FireVaney's

The hibernation, at long last, has met with an end! Hence, the grandiloquent FireVan ity has therein appropriated and transmogrified that which once was merely FireVan ey . Who is to blame? Who ? Only The Stage… Merely The Stage… God, help us, The Stage… Yes, it is I: The FireVanity. And, here , will I record the trials, the tribulations, the conquests, and the epinician odes that shall most certainly ensue in these solenoidal days ahead. And, I promise, my observations, be they drawn in-way-ward or out-way-ward, shall be the substance that makes the mold for the model of Mother Honesty herself! I’ll tarry not a moment longer with my tale thus far… First, the audition. From my first footstep through the door of the auditioning space—nay, from the millisecond my aura seduced the breathing air within—I had the director in tears! As all are, he was overwhelmed by my numinous stage-presence. Indeed, it was this very numinousness which, in the first place, twelve and a half years ago, drov

Watching her watching me watching her fold lingerie.

George Bernard Shaw lost his at twenty-nine. Two comments: first, this is yet another thing I have in common with Mr. Shaw; second, now I don’t feel so bad. Mark Twain lost his at thirty-four. This makes me feel even better. "Man is the only animal that blushes—or needs to," Twain said.

What you have to understand is, the FireVaney’s more insecure than you will ever know; more insecure than you'll ever want to know; and, anyway, more insecure than he will ever let on. And, what's more, he's definitely more insecure than he ever wants you to acknowledge in his presence—even though he's admitting to as much here . As far as you are concerned, the FireVaney, in the flesh, is a brick wall of strength and emotion. When you see him, in the flesh, nothing penetrates. So, don't even try. As for the veracity of anything you read here, question it. Always. Anyway, thank you for reading. But right now, the FireVaney's got a shit-load of snow to go out and shovel.

This afternoon, a quarter-sized spider crittered across the long locker room mirror. I didn’t do a thing about it.

Back in high school, you knew she was going to be famous. But, you—silly you—thought you were going to be famous right along with her. Now, every time you Google her name and find out what she’s up to, it floors you. Not that it should . She really has Made It. And you—silly you—really are a Loser. Everyone’s an example. Right? Now that you know what you are—at least, now that it is assured and proven beyond a reasonable doubt—set the GOD DAMN STANDARD. “Not everyone can be famous. But, anyone can be infamous.”

“Yes, thank you, this is what I really need: a picture of a dead woman I’ve never met.”

Why is it impossible to rid the kitchen of all its crumbs?

Z, very apparently wasted, repeats several times, “I’m so loud I can’t hear myself!” Or, something to that effect. Then, she says to me, “Put that in your blog!” Or, something to that effect.

There’s nothing like a bar of “Gold Pressed Latinum” smeared over with peanut butter. That is, when compared to an Andrew Jackson, or a Susan B. Anthony, smeared over with peanut butter. And, yes, I’ve tried all three. Chipped a tooth, even, on the Susan B.

Many, many things I cannot react to at all at the moment of their occurrence. All these suppose-to-be-right- then reactions, they hit me and manifest themselves much, much later. And it’s a stinker, when, for example, you are, essentially, phaser stunned with kisses all over your face.

1.) Get laid. 2.) Get published. (And, yes, in that order.)