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Point Break of the Speed Matrix

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Monthly Archives: October 2008


My earbuds sitting precariously on my ears.

A few years ago I punctured my right ear drum and I lost hearing in that ear for about two weeks.  When I went to the specialist he commented on my baby-like-la-petite ear canals.  This statement was received with the same blank stare that I gave to my father when I got new bangs and he said, “But Tara, you have a beautiful forehead!”  Don’t get me wrong.  I am grateful for any “petite” comments made directly in connection with any body part but of course this physical trait is a total annoyance and not adorable. 

A year later I bought my first iPod and began to use “earbuds” for the first time.  I had forgotten about the doctor’s comment to me the year before until about fifteen minutes into my first listen and the earbuds popped out of my ears.  My baby-like-la-petite ear canals rejected them.  Of course.

The other day I was talking to someone with them in my ears and I made a slight yawn.  They both popped out and fell to my knees in one swift movement.  The person opposite me looked as though they wanted to ask, “Did you plan that?”



Are these new?  The frequency of the words is displayed by size.  I am tempted to run one of these for some of my unpublished essays.  But I fear that it would only confirm that I am a broken record who uses the phrase “on the realz” far too much.  So intstead here is one for the lyrics to Viva La Vida.  I think it looks cool too.

Viva La Vida word cloud.  Look at how many times they say “Oh-ooh”!

Reblogged from Sam Reich

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"Hey buddy!  Where you goin?  Can't stop?  Oh ok.  Yeah, you're real busy.  I forget sometimes.  I love you.  Call me."

Hey, bud! Where you goin? Can’t stop?  Oh ok.  You’re real busy.  I forget sometimes.  I just…hey, you’re really fast!  I just wanted to let you know that even though I didn’t get a birthday card again this year I continue to believe that it’s always your assistant’s fault!  You’re amazing!  I was watching Dangerous Liaisons the other night and I think you were magic.  You were totally not bad in that…just young.  I mean how could you really convey the emotional sentiment of an 18th century French chevalier?  I know.  You’re not from the 18th century or French so I mean that’s like almost impossible to portray. Um, in closing, I love you and you look awesome in scarves.

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I said that I was going to write daily Halloween posts until the 31st but then I realized how unbelievably pathetic it reads. 

It’s lamos like .

Instead I will tell a story about my folks.  They, being foreign and old, are the source of 100% of my material.

My parents don’t really understand what I do as far as comedy writing, performing and improvising are concerned.  When I tell them about shows that I’ve been in or am currently rehearsing, there is usually a long pause before their conscience kicks and reminds them to be inquisitive and enthusiastic about my “dramatics” as I have no babies of my own and they should be ever mindful of things with which I choose to fill that void.   When I go into detail, they feign interest with an expression on their faces akin to that thinly veiled reassuring look of  “You’ll be fine.  Just a scratch!” you may have seen in any number of buddy cop films when the second billed is bleeding out about to kick it.

My “dramatics” is just one of the many 18th century terms my parents use in daily life.  They also refer to it as “your comedy” or when speaking of improv, it is strictly called “weird art”.   If I am speaking to my father before a show I usually get a, “Good luck with your dramatics this evening.   Make sure your garments are finely pressed.”  My mother will usually remind me to “Keep it clean.”  and “Remember, Victor Borge was very funny and not dirty.”  I can’t even begin to defend and dissect the rationale behind these statements.

Today my mother sent me a clip from the New York Post.  It’s a story regarding Gov. Paterson’s chief of staff.  Apparently this man failed to file his taxes and owes somewhere near $300K.  The attorney representing him attributes “non-filer syndrome” to his delinquence.  Apparently, “non-filer syndrome” is a lesser known ailment that prevents one from filing their taxes on time.  My mother thought this was hilarious and gave the clip to me saying I could “use it for my comedy”.

Well, now I have…sort of.


I have so many thoughts, stories, jokes, related to Halloween.  I feel it only fair to the three of you readers to break up my thoughts through daily posts until the big day.  So first, a summation…
Halloween is all the things I love rolled into one; rosy cheeks, the foliage, the smell of burning leaves (hopefully not attached to the lawn of a burning house), friends, ridiculous outfits, laughter, story telling, horror movies, and “Mermaids” is usually played on a loop on USA all weekend.  “Lando Calrissian” and I will call each other and try to outdo each other’s Bob Hoskins.  “When you are wrong, you are SO wrong it’s scary.”   Does it get any better?  Ok, whatever.  I’m simple.
My favorite stored images from Halloween’s past are that of my best friend and I post trick-or-treating every year. After five hours of belly laughing through the neighborhood, we are finally warming up on the floor of the den with our haul spread out before us.  We would usually be out of our costumes and into our sweats as soon as we got past the front door but somehow never bothered to wash off our make-up and take off the glitter/hairspray/wig or whatever was on our heads that year.  So to each other we are these hysterical bizarro versions of ourselves; totally normal from the neck down and everything from the neck up is a total party. 
If I knew how to use my scanner I could provide a visual.  I’ve fired up the Bat signal…but instead of a bat it’s a big tight t-shirt in the sky.  
Coobs , tell Alfred to keep the dinner warming in the oven.

Boop.  I love my super bestie, “DJ Altitude”.  We met my third year of college at a frat party.  We had just been introduced and I made some joke about a guy’s bulge looking like Prince Eric’s from “The Little Mermaid”.  She just gave me a vacant stare.  DJ Altitude’s father is the head of the German department at UVA and was currently penning a book about Disney being a Nazi sympathizer.  She was not raised with Disney films at all.  I stared blankly back at her not understanding her lack of popular culture knowledge, as it is all I know and care about.   I repeated and said “You know, The Little Mermaid?”  She replied, “Oh yes, the Hans Christian Andersen novel.”  I fell in love immediately.   

Over the years we’ve thrown our friendship in the faces of such cities as New York, Stockholm, Breckinridge, and as of last night, Alexandria, VA.   We attended a birthday party at a country line dancing bar that also had karaoke.  Three years ago we won a karaoke contest at pre-wedding party in Colorado.  Our stage names were “Rapzilla” and “DJ Altitude”  and we killed with our rendition of “Gangsta’s Paradise”.  We won an itunes gift certificate and the respect of all the wedding attendees.  
Last night after …a few libations… we took the stage once more as Rapzilla and DJ Altitude…I hate to brag but we did not do well.  I am pretty sure I hummed the first two verses as DJ sat in a chair next to me bobbing her head up and down waiting for the chorus to kick in.  There were about seven Jamaican cowboys that gathered round to help us with the lyrics…even though the prompter was in front of me.  I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.  

cleavage twin, soul mate, equestrian...cornichon lover.

DJ Altitude: cleavage twin, soul mate, equestrian...cornichon lover.



God, I love this man.

God, I love this man.

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