cuttings from the abattoir floor -

...That’s what Caroline calls hot dogs, but there’s something about one with a $4 beer, especially when that hot dog comes free at Rudy’s: a New York institution that’s been here forever, if the booth seats jerry-rigged with duct tape are any indication. I’m standing at the bar in my blazer, slacks and heels after the show with the cast, asking what I have to do around here for a dog. One of the guys asks me if I’m serious. Do I look like I fuck around about my meat product?

I’m in a spectacular mood, have been for days. Maybe something about watching those lion heads dance around during Lunar New Year in Chinatown was like an exorcism, scaring off the bad ju-ju. And tonight is good – it’s Jerrod’s first fully-mounted production, Kristin’s NYC directorial debut, and Michael gives a fabulous performance (IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING, as part of The Riant Theatre Company’s Strawberry Festival of one-acts, if you’re so inclined). Michael asks how I’m doing and I tell him good, better than I have been in a while. He says that’s a shame and wishes me a bad mood so that my creativity will flourish. I tell him that’s whack.

And this gets me to thinking about creatives – actors, writers, musicians, artists, photographers, whatever the medium – and the myths that surround us: To be an artist, we will more than likely be poor. We are doomed to wander like nomads. We are incapable of stable relationships. We are slated to be single and promiscuous. We are voyeurs and therefore incapable of true intimacy and lasting love. We are messy. We are irresponsible. We are volatile. We’re all inclined to be addicts and alcoholics. We are so much more fucked up than the average bear. And the big one: We must be miserable in order to be creative. There are a lot of these myths, they’ve been ingrained in us from an early age from a variety of sources, and all this bull shit is right up there with Wearing glasses makes you smart and You know what they say about big feet, don’t you? It’s nonsense. Pure, boogey man nonsense.

Sunday morning at the parade, I took some of the best photos I think I’ve ever taken, and I wasn’t just happy – I was giddy. Sue kept laughing at me, jumping up and down to the drums. Why was no one DANCING? This was amazing! We braved the crowds for dim sum and found good spots on the parade route and we were free and delirious, and I look at the shots I took that afternoon and those were not the product of misery. I’m not saying that good art cannot be forged in dark times – what I’m saying is that we are just as creative when we are happy. The key, really, is to stop sabotaging ourselves, telling ourselves that HAPPY = BAD ART and get the hell out of our own way.

We are each worthy of happiness and we are also worthy of our creative endeavors. To say that we are not worthy of creativity and happiness at the same time is to say that self-expression somehow makes us miserable, and that is absolutely ridiculous. Creativity is how we primarily communicate however we're feeling, and that includes happiness. Until we accept that, we continue to buy into this myth-of-the-artist nonsense and more often than not find ourselves in a vicious cycle of self-denial and dead-end relationships, believing whatever Authority Figure when He/She/It stands over us with arms akimbo and tells us to get a real job. Maybe what we do doesn’t always pay the bills in entirety, but what we do is real, thank you very much, and we need to say that loud, proud and happy. It’s about self-respect and, damn it, we deserve it.

If you’re not familiar, there are a couple of really amazing books out there by Julia Cameron – I say books, but they’re more like workbooks and should be approached as such: The Artists Way (the primer) and Walking in this World (I personally prefer this one). If you’re creative at all (and I think we all are, really), pick up a copy of one, thumb through it. You might be surprised.

Myth makes for some great stories. I can even think of a few related to the hot dogs I’m downing and any I could tell you would make your skin crawl. But you know what, life is short and despite appearances, things like hot dogs make me happy. If something as simple as hot dogs and cheap beer every now and then is going to make me happy, I can’t think of a reason in the world why I should deny myself. Damn it, I’m worth it. And I’m still sucking the ketchup off my fingers as I kiss the kids good-bye and head for the door.