Exhausted

Too exhausted by sexism to take a decent selfie.

Sometimes I forget how tiring it is to be a woman. Not tired from work or kids, although, from what I have witnessed, that is the first and primary source of exhaustion for women around the world. I’m talking about a different kind of tired, the spiritual exhaustion that comes from living in this Man’s World: the condescension, the mansplaining, the patronizing, and THE WRITING BLOGS ABOUT IT.

The owner of the establishment where I perform comedy told me last week that it’s good that I *smile* because my jokes “need work” (they do need work, because they always need work, but that is not why he said that…which isn’t to say that feedback isn’t important, in which case GUYS, YOUR DICK, PORN, AND MASTURBATION JOKES COULD ALSO USE A LITTLE WORK.)

My father was born in 1944, so  just barely missed the hippy era, which, while hardly a socially progressive time, did beat out the 1950’s.  He recently told me without the slightest bit of irony that women aren’t as interested in “science.” However, he was never more proud of me than when I performed at The Punchline in San Francisco. After many debates and battles, all of which I lost, I just accept that he prefers to see women as soft, maternal creatures who shy away from loud noises and dirt.  He was a divorced Don Draper. He was amazed that I could be a “girl” AND do sports.    What I’m trying to say is that — like all women — I’ve lived with in-my-face sexism in  for a long time.

I’m done arguing with him. The man is 72.  I have a better chance of reversing the aging process or time traveling than I do in changing the mind of a white male born in the 40s. I once asked my mom how she dealt with the endless onslaught of misogyny in the world and she said, “You can’t live your life being angry all the time.” I miss my mom terribly, and yet, I disagree with her on a lot.  But I wonder if she was right.  Yes, you can be angry all the time. But do you want to?  Or maybe the question is, do I have the bandwidth?

I used to want to be angry FOR other women. Low income women with jobs and children, women who can hardly make it through the day.  Explaining to the vast majority of American men that perhaps, they don’t qualify to judge anything about a woman’s emotions, thoughts or perspective, because they lack the perspective,  imagination, or, let’s face it, the humility to understand what it’s like live and work in the world with boobs and blood coming out of you, and hormones is akin to securing the San Andreas fault with crazy glue.  While I may sit in a conference room preparing my little status speech so that I sound knowledgable and “on top of things” they are plotting agains the top alpha male.  Usually, he is the biggest asshole in the room, but not always.

It’s an understatement to say that Trump’s lies, violence, sociopathy, his alpha male-ness, goes beyond reason or decency.  It goes beyond hate.   Maybe it taps into something primal and destructive in this country, I don’t know.  I can’t wrap my head around it, and I don’t know how to fight something I don’t understand.  And the fight seems like a toothpick flung at tiger. And I need to save my toothpicks because I have food in my teeth.

I recently read this New Yorker article which discusses the effectiveness of protests and seems to conclude the importance of restrained strategy. Rosa Parks’ refusal to sit in the back of the bus was not a spur of the moment expression of indignation, but the next step in a long, patient and calculated step in a united effort to change this country’s unjust laws.

I’m not saying that I’m unwilling to fight.  But the injustice will be here for al long time. For right now, I am more interested in the right actions, choosing the right battles, preserving and building my strength and staying sane.

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Episode #4 – “Teaching Benny & Serafina to Dance Salsa”

We did it! We made another made salsa dance video! In this episode we worked on counting, a strong lead and keeping your eyelashes on.

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Not A Samantha Jones Type

Sorry, but I wasn’t written by a gay man.

I am single. I tell you this because as a woman in her 40s (…what?! She’s in her 40s?! She looks GREAT…) I am legally required to per The Relationship Status Transparency Act of 1988 (inspired by the Nora Ephron film “Sleepless in Seattle).

I normally don’t date younger men because I can’t sleep on just a mattress on the floor. Also, I am not fond of a characterization of myself as a Samantha Jones-like woman from “Sex and the City.” I don’t want to have to explain to anyone that I wasn’t written by a gay man.

However, when a Millennial asked me out, two friends suggested I stay “open.”  I explained to them that I could have birthed him.  (I would have been a teen mother, but a mother nonetheless.)  But my friend Maria told me that you never know who will show up to love you and love doesn’t always look like the “package” you imagine.  I could see that I am rife with prejudice and so decided do my best to be “open” (aka, ridiculous) to the Millennial.  I realize that “Millennial” is practically a slur, so let’s call him Larry (because no one born after 1980 has been named Larry).

So I gave Larry my number and he texted me really nice things, like emoji hearts and “ur vry atrctive.”  No harm done. In fact, it was very nice to receive this. I tried to explain to Larry that I didn’t want to be a Samantha Jones type from “Sex and the City.” His response: “What’s ‘Sex and the City’?”

I saw pictures of Larry’s mom on Facebook and wondered if she would have been a senior when I was a freshman. She seemed like someone I could go to Prince Tribute concerts with or like she might be into “Dirty Dancing,” the musical.  Maybe Larry’s mom and I could be palz.

The problem was Larry was never available. Each time we made plans his band would get a gig. One night we made plans and he cancelled. He later told me that his band had a disagreement and were officially no longer a band. And that’s when I realized another reason why I can’t date men in their twenties: when their bands break-up they are incapacitated and can’t show up to dates.

Larry is not my guy, but I am still remaining “open.”

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Episode #3 – Teaching Maria to Dance Salsa

In Episode #3 of “Teaching Comics to Dance Salsa” I give a lesson to dear long-time friend, genius comic Maria Bamford!  Maria and I touch on “LA Style Salsa” vs. “New York Style Salsa,” the intimate nature of partner dance, body rolls, salsa sweat, and we practice our arm “ladies styling.”

Maria’s talent is so amazing that even after twenty-years of friendship, I am in awe of her when working with her on a project.  I love this lady!

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Reading of “Cantina Confidential”

I will be reading and selling my mother’s historical fiction, “Cantina Confidential” on August 5th at the Pop-Hop in Highland Park.

This historical non-fiction depicts a vivid portrait of migrant life and bracero culture. Any student of California history and Chicano studies will find her work an invaluable and well-researched resource, as well as a story filled with intrigue and mystery.

Description: In this historical chronicle by Rafaela G. Castro, one family becomes entangled in the scandals and secrets of a small migrant town.

In the 1940s, a young couple, Jose Luis and Blanca, start their married lives in the fictional California village of Suntown in the San Joaquin Valley. However, external forces and a personal mistake lead to a tragic incident.

Decades later, Blanca’s daughter, Luz, stumbles across a photograph and a mysterious letter to her mother that hints at a closely guarded secret and signed by a person known only as “D. S.” Determined to learn the truth about her mother’s relationship to this man, Luz journeys to the San Joaquin Valley to find him. In the process she discovers the rich, untold history of the struggle of migrant laborers to survive, live, and love in 1940s Central California.

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Episode #2 – Teaching Christine to Dance Salsa

I got to teach Christine Little some salsa moves, but she didn’t need my help.

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When You Know The Movie Is Racist, But Russell Crowe Is Hot

Movie Genre: Awesome Sexual Chemistry

“Glow.” Done. “House of Cards” and “Dear White People.”  Done.  I couldn’t get into any of the other new Netflix series, which seem to be produced at a blog-rate, so I scrolled through movies and saw “Proof of Life.”  I remember believing that Russell Crowe reached his peak-hunk stage during this film and that he and Meg Ryan had great chemistry. Aside the very problematic racist depictions of the fictional Latin American country of “Tecala” (Peru? Colombia? Russell Crowe looking all buff, who cares?) and some macho violence (this is probably a bad movie…am I terrible?) it’s a beautiful triangulated love story.

So Peter Bowman and his wife Alice live in Tecala where Peter works to build a damn sponsored by an evil oil company. They have marital problems and she had a miscarriage in Africa, and she doesn’t want to have another baby in a third world country. (Boo! Third World Countries! USA has one of the highest infant mortality rate in the western world, and miscarriages happen anywhere…but Alice is an American.

Then Peter gets kidnapped! Enter Russell Crowe. He’s a hostage negotiator whose company works for the oil company. He see’s Meg Ryan, all broken up, adorable and skinny (she has puffy lips, but this was pre-extreme face work and she still looks like herself) and falls in love. But it turns out evil oil company didn’t have an insurance policy on kidnapping, so Terry bails and leaves poor Alice with the second rate degenerate Tecalan security guard who tries to run off with Alice and Peter’s 50K.  Terry of course, feels guilty and returns to help Alice with guns and asks the guys to leave.  LIKE A MAN. The women are screaming and crying, and it’s all pretty insulting, but still…Russell Crowe. Yes, he fulfills many unfair gender stereotypes; he’s tough, cool, and emotionally distant, but he also listens and has a job to do. Above all, he’s a soldier and he’s competent. Unlike the Tecalan thugs who can’t broker a deal IN THEIR OWN COUNTRY.

Over the following months, Russell Crowe lives with Meg Ryan and tries to negotiate for Peter’s release, who is living in a tent in the mountains with stoned Peruvians. This part is very problematic as Peter is a tall white engineer and the “Telacans” are short, impoverished, dark skinned and according to the filmmaker not too bright. Yet, we are meant to root for the tall white man. He has sympathy for the women, but he can outsmart these dumb thugs.  Ok, so this was 2000, not sure why I should forgive it, but this is not a fair fight. He could show a little more compassion, understanding, historical resonance for a people who had their country raped and now have to resort to kidnapping. Or the movie could…but still: Russell Crowe.

Meanwhile, Terry and Alice build a soul-mate intimacy.  It’s clear that they are in love, but this passion can never be consummated.  Alice loves her husband and is a devoted wife, and Terry isn’t an immature needy idiot. He’s not a home-wrecker, even though there are no children or home to wreck.  He could very easily write off Peter for dead and seduce the grieving wife.  But he has honor. Meg Ryan and Russell Crowe did have an affair during the making of the film and their method acting paid off.  Movie genre: HOT SEXUAL CHEMISTRY.

Peter and a co-prisoner try to escape, but Peter gets caught. The prisoner escapes but informs everyone that Peter is probably dead. A lesser man than Russell Crowe could have said, “Score!” and let it go. But his job is, in essence, to save the union that will break his heart.  He’s no mopey, whiney Joseph Gordon Levitt character from  “500 Days of Summer.” Soldiers can deal with broken hearts. UNFAIR GENDER STEREOTYPE…but still…Russell Crowe.

Russell Crowe and David Caruso go in on a special op reconnaissance mission with fatigues and face paint. But first….first…he and Meg Ryan have their moment. A night of passionate love making? No. Months of work to save the husband of the woman he loves and all he gets is one make-out session!  But it’s enough. Why? Because he’s a fucking grown up!

He and David Caruso rescue Peter, kill a bunch of Tecalan thugs (again, these are poor, dark skinned people, so their live are not important).  Peter shoots his captor and we should applaud?… Had he developed some compassion for the struggles of indigenous cultures in Latin America, this could have been a great movie…but alas, Hollywood…

Peter is brought back to Alice. He is grateful to Terry. But he knows something is up with his wife. You can’t leave your wife hanging out with a super buff soldier hostage negotiator for five months and just have her be all “See ya!”  But it’s OK, because aside from not understanding anything outside of his white Western brain, Peter is an adult. He lets Alice and Terry say their final good-byes. He will have adorable Alice for the rest of his life.  While the movie lacks any progressive ideas of gender, race, or the plight of the third world, it redeems itself with the emotional good will of what could be a messy love triangle. Great acting by Meg Ryan, whose presence on the screen I truly miss.  Despite it all, I truly enjoyed it.

In Lindy West’s awesome book “Shrill” she says, “In a certain light, feminism is just the long, slow realization that the stuff you love hates you.” Damn, she’s so right.

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When In Berkeley…

Childhood friend Alicia and me at King.

I moved to Los Angeles in 1995 amidst a flurry of condescending eye-rolls and pitiful looks followed by, “Why? I hate LA!”  Twenty years later, Kevin Bacon and Mobe declare LA “cool” enough to live in. WHOSE ROLLING THEIR EYES NOW?

I also get judge-y about people thinking that Berkeley is “cool.”  I’m sorry, Michael Chabon, but you don’t get to just buy a house here after making a lot of money on your bestseller novel without going through the very real, terror for your life and daily sexual-assault that was 1984-1986 of King Junior High School.

Yesterday, I had lunch with two close friends and we shook our heads when one told us that in her research of schools for her daughter she discovered that King Junior High is now one of the BEST schools in Berkeley.  King Junior High was where my best friend and I deemed our tag name to be “Ladies of The Night” — WE HAD NO IDEA WHAT IT MEANT…but still, someone should have told us.  I am still going through my box of notes written to me (old fashioned text messages) by my band of Wet n’ Wild painted friends and sometimes dream of making movie with the rights to the “Purple Rain” album. (Because otherwise, really, what is the point?).

I drive around Berkeley now and it looks like a glorious, urban, college-town utopia of windy streets filled with craftsman homes and large trees. It’s hard to believe that Berkeley felt like a scary place to me in the early 80s.  To this day, marijuana still smells like public parks during remedial English class and absent fathers. I watched young kids lose their personality to excess drugs, I watched fights. I did not witness gun violence, despite attending “urban” schools, but I felt a distinct sense that the world had no sense or order. Growing up in Berkeley and Oakland, I always felt more aware of the “decay” part of “urban decay.”

Thanks to technology, Berkeley and Oakland have undergone the same organic, locally-grown fabulousness of New York or any once “cool” place.  The debate on the morality or benefits of gentrification have some merit. And sure I don’t necessarily mind walking down 4th street to buy a Crate n’ Barrel olive wood nibble bowl for or eye gel.  And I know that nostalgia will always make me think that life was better when bars had two beers (Miller or Budweiser) and 13-year-olds had the freedom to go to parks and abuse their bodies with mild marijuana in the middle of the day.

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Episode #1 – Teaching Kazu to Dance Salsa

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The Gilead Handmaids Are More Feminist Than American Women

I keep thinking about the last scene of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” when Aunt Lydia (or Patty form “The Leftovers”) congregates the handmaids at an open field.  One of them says, “God, I hate stonings,” like she has to listen to an election speech at a high school assembly.  Then they cart out crazy Janine/Ofwarren, the rebellious unstable handmaid who lost one eye for being loud and combative, and most recently her baby.  Everyone loves Janine and so June/Offred refuses to throw a stone.  She will endure ritualized rape, having her body treated like an incubator, but fuck if she is going to throw a stone at crazy-one-eyed-blow-job-giving Janine.  There is nothing if not female allegiance among the Handmaids. They have no choice but to ally. Because they have no choices.

The world of the Handmaid’s is not unlike what goes on in most of the non-Western world; women are brutally subjugated, in this case, not allowed to work, own property, control money, read and fed the message that unattached procreating is a high honor. Even Mexico wants American Handmaids (Side note: Mexico would never come to the US for fertile women…I love the show, but seriously, hire some Mexican writers!)  

So, back in real-life present-day America, women don’t literally stone each other, just go after each other in Internet scandal dramas.  Recently Iliza Shlesinger got hit big time for saying the following:

I could walk into The Improv, close my eyes, and I can’t tell one girl’s act apart from another. That’s not saying that 30-something white guys don’t all sound the same sometimes, but I’m banging my head against the wall because women want to be treated as equals, and we want feminism to be a thing, but it’s really difficult when every woman makes the same point about her vagina, over and over.

I don’t know Iliza, but if I sat her down, I doubt she would say that the subject matter of “vagina” is really the problem.  I know comics who talk about their vag-es in original and unique ways that cause tears to roll down my face and because I don’t want to tell someone else’s joke, please, just see Judith Shelton perform.  But more often what I hear from women about our shared bodily parts makes me uncomfortable because they seem unconscious of the possible underlying intenting on turning on horny twenty-something year old men, plugged into The Patriarchy, and unaware of their struggle to find their authentic voice.  Unless your authentic voice is “I like anal sex…” you don’t fall in this category.  I don’t blame young women new to comedy, I don’t hate them, I don’t think I am better than them, I just think, “Here is a young woman standing in front of a room full of mostly men asserting that she can make them laugh — a weird situation — she’s trying to figure out how to engage young men…” And how do you hold a man’s attention…hmmm…how?!”

For some reason the reaction from female comics who felt that Iliza’s comments were directed at them was to tear down Iliza Shlesinger.  I guess she defended herself until she finally realized she is a grown woman and doesn’t have to explain herself, which is more than you can say about her attackers.

What surprises me (and when I say surprised I mean  not surprised at all), is that female comics sit in rooms where men repeatedly call women whores, cunts, talk about beating up prostitutes behind dumpsters (I have heard this premise five or six times), joke about female rape and gang bangs. Personally, I don’t feel that this supports my heroine’s journey, but maybe that is rare.  For some female comics its OK because of “free speech” and “art” and all this allegiance with male comics who — for the most part — don’t give a fuck about them.  Who listens to female comics?  Other women.  Why? Because we are women, we are in very similar body suits and I am most interested in hearing a woman’s take on what it’s like to live with ovaries and hormones, and fear of a culture and society where women’s rights and freedoms seems so unstable that a show like “The Handmaid’s Tale” feels like a documentary of the future.

Over a year ago Gloria Steinem told Bill Mahr that young women supported Bernie Sanders because that’s “where the boys are” and women went after her as if she hadn’t led the women’s movement for forty years.  Meanwhile stripper-loving Bill Mahr got off scot free and went on to test his white male entitlement by using of the n-word on TV. What shocking impropriety has Gloria Steinem gone on to do? Continue to be bas ass.

Oh, and do you remember Hillary Clinton? Yeah, women hated her, too. Well, good thing that didn’t hurt us at all…it’s disappointing because women are like lobsters in a pot that is boiling and yet we can only see far enough to the the lobster trying to get out of the pot.  Not the society and culture that controls the heat nobs.  In “The Handmaid’s Tale,” Serena Joy, is more of an abusive bitch than her husband, but she is in the pot, she is part of the system.  Iliza, Gloria Steinem, Hillary Clinton, these are all privileged white women, and maybe that privilege allows them the awareness g to know that there is this boiling turnt up situation going on. THEY ARE NOT THE PROBLEM.

The handmaid’s are more feminist than Ameircan women because that is what happens when you hit rock bottom. There is no more denial. There is no more, maybe I can just ignore my female-ness, or my skin color. It’s a place you get beaten down into.

Just please don’t stone me.

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I Apologize

I am not worthy.

I just want to say that I’m so so sorry.  SO SORRY.  I’m sorry for any offense I caused when I expressed what looked like disapproval and criticism.  I understand that the world is inherently opposed to any negative feelings a woman expresses. However,  for a brief moment I forgot and indecently revealed my true feelings about bigotry, rampant assault against women (starting with our president), the dissolution of immigrant rights, violence against African-Americans, racism against Latino people, the thousands of poorly-constructed rape jokes spoken by upper middle class-born white males at open mics consisting of 90% males,  hostility and discrimination towards my gender in the work place and the general sense that I need permission and approval before I can open my mouth and speak what I think is “truth” but is probably just the factually-inaccurate workings of my simple female brain.  I forgot my place. And for that I apologize.  Please, accept my apology.

I want to live.

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