Some of my more recent Pieces:

Here's a smattering of recent pieces that I performed...And hopefully some of the other performers will allow me to post their pieces as well in the near future! The format of the titles is, title of my piece, the number of the show (so far we've done 22 shows), and the name of the theme of the show. Enjoy!



APOLOGY TO MY BELLY BUTTON (Inner Monologues XXII: Apologies)

I had a few things on my agenda for the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend after work got out at noon. Number one: Eat lunch. Two: Go to Tiffany’s to get the battery in my watch fixed. And three: Get my belly-button re-pierced. Unfortunately my decision to kick back a couple glasses of Pinot with coworkers instead of eating lunch set my plan slightly of course.

Have you ever been drunk in Tiffany’s? Those diamonds really do sparkle. And some actually speak to you if you listen hard enough. What’s that? You want me to come closer? Yes, you ARE gorgeous you little bracelet you. I want you. I want you so bad. Stop it. Stop! Now you’re being dirty. Gotta run. (Wink). See you later bad boy.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” asked the concierge at the repairs check-in desk. I smiled dreamily as I traced my name into the cold blue granite of desk. “Excuse me, miss?” he asked again. “Oh, hi. Yes. I have a need this repaired battery. I mean my watch needed this replaced bat? I mean…” The concierge looked at me like the imbecile I was and pointed me over to the waiting area.

I passed the time apologizing every few minutes to the old lady next to me who I kept kicking accidentally. When my name was finally called, I was ushered over to Carol. Literally, ushered by someone in Security. Carol waited patiently at her desk, with her neat little Tiffany’s name tag, coral lipstick and her pamphlets of outrageously expensive Tiffany engagement rings that would have tormented me this time last year. I admired my own ring, quite satisfied with my lot, and made sure Carol could see that I was a legitimate diamond-wearer.

Undermining my legitimacy was the drool that pooled out of the side of my mouth due to my slow reflexes. Carol was kind enough not to offer me a tissue, and instead got up to take care of my watch. Luckily, she took her sweet time inventing electricity and creating the battery for my watch. While that happened, I tried to pull myself together. I took some yogic breaths and when I realized I sounded like I was hyperventilating, took a few good sips of water. When Carol returned, she actually smiled at me, like “Nice. Thanks for trying to not behave like an asshole.” And when I turned to leave, she told me I would make a beautiful bride. Oh the SHAME. I didn’t deserve her kind words.

Concierge. Carol. The old lady with bruises that bear a resemblance to the Tori Burch shoes I wore that day. I am sorry for how I behaved.

On my way out of Tiffany’s, my blackberry buzzed with a new message. Oooh. Text from college ex-boyfriend of five years. “I’m in town. Let’s get a drink!” You know. Super cas. College ex boyfriend and I had the kind of relationship where he would wander the streets at midnight all tormented with Chaucer in hand, and I would have to go looking for him (this was before everyone had cell phones). And then when I’d find him I’d have to assure him that the time I kissed my friends Stella
and Marissa at the beach house was just for giggles and no, I did not like that guy at Sigma Nu I was just trying to make him jealous, and yes I really really was only in love with HIM.

Luckily that was many moons ago, and now we had the type of friendship that worked just fine as long as a wee bit of alcohol was involved. Drinks. Fun! That would be hilarious!

As I made my way towards the F train I was doing better, but not good enough for the upright citizens of New York City. I was swerving on the sidewalk, and a woman behind me yelled, “Lady, WHAT are you doing?” It was like the equivalent of “Fucking learn to drive!” only…I was walking.

I met the ex at Spitzer’s on Ludlow. I squeezed into a tiny chair at a tiny table in between a waify girl rocking the Boho look and two frat boys and their bulldog. Feeling anxious and claustrophobic, I knew it was time for another refreshment.

All the waiters at Spitzer’s wear grey t’s and jeans, so of course I asked the random guy on the street having a cigarette, for a Pinot Griggio. “I don’t work here, actually.” He said to me with disgust. Guy on the street just trying to relax and be casual, I am very sorry for treating you like “the help”.

A couple more drinks later, I realized I still hadn’t gotten my navel pierced. Ok, back-story. Long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I asked my parents if I could get a navel piercing. My dad said no way was I going to one of those dirty piercing places. He was a physician—a gynecologist in fact. He knew how to poke holes in people, so he would do the job. Anyway, my favorite jewelry fell out recently and I decided to splurge and get a custom made piece. By the time I finally bought and put the piercing in, the hole had closed. Normal people would say, “C’est la vie. I’m 28. Good riddance to naval piercings and those earrings in your upper ear.”

Not me. I like to see things through to the end. I was going to get the damn thing repierced. And the ex, sadist that he is, asked to come along as a spectator.

At the piercing place, I checked off the question that asked, “Have you consumed alcoholic beverages?”

“I’ve only had like, two.” I told the Piercing Guy—with his 20 facial piercings and obscure metal band tee. “And it has been um, over a period of four hours.”

Piercing Guy looked at me like, “hell its your body”, and motioned me over to the big purple chair.

I asked Piercing Guy if it was going to hurt, and told him for what it was worth, that when my dad did this, he used local anesthesia. Piercing Guy advised that I keep my eyes closed and take a deep breath. I took a deep breath and looked at the needle.

The room was spinning, my exe’s face—smirking! I believe-- was looming over me, and a giant needle was about to pierce my stomach. Was I living the life or what?

Well, piercing one’s navel is quite a rush but damn it hurts so that of course required a shot—an alcoholic one. At Lucy’s on A, with Dylan playing on the jukebox, the ex told me that for the first time in his life, he can spend an entire night in the same bed as his girlfriend. Ahem. Memories of waking up lonely in those extra long dorm room beds wondering where my boyfriend was came flooding back to me. High five, Sense of Self Worth! No really. Sense of Self Worth, I am very sorry that I put you in the position to hear that. I know you are getting married to the best man in the world, but Self Worth is Self Worth, and you are fragile and also a little vain. Apologies.

When the sour taste of Tequila finally went away, I noticed an acute pain in my stomach. “This might be a good time to check out your new wound!” I thought to myself. I lifted my shirt to take a peek and noticed that my tank top was soaked in blood. I looked like I had been shot in the bellybutton. Now I’m sure the old lady who works behind the bar at Lucy’s has seen it all but even she looked a little faint.

I asked her for extra napkins and clutched them to my stomach. “That looks pretty bad,” said the ex, helpfully.

“It is, thanks” I replied.

The guy on the stool next to me looked at me curiously. Like, why is this girl doing shots and bleeding from her belly button in the middle of the day?

When my fiancee Jesse called about dinner, instead of saying you know, I think we should skip dinner and go to the hospital instead, I asked him where I should meet him. Its kind of scary, actually to think that I’m like, hemorrhaging from my stomach and the gourmand in me is like, “Mmm. A lobster roll would be great right about now.”

Blood still pouring out my navel, I said bye to the college ex and cabbed it to the West Village. I noticed, regretfully as the cab pulled away, that I left a few bloodstained napkins on the seat. Oops. Cabbie, I am very sorry. Luckily, I don’t have any infectious diseases. That I know of.

I waited for Jesse, who was late, so I stood on the corner of West 4th and diligently changed my bloodied napkins every few minutes. I slowly began to adopt a Devil May Care attitude about the whole thing. Yeah. I’m bleeding. So what. People bleed. Well who cares if I did this to myself, who asked you?

And then people looked at me funny because I was making the faces you make when you have an imaginary fight with people in your head like (make faces).

At dinner I ate lots of fried and alcohol absorbent foods and drank only water. By the end of dinner the bleeding had pretty much stopped. Some antibacterial stuff and a Band-Aid finished the job and I was finally on my way to the end of this crazy, alcohol-fueled day of bad decisions and mishaps.

All in all, I offended quite a few people in just half a day, really. But there’s one apology I haven’t made yet and I think it is quite deserving:

My belly button.

Belly button, I found out the next day why you bled so much. That question about alcohol consumption was actually quite important. You see, alcohol thins the blood, and my blood was basically swimming in it at the time you were pierced. And so, belly button, I am sorry for what I put you through in my ignorance and for the sake of having shiny sparkly bling hang off of you.

Deepest apologies,
Your reckless---but with a great fashion sense! --Owner,

Me





A LOTTA CLASS (Inner Monologues XXI: Barely Legal)

It all started when I rejoined the gym. Being an anxious person, one who was going through some…tough times, I was trying to find a way to burn off some anxiety. After my first spin class at Crunch when I heard Massive Attack coming from the dance studio behind me, I was curious.

I peered inside the studio, and to my surprise, I saw about a dozen girls performing feats of strength up and down a number of poles that were set up throughout the room. I’d heard about these pole dancing classes—but for some reason hadn’t really expected them to be more than glorified strip tease sessions.

But no. Here were these girls doing splits upside down, wearing next to nothing and six-inch stripper heels—you know, the ones with the clear plastic bottoms? Running to the poles and twirling up them into a climb. Sliding down the poles using only their ankles as support.

I was amazed. How liberating! How beautiful! They were artists. Like cirque de soleil. Like ballerinas in booty shorts. And I decided you know what? Hey. I’m gonna join them.

That night I scoured my closet for the shortest shorts I could find. The best I could do were a pair of shorts my fiancé had bought me at the Jersey Shore years ago as a joke that had the words “Jesse’s Ass” written across the butt. I was sure that the right outfit and a good attitude were all I’d need to become an A plus pole dancer in record time.

My first class was pretty humbling. Like oil and water, me and the pole did not get along. Here’s a word to the wise—do not wear any body or hand lotion before pole dancing. I spent my whole first class sliding down the pole—but not in a sexy way. In the locker room after class I met some of the other girls: Charity, Destiny, and Brookelyn (B-R-O-O-K-E-L-Y-N). I told them that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this type of thing. No they said. NO. Don’t be that way. They encouraged me to keep coming to class and promised I would only get better. They told me they could tell I had it in me.

I started to wonder if I too should have a pole-dancing name. I decided that in my novice state, it would be Slipper-ee. (S-L-I-P-P-E-R-E-E).

The next morning I marveled at my new bruises. Up and down my legs were huge black and blue welts. Sitting in the conference room at work I thought back to class the way one fondly recalls a night of passion with a new lover. I smiled, remembering the feeling of the pole between my hands—how it was cold to the touch at first but warmed up after I rubbed against it. I remembered the pain of clutching it between my thighs but the pleasure of weightlessness when I slid down to the floor.

At that moment, I realized…I was hooked.

I decided to go to every class available to get my fix. Throughout the week I’d travel from midtown to Park Slope or to 59th street, or Union Square. I even joined a pole group meetup online for other pole dance lovers or “polecats” as we sometimes call ourselves. Our motto is, “Let’s get our sexy on together.”

Over the next dozen or so classes, our instructors encouraged us to bring on the sass. To work it like you want to make money. Don’t be afraid to touch yourself. When getting up from the floor, always remember, titties first. And if you’re having trouble with inversions, think “vagina to the sky.” But always, ALWAYS, do it with class. Pole dancing if about nothing else, is all about respect.

On the subway, I couldn’t read my New Yorker anymore. I’d stare at the poles and envision myself on them, figuring out where I’d need to position my hands to execute a perfect Butterfly or where my legs would have to be for a flawless Chopper.

Even at home I started to look at furniture in a different light. The edge of a closet door could easily be shimmied against. The back of a chair would be perfect for practicing my headstands. Still, you know, almost EXACTLY like Virgina Woolf, I longed for a pole of my own.

Now you might think that my fiancée would jump at the opportunity to have a pole in his home. Not so. I don’t really blame him since we live in a studio the size of my foot. He’s actually not all that impressed with my new love. The other night I was practicing some floor work when he came home—a variety of back arches and kicks and general sexy writhing about—and I might as well have been picking my nose while watching “The Hills”.

“Oh. Hey babe.” He said, as he went into the kitchen for a beer.

Minutes later I had mastered the perfect headstand without leaning against anything for support. “Honey! Look!” I was so proud of myself. No hands! I’d been practicing for the past hour.

Jesse poked his head in from the kitchen for a brief:

“Cool.”

“You weren’t looking!” I shouted, still upside down.

“Yes, I saw, and I am VERY proud of you.”

I came out of my headstand in a humph.

“Whatever.”

I eased my bruised ego by seeking out other pole enthusiasts like me on youtube. There are hundreds of them. They videotape themselves dancing to songs like “Doin’ It” and “Big Poppa” or even songs by Enya. They fill the comments sections saying “U R so graceful where did U learn 2 dance?!”, or “Awesome routine, nice spins.” And if some pervy guy dares leave a comment that undermines the art of the pole dance such as “Yo booty look so fine in dem panties I could hit that all night long”,or “Got to give it to her: She definitely do it to it,” these girls leave a tirade of female empowered comments in his wake such as: “Shut up male chauvinist pig!” and “Pole dancing is beautiful, not slutty!”

I have to admit that I even started stalking one of the girls from my class on youtube. I must watch her at-home practice videos—oh—three times a day. She has a figure that’s made for pole dancing and she knows it. She wears the shortest shorts in class—well, let’s face it, they’re not shorts, they’re underwear—and she’s not happy unless ass cheek is showing. While most girls take short turns practicing their moves on the pole, she somehow makes one spin around the pole into a ten-minute routine. But it is OK. She’s like the best car wreck ever. And she’s my idol.

Unfortunately, in the more advanced classes, I am a little bit of a loner. The advanced gals have been taking the class together for years, and they even have pole dancing girl’s nights. They go to clubs together “for research”; and they go to each other’s houses and tape each other doing routines. I can’t say I’m not jealous.

I kind of like, weasled my way in to those advanced classes because I found out after the fact that beginners aren’t really allowed in because we might KILL ourselves. But now I’m bringing all these advanced tricks into the beginner class and making the beginners all jealous, which is pretty cool. I’m getting better every day but I’m not A-Team yet. Until I advance enough to put on my own six-inch stripper heels I won’t even attempt to join them. I know my place. In pole dancing, as in life, there are hierarchies and ladders.

I made the mistake of telling my mom about my new “dance class.” She’s always been a fan of heavy lip liner and big hair, so I thought that she’d kind of understand.

“So, is there going to be a recital?” she asked.

“No, mom. This isn’t like, piano lessons.”

My friends think I’m going through a phase. The only people who really support my love of pole dancing are my therapist and my biofeedback guy. For those of you who have never heard of biofeedback, basically it’s a way of regulating your own breathing and decreasing your anxiety. So this biofeedback guy I’m seeing is a total hippie and he is all about me and pole dancing because he thinks it has something to do with my inner child wanting to go out and be free. During our breathing exercises he encourages me to “go to my pole” because I told him that the pole is where I feel calm and focused. So during our sessions together we close our eyes and breathe in and out and envision me on the pole hanging upside down. “Breathe. Yes. Go to your pole. Hmmmmm. Say, breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.”

And there I am, my ankles wrapped around the pole, hanging upside down, the blood rushing to my head. That “Peaches” song—the one that goes “Sucking on my titties like you wanted me”—that song is playing in the background. And Charity and Destiny and Brookelyn with an ‘e’ are cheering me on. The world falls away. And you know what, I slowly feel myself calm down.

POTTY TRAINING OR, AND THEN I TRIPPED AND FELL IN PEE (Inner Monologues XVIII: Face Your Fears)

You really would not have wanted to be my friend when you were little. The first thing you would have had to do when you came over my house for a play date was wash your hands.

“There’s germs all over them.” I’d insist.

After the hand washing, my friend would ask:

“So what are we gonna play?”

“Oh. Play? We can’t play yet. Now you have to wash your face.”

“My FACE?” she’d ask, incredulously.

“Yeah. And…I hope you brought your toothbrush too. You did, right?”

You see I had my reasons for being this way. I didn’t know what people had touched during the day in the cesspool they called public school. If I had my druthers I would have made them take an antiseptic shower, but that would probably have made some parents a little upset.

If this is how I felt about germs in schools, you can imagine how I felt and still feel about public rest rooms. And if this is how I feel about rest rooms, you might guess my feelings toward the port o potty: They are not to be used.


But two summers ago, I agree to go to a Red Hot Chili Pepper’s concert at Randall’s Island. It’s one of those rare occasions where I decide to be the opposite of what I normally am—which is ever so slightly high maintenance.

The concert-goers around me are literally sweating Heineken. As the band Garbage performs their classic, "Stupid Girl", lots of stupid girls are parading around with their shirts rolled up under their bras exposing their beer bellies. Guys are wearing T-shirts that say things like, "Future Ex Husband" or simply, "College."

And while I would have liked to have called it a day after that one song, unfortunately, Randall’s island has no public transportation. And then there was the fact that I had to pee. Like, really had to pee. So I try to sneak into the VIP section where I heard the facilities are pretty nice. I go up to the tent, and do the whole urgent “looking for my friend” face. The security guy doesn’t buy it.

“Excuse me, Miss? Your badge?”

“My badge? Oh. I’m just. My friend’s in there. I’m uh…she uh…”

He gives me a weary look so I just laugh awkwardly and run away, ashamed.

When I return to our group, my boyfriend Jesse asks me where I’ve been.

“Oh. You know.…Checking out some of the other bands.” My legs are twisting at awkward angles like a kindergartener. I’m about to burst.

“Lex, do you need me to go with you?”

“Yes.” I answer quickly.

He takes me to where he says not many people have been using the bathrooms.

“On a scale of 1 to 10 how bad is it?”

He tells me it’s about a 5. So I agree to wait on line and just see how I feel. No pressure.

The line moves faster than I expected. When it is my turn to go, I feel like the kid on the really high dive at the town pool. You’re up, and everyone behind you is watching. There’s no turning back because if you do then they’ll all make fun of you and throw Popsicle sticks at you by the snack bar for the rest of the summer. Shit or get off the pot, if you will.

I know Jesse is watching expectantly. My brain wills my legs to move toward the menacing box of doom. It is do or die time. What happens next is a blur of sanitizer smells, darkness, muffled outdoor sounds and yes, a great feeling of relief. I let out a huge gasp of air once outside, and wipe my hands on my jeans over and over. Thank god I brought my own hand sanitizer.

Jesse gives me a huge pat on the back. “You did it! You went to the potty!” I’m grinning ear to ear. This is big. This is HUGE. I’m free. I’m totally over my fear. I can DO this. I can DOO do this. Take that port-o-potty. I ain’t afraid o no public toilet seat! I think of the world of opportunity before me. More outdoor concerts, the Aids Walk, maybe even camping!

I look now though at the line I’ve just left behind. It’s gotten MUCH longer. In fact, all of the Port-o-Potty lines seem to have quadrupled in size. It’s like everyone decided they had to pee at the same time.

Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t. I just can’t. I won’t be able to do it again. That time was OK. But if it gets any worse on the 1 to 10 scale there is NO WAY.

I vow to not drink any more liquids for the next few hours.

Three hours later, despite my Gandhi-like refusal of water, I have to pee again. We are still not going home. The Chili Peppers have still not taken the stage. I reluctantly venture on line again.

A couple girls and I discuss the different potty choices in front of us and debate which have the lesser evils—yes, that one may have no toilet paper, but at least there is not crap on the seat. Or, that one has crap on the seat, but at least the floor isn’t covered in vomit. This was like, POW camp.

I’m finally up. And I can’t do it. I turn to the girl behind me. “You go first.” She shakes her head solemnly and stands stock still. “No. YOU.” I look at her pleadingly. She holds both my wrists and smiles. “Go. Now.”

I venture inside a seemingly benign booth. The smell of the men’s room at Port Authority hits me hard making my throat burn. I reach to close the door but just as I do, I trip over a discarded beer can. What happens next is like Port-O-Potty theatre since the door is wide open to everyone waiting on line: I am falling. I am falling in a port-o-potty that smells like someone ate a Supersize bag of Fritos, washed it down with some jumbo chili dogs, vomited, ate the vomit, then took a dump the size of Texas. My shoe goes flying in the air, and my foot lands in something I’d really rather not talk about. I think my foot should be enough to steady me from falling any further but lo—I continue to slip n’ slide.

Well, this is it. This is how it is going to end. I am going to fall into the port-o-potty toilet and drown in muck and filth just as I have always feared. My life starts to flash before my eyes. But somewhere between my phys-ed teacher showing us how to put a condom on a banana and prom I realize that I am no longer falling: I have landed arm deep in a nice, warm antiseptic-blue and neon-yellow puddle of pee.

Of course, there is no toilet paper.

I hobble like a wounded soldier and find Jesse. He buys me a dozen bottles of water so I can "rinse off".

So I don’t know. I did this whole face your fear thing. I tried to conquer my demon. I know I’m a little nuts in germs department. But in some cases, in MY case:

I think facing your fears is just a big load o’crap.