Aud Land Struggle

This is a taxidermy coyote in a rain slicker. Like you do. 

So, for some reason blogger wouldn't let me post this last week, because it's seen the title of this blog and decided to contribute to my continuing pain and sorrow. Like blogging platforms do. But enough about that, happy 2012, people! Assuming the Mayan calender is wrong (I mean, can we really trust people who could figure out about chocolate but NOT about adding sugar? That's like inventing paper and then being like, this will be perfect for clothing!) I think this is going to be a great (strugglesome) year and that the world will not (possibly) be ending. Why, you ask? Well, honestly, at lot of that has to do with the fact that I've gotten really into some new TV shows and looking forward to them is pretty much the only thing that keeps me going. I kid. Do I? Yes (no).

But most of it has to do with my new mantra, which I straight up stole from my friend Kate (thanks Kate!). It's, "Let things go, or you will be dragged". It's simple, it's effective, and I have pretty much a 1% chance of keeping it. I am just not a person who can let things go. For example, last year around this time I was having a  conversation with someone and I brought up Fredrick Jackson Turner's Frontier Thesis from the 1893 Chicago Worlds Fair (like you do, over drinks, you know) and he (the person, not Turner) was like, yeah, but that was over 200 years ago. And I was like, I feel strongly that that is incorrect, but I didn't say anything, I just internally cringed. AND I'M STILL CRINGING. Somewhere that knowledge lives inside of me, and if I might be perfectly candid, from that point on I've always thought less of that person (again, the guy, not Turner). These things LIVE inside of me, somewhere, grating against my nerves like a spoon playing a washboard in a hillbillie band. I am, on many levels, the Vendetta Kid.

And obviously this is not a particularly healthy way to live your life. In theory I truly believe that if you just breathe and give in to the universe, good things will happen. I've just never actually be able to do that. Instead I write bible-length emails about the 1893 Worlds Fair which, and this is very VERY important, NEVER GET SENT. It is the only way I've managed to avoid being tarred and feathered by angry villagers. So when I have a strugglesome vendetta I just spew all of that out into a notebook or an email or a handy google document and then there we go. Oh, don't mistake me, I still have black-out moments of mindless rage and fury over an insult I received a good 10 years ago, but it's lessened, somehow, by the knowledge that somewhere out there is a 14 year old's notebook with a well crafted scathing response to "Dude, your sister has more underarm hair then I do" (I was 14! And I wasn't aloud to shave yet! God, what a JERK!).

Still. Someday, when future generations find said notebooks and google docs, no doubt they will publish them like the brilliant pieces of personal petty grievances they are. In which case, Cosi salad guy who put blue cheese on my Greek salad instead of feta because you want to make me CRY, you will finally get what's coming to you.

Yeah. I'm totally going to get dragged, aren't I. 2012. Already a great year.

Fall Into Struggle

You know how life can get away with you? My life has totally gotten away from me. I thought I was cool and keeping things together and then I realized that I haven't posted on this blog since August. AUGUST. Holy hell. August. I don't even remember August. I can barely remember August Osage County and I saw that, like, two weeks ago. What the hell happened to me?

Well, I'll tell you. I went on Birthright (that's a trip to Israel, for all my goyim in the audience). Then I came back, moved out of my parents house into my own apartment, started a new job and started directing a play. All within one week. And since then it's pretty much been "go-go-go" that gets briefly interrupted by breaks for sleeping and drinking water (i.e. booze).So the struggle, oh, it continues, does it ever continue. A highlight reel? You got it. With photos that have nothing to do with anything but are still hilarious? But of course!

Struggles have I known, Autumn Edition:

1. I almost got arrested by airport security in Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, upon departure back to the mess that is JFK because I had organic date honey in my bag and apparently there is a thin line between condiments you were bullied into buying on a kibbutz (Pushy Israelis? No! Say it ain't so!) and bombs. I politely explained to the nice (horrible) woman at airport security that if I was a terrorist, wouldn't it make more sense for me to be bringing things INTO Israel rather then sneaking them out? She was not amused.

2. I moved into my new apartment and had an incident with my smoke alarm, and by this I mean that it just went off one day and would not stop beeping. Literally WOULD NOT STOP. At 10pm. On a Sunday. So then when I tried to fix the central alarm box in the common hallway, I locked myself OUT of my still-beeping apartment, in my Pajamas. I couldn't go to my parents house to get my spare key because not only was it raining, but I wasn't wearing shoes. Or appropriate undergarments. So I had to call my father to come and help me out. That's right. I called my daddy. Struggle.

3. The day before my Fringe Show opened,  my sound designer quit. And despite the vodoo dolls and fist waves at the sky, I still had to actually figure out a solution and run the damn sound myself. Just another name to add to my death-list book.

4. I went to the theater and a complete stranger told me to punch my new boss in the dick. That one was pretty funny, actually.

5. My hair still doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up.

So, sorry for the delay, anyone who might be reading this, but I promise, I'm back, and struggling more then ever. But hey, you probably called that, right?

A Struggle Is Worth a Thousand Words: San Juan 2011 Edition

I don't even know what to say about Puerto Rico anymore, I really don't. You've heard about all the crazy there is to hear, right? Hahaa, oh, silly reader, of course you haven't, such a thing is foolish. There is ALWAYS more crazy in the Caribbean. If they can't find it locally, they import it.

A few years ago when we visited San Juan we were informed, upon arrival, that all of the water was off. As in, the water company, in what is apparently a rotine move, will periodically shut off water in various parts of the city to repair/maintain the pipes. So if you happen to visit during such times, don't worry, relax, have some rum, but don't expect to be able to shower, use the bathroom, or get some water. That's fine, though, really, I mean, who needs it?

I thought that was the worst trip ever. And really, it was. But this time when we went to Puerto Rico for your favorite Struggle's birthday, the electric company had surged our home and left us with no power. Okay, yes, we got it back eventually, but not before a week of anxiety, many broken bulbs, a fridge full of spoiled food and a broken microwave and dryer. Oh, and HOURS on the phone being passed between people who don't know what they are talking about. And if you think that's bad in English, you might want to try it in Spanish. Just saying. Sigh. I still had fun, though. It was probably the rum. And of course, I saw some strugglesome things. And I like to think that the universe works hard to make my birthday a complete struggle every year just because it can. I appreciate it, even, I think it's nice. At least is something special, right?

For your viewing pleasure, struggle in San Juan 2011, a photo display:

There's a lot to think about here. Plantain soup in a bag. Hedgehogs as spokespeople for soda. Pulpo. Prado. Struggle. I'll leave you to it.

Struggle has just one thing to say

My foot is 100% better. All clear. So today, TODAY, I win, struggle. I beat you. Enjoy the sweet taste of defeat, my friend. you've earned it. And besides, I'm totally failing again tomorrow. Maybe I will break the other foot....dream big, baby.

Struggle Waits It Out

I am not great at being patient. It is not one of my many virtues. Don't get me wrong, I'm a super virtuous person, I got em all, charity, simplicity, big hair, sturdy extremities....but patience, no, that's not really my bag, baby. Which is really a problem when you have broken a part of your body and you are waiting for it to heal. Because you kind of need patience while the bone cells regenerate and knit themselves back together. And yelling at your foot to "Heal faster, you jag!" doesn't actually work as well as one might think it would. So I present to you for your reading pleasure and deep edification my tips and tricks for fast foot healing. At the very least, they can save you. It may be too late for me, honestly, I'm thinking about just scrapping the thing and putting a wheel there. 

1. Double up on your calcium. Hell, triple up on your calcium! Shotgun milk, slurp down yogurt, or do what I do, and chew on Calcium supplements the size of horse tranquilizers. It has the added benefit of being extremely attractive to members of the opposite sex. 

2. Use your crutches as weapons, indicators, cat prods, make things fun for yourself! The nice people at the hospital gave a physically unbalanced person long pointy metal sticks. Clearly they want you to USE them. 

3. Febreze your walking boot. I don't care what time of year it is or if you think you among all the people on earth are immune to sweating. People in your life will thank you. 

4. Do not say "my boot is so smelly!" and then force friends and loved ones to smell it. Trust me, they will not appreciate being a part of your healing process in this way. 

5. Do indulge in as much Law and Order as possible. This is just a general life/sick/bored/snow day/heat wave day rule. Nothing makes you feel as good as watching Ice T fight crime. 

6. Do offer to help around the house, and then pathetically be unable to do so. This provides a constant reminder to others that you are in pain and special and need their constant devotion and care. Try whimpering gently as you fold laundry or attempt to wash a dish. People love a good whimper. 

7. Do make up interesting stories about your injury. I put my foot on the ground and it broke? So what, it's boring. I heroically rescued a baby tiger from poachers, only to have it turn on me? I'm a rock star. Other alternatives include knife fight, hooking, and falling meteor. And no, you can't use those. They are mine. 

8. Do not drink and hop. 

9.When you drink and hop, make sure no one is around to see how foolish you look. 

10.  When you finally get off of the crutches and out of the boot, don't be an idiot and break your foot again. 

Just to be clear, that last one was mostly a warning from me to me. Come on, little foot, keep it together, don't fall apart on me again! 

Struggle Goes Down For The Count

It seems that I am destined to hurt myself in really mundane and uninteresting ways. When I was 16 I broke my right foot literally tripping over a shoe. I've burned myself many times grazing up against too hot stoves and too scalding pans. On time, in Arizona, I walked right into a Saguaro cactus, and my mother spent the evening with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight picking spikes out of my head. Aren't family trips the best? But what I did yesterday might be the least intelligent way I've ever damaged my body. In my defense, however, do you really expect to fracture your foot by placing the thing on the ground? No? Well, apparently you need to START, folks, because yesterday I placed my poor left foot on the ground and broke it. Like you do. When you are a huge struggle.

Picture a stoplight, and a girl on a bike, wind in her hair, stains on her shirt, just trying to get to her offices to show some apartments. The girl, in accordance with the laws of Philadelphia and, you know, gravity, stops at the light, placing her mid-sized elegantly shod left foot on the street below. And it promptly crumples, pulling her body down with it. The girl feels a gentle snap. That's interesting, she thinks, and continues biking. She then shows several apartments to an older gentleman who comments that she may more may not be limping. Limping is for losers, the girl explains, and continues on her way. However, her foot seems to be swelling at an exponential rate, which doesn't seem all that normal, and when she shows it to mother, Mama Struggs says that thing is broken. Strugglemano says her foot looks FAT, which is a very Los Angeles statement and therefore can be ignored. Padre Struggle just laughs, which is way the girl asks her MOTHER, the only supportive person in the WORLD, to take her to the emergency room.

Once at the emergency room the girl is asked all sorts of questions like Does She Feel Safe At Home (yes), Does She Have An Eating Disorder (no), Is She Pregnant (given her complete lack of a love life, the girl just laughs at this one. The nurse is not amused) . X-rays are taken, a nice comforting lead blanket covering her reproductive organs to ensure that if she ever gets herself a love life she might actually be able to GET pregnant, and the break is, indeed, revealed. The girl is whisked to the orthopedist where after a brisk two hour wait she is fitted with a neat little black bootie, and told she has had a perfect break. What joy! thinks the girl, a pefect break! One does so love to achieve in all directions. She is then sent home with her black bootie, a pair of crutches, and assurances that this recovery will take about four weeks until she's back on the bike that first brought her to the hospital. In the mean time she can keep her appendage elevated, "listen to her foot" for when to start putting weight upon it, and be the fascinating spectical hopping around and sliding up and down the stairs that her family and cats will marvel upon. Oh, yes, and watch her foot turn interesting colors. If you think about it, it's really a gift!

Or a huge struggle. Any guesses as to how I'm thinking about it? And so, there you have the epic saga of how I totally broke my foot by putting on the ground. Watch out for that ground, people, it's a sly minx. When those jetpacks finally happen, I'm buying twelve. Of course, knowing me, I will probably be the first person to set themselves on fire with my jetpack. Wish me luck with my foot, Strugglenation, and with daytime television. I feel like I'm going to need it, on both counts.

Struggle is the Cruelest Month

Struggledelphia is by all accounts a fantastic city. This is a fact, and anyone who wants to dispute it can come over here and FIGHT me. No, they can't, actually, please don't, I bruise like a peach, but the point is, I love this crazy strugglesome city, I think it's tops. I think it's amazing. It only has one tragic flaw, one horrible element, one bad apple spoiling the bunch. Is it our widespread obesity? No, of course not, that's crazy talk. Is it our complete lack of real public transportation? No,no, that's charming. No, it's the Wharton School of Business. And it's bringing us all down.

Let me explain something to you about business school students. They are, perhaps, the worst people with whom you may ever come into contact. Look, I don't know your life, you may be hanging out this dictators and child molesters and clowns all the time, and in that case, maybe it's time to make some better choices, but do what you must, I suppose. However, for the majority of us who actually like decent human beings, Wharton students may be as bad as it gets. Because there is no one as entitled, as argumentative, as straight up horrible as a Wharton student. And in April, they descend. They fall upon Philadelphia like Locusts, searching for apartments, evaluating West Philadelphia, generally acting like the worst possible versions of ourselves.Picture people who are more entitled then Prince William (Royal Wedding!), more aggressive then Margaret Thatcher (I'm on a roll with this British thing) and more unpleasant then, um, English cuisine. Then multiply them. Then picture them running all over the city, ruining our bars and restaurants with their stupid whining selves. It's enough to make you sick.

Look, I recognize that sometimes people need to go to business school. Maybe you aren't attractive, maybe you can't whittle worth a damn, maybe you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you incapable of doing any other profession, again, I don't know. I just don't know. But what I do know is that if you by some chance find yourself being introduced to a Wharton student, you slap them, and you run in the other direction. To be fair, of course, my own father was at one time a Wharton student, as was my grandfather, but these nice gentleman are exceptions. The majority of them? Are just the worst.

Or at least that's what I thought until I went to a street fair on Saturday and was confronted with a collection of horrible human beings pushing, shoving, and leading their wretched little children about while screaming about the crowds. What is it about street fairs that makes otherwise normal people start acting like vicious hose beasts? I'm just trying to walk down the street here, people, you really don't need to make my life the most painful thing ever just because you prefer to stop and stare. Are you Wharton students by any chance? Yes, you are? How shocking. But at least I got to see this:

Wharton Students aside, totally worth it. Obviously.