness, eh? (Another Herrbew shout out.) I refuse to bust out with the Morrisey, though. I will not go there. No. Instead I shall pump it up with some Spice Girls...Spice Up Your Life! Works everytime.

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Monday, July 11, 2005 | 3 comments

Friday, July 08, 2005

Law & Vulgar


Angie, that is a filthy gesture. But if you insist...

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Friday, July 08, 2005 | 2 comments

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Angie, Maddox, Zahara...and Shannon?

Though I'm slightly ashamed, I confess that this morning for about 15 minutes, I wished I was a newborn baby girl, an African child with no Mommy or Daddy because one or both of them died of AIDS. Pile that on to the heap of reasons I'll be spending eternity in HELL. Please read on and note that MY comments are in BLACK, the color of my compassion.

(Reuters) - Angelina Jolie is adopting a newborn Ethiopian girl orphaned by AIDS, People magazine reported on Tuesday. Ugh! Lucky.

Jolie, who has toured the world as goodwill ambassador for the United Nations' High Commissioner on Refugees, said the baby would be named Zahara Marley Jolie but would not reveal the child's age, height or weight, People said. Isn't that what everyone wants to know? "How tall is your Orphan, Ms. Jolie? Can you lift her on your own? Will her breasts get as big as yours?"

The magazine had no further information on the baby's health but said she had been left an orphan by AIDS. $10 says she's got a nasty diaper rash. Let's all chip in for some Desitin for the new Mommy.

Jolie, 30, told People that she and her son Maddox, 3, who she adopted from a Cambodian orphanage, were "very happy to have a new addition to our family." Arrangements for the adoption were expected to be completed Wednesday. Commenting further, Jolie said, "Orpans make great kids because they feel so lucky to get anything. I barely have to give them 2 square meals a day, and they're all 'Thank you, nice, hot, rich Mommy! Thank you!' And when they ask for more food, I pretend to get angry and they flinch. It's hysterical!"

"Angie's over the moon," a source close to the actress told People. "It's a dream come true. She's always wanted to extend her family." Um, haven't you ever seen or read an interview with her? She's always over the moon, dumbass.

Jolie has been romantically linked with Brad Pitt, her "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" co-star, but the source denied they were planning a family. Brad isn't involved in any family planning here. This guy wanted to breed with Jennifer Aniston. How is he gonna feel getting Father's Day cards from children who look like a walking Bennetton ad?

"Angelina's adopting as a single mother and she wants that emphasized," the source told People.
The twice-divorced Jolie has often talked of adopting a second child. After a trip to Ethiopia earlier this year, Jolie said of Maddox: "My son is in love with Africa, so he has been asking for an African brother or sister."
They visited several camps. Sources close to Maddox say he bragged incessantly about how his Mom could just buy anyone he asked her to. I guess that's just how he rolls.

Maddox, dude, I'll bet if you visited Park Slope you'd love that, too. And it just so happens that your potential sister/Mommy #2, Shannon, is an indigenous Park Slopian lesbo. How about that for multi-culti? I don't want to beg, but I promise to always let you win at Untied Nations Chutes and Ladders. You can have my share of the rice anytime you want. Feel free to borrow my vast collection of Cambodian Classic AtmoRock CD's, including the hits "Come Here, O' Rouge" and "Who You Callin' Round Eye?" Lastly, from now until your 6th birthday, you'll be able to, and more than welcome to, wear my selection of size 5 shoes. Ever make the trek to the outdoor toilet in a pair of Ralph Lauren driving moccasins? I've never walked to a hole in the groud to empty my internal concession stand while wearing them, however, I have meandered through J Crew nodding my thanks for all the compliments. You and I will be great friends, and you can help me apply my sunblock! And I swear that I'll never beat you up except for when I really want to. Please put in a good word for me. I mean, just look what you did for that little 'fro girl. I am white enough to make your rainbow family glow.

Thanks, yo! Love the mohawk...
Shan

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Wednesday, July 06, 2005 | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

And the Rocket's Red Glare

I am about to complain, but before I do, I'd like to say that last night's fireworks were beautiful. Even the music was beautiful. The arrangements for the score were amazing and put a gentle new spin on many old favorites. I was also quite impressed by the coordination of the fireworks displays; East River and Statue of Liberty lit up in unison. Simultaneous, gorgeous, grand altogether. BUT...
Is it just me or did the Macy's fireworks in NYC stop rather abruptly last night? No Grand Finale? Hey Grucci family, what gives? Did you guys run out of matches or what? Because I just don't get what happened and it's left me rather antsy. See, in my experience, fireworks displays fake us out for a 20 minute spell using a steady stream of decent "shooters" that distract and satisfy our need to "ooh" and "aaahhh." Then, out of nowhere, like a speeding bullet, they rock-out like a nasty hard core pimp mutha at the very end. Isn't that how it goes? Isn't that what this country is all about? Holding your load 'til the very brink of the brink, as the masses beg for more, but before you explode, you magically release and blow it all out in one rapid express "Blam!" without care or concern for the mess you leave behind? That's America, baby!
No finale. No rocking like a mutha. No bang, bang, bang, bang, bang all at once to wrap it up! No astounding spectacle to leave me awestruck. Ugh. It was a great show. I loved it, I really did, but I just didn't get banged the way I like to get banged. The fireworks equivalent of blue balls, a hideous crime. I had to rush home to play some Aaron Copeland 'Fanfare for the Common Man' before I lost the desire, but that didn't work. I was a Yankee Doodle Dudley. And 20 hours later, I am still raw, aching for a bright, colorful, slightly dangerous blast. Perish the thought, but it looks like I'm gonna have to blow up my office.

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Tuesday, July 05, 2005 | 0 comments

Friday, July 01, 2005

O'Dear, O'Connor is Out

This is a dark day in American History. Sandra Day O'Connor has announced her retirement from the Supreme Court. While on the bench, she was never an advocate of The Left, she was a swinger. O'Connor was the switch hitter among the 9 justices. But I don't give a hoot about how she voted in the 2000 election decision or what she thinks about 'No Child Left Behind.' I am terrified at the thought of her vacating her seat, allowing G.W. to pick first in Constitutional kick ball.

What's the big frikkin' deal? Well, Sandy wasn't exactly a N.O.W. flag waiver. Her appointment to the Court was one of Reagan's 26 lucid Presidential decisions. Nobody in their left mind thought that she'd storm into chambers, whip her bra off and install a glass ceiling just to prove a point. Hell, she bent over backwards for years insisting that her mind won out in any ethical/moral/legal dilemma she faced, not her hoo-ha. She also posessed that honest-to-God humility we know to exist yet rarely do we witness. (Arthur Ashe comes to mind.) As the first woman appointed to the Supreme Court, she talked of being overwhelmed by the its significance and the role she played in the major step forward Americans felt that the country had taken in terms of women's equality. She proved that we could do anything. Women everywhere, of any age, race or creed, proudly watched as she ascended her "throne," and settled into her spot on The Supreme Court. Effectively, the Constiution, and every existing law of the land, rests with the authority of 9 judges. The ultimate law-making body in the United States had acknowledged her, and she'd truly earned her place. I think of it as an amazing event which can be boiled down to this: There sat a girl. Finally, a girl! A girl with all that power, all those brains, all that sophistication, and the beautiful, unaffected manner in which she carried herself.

But today, in this instance, she's devastated us. The worried shudder and cold tingle that I can't seem to shake belies the fact she is no longer our Abortion Lady. No matter how we viewed her as a judge in terms of her opinion on anything from commercial zoning law or whether it was legally feasible that the bottom half of Florida could secede from the top half based on the arguement that the latter was a hideous stain on the state itself, she was the one who'd let you get an abortion. Thus the title, Abortion Lady. I could word it all fancy, but the basic fact is that she held the freedom of every American woman's uterus in her gavel. She was the swing vote, and she always swung with her hoo-ha when it came to protecting Roe v. Wade. "Go Abortion Lady!" is now "Abortion Lady Go."

George Bush is sitting in the Oval Office right now, unable to discern between his joy and his ability to recall how eenie, meenie, minie, moe goes. Carl Rove has given birth to his first decent bowel movement since the 2000 election and he's ready to rage. Cheney is closely monitoring heart palpitations as he gestures "I'm not home" to his wife because Mary, their demmanding dyke daughter, is on the phone and wants to talk business. Tucker Carlson just blew a giant load. I am near tears.

One, last thing: the news keeps talking about how the potential nominees will be coming from this "circuit" and that "circuit." Tell me they're kidding. The circuit?

posted by Shannon E. Ennis at Friday, July 01, 2005 | 2 comments


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