I Heart NY

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• July 13, 2015

“But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins”   -Regina Spektor

Summer is slow for comedy.  This is normal.  In May, I looked at my summer calendar with horror.  The Spring months were good for me, so when June came, I began to prep myself mentally, “it’s okay,” I told myself, “July and August are slow for everyone.  A few slow weeks are not going to kill your career.”  June was a good month, all around.  I had a lot of cool gigs, started producing a script I wrote, panic attack free, and money was coming in.  “This is how it will be again in the Fall.  Enjoy the Summer.  You love the Summer.  Don’t freak out.”  June ended, and I was happy.  Then on July 1st, I looked at my calendar and freaked out.

Walking to the Lincoln Center, I couldn’t stop tonguing the back of my bottom teeth.  I’d just come from the dentist.  For the first time in years, I was enjoying a freshly cleaned mouth after a dentist appointment.  I’m overly proud being cavity free my entire life, though that  probably has more to do with genetics than my efforts.  The day is Monday, July 6th.  Today, I won’t obsess over my calendar, no.  I’m on my way to see Danny Elman’s Music from the Films of Tim Burton.

I’d never been inside the Lincoln Center.  I’ve often walked by there, observing the high class people attending the philharmonic, or whatever fancy cultural things go on there.  I couldn’t identify with them.  I pride myself as an artist, but not the type of artist who clings champagne glasses.  No, that’s not me.  Those nights in my apartment, alone, writing by candle light, drinking wine, and eating rice… Those are the nights I’ve felt so in tune with the spirit within me, I’m sure I’m an artist.  Ah, yes!  Lori, the writer.  The starving artist.  The tortured soul, with her highs and lows.  This, I’ve figured, is the real me.  The Lori who’s out in the world is just a sponge, absorbing situations and character traits, saving them for the time I spend alone.  She wears a mask in the world.  The real me is after I’ve processed it all, and spit it out.  Only then can I see the world, and myself, as the outsider.  Only when I’m not in it, can I see it for what it truly is.  The artist can do that.

Still, it’s a joke.   The last thing I was actually paid to write about was what it’s like having sex with circumcised penises versus uncircumcised penises.  A topic I’m unqualified to write about, since I’ve never had sex with an uncircumcised penis.  But a paycheck is a paycheck.  And sometimes I like to eat other things besides rice.  Whether or not I’m a great writer is no longer what drives me.   For my entire life, writing has been the most effective way for me to communicate with others.  Even as a kid, if I was angry at my parents, I wrote them a letter.  If I felt appreciative, I wrote a letter (I was told only recently that this is a weird way for a child to behave).  And now, writing seems to be the only way I can communicate.  You might think that’s sad, but it isn’t.  Most people don’t really communicate at all.  At least not about anything that’s real or important.

My affection for comics is only matched by my affection for musicians.  Who didn’t want to be a rock star?  I wanted to live fast and die young.  Drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll, baby.  When I was in elementary school, we had to choose the musical instrument we would play for the next couple years in middle school.  I was a hyper kid.  Full of energy (unlike now).  Come decision day, I had my mind made up:  I was going to be a drummer.  The world sorely lacked rockin’ female drummers.  I imagined myself, drumming, in a rock n’ roll band, with blue hair, wearing a bra, with great abs.  I would be such a bad ass.  I’m always extremely bad ass in my fantasies.

These dreams were quickly squashed when the music director told me “girls don’t play drums.”  It wouldn’t be until years later when I learned he also told other girls this.  Bastard.  Anyway, I really wanted to play the guitar or the piano.  Both weren’t offered.  The music director pushed the violin, which I agreed to, only because I knew my best friend had chosen the violin.

It’s safe to say I had no natural talent when it came to playing violin, whatsoever.  I don’t think I was the worst violinist in the orchestra, but I was probably the second worst violinist in the orchestra.  I had no clue what I was doing.  My parents would yell at me for not practicing, and then when I started to practice, they’d yell at me to stop practicing because I gave someone a headache.  During our concerts, I just made sure my bow was going in the same direction as everyone else so I didn’t look like an idiot.  I never had any interest in playing the violin, but I still liked the orchestra.  Rather, I liked when the teacher would play.  The orchestra teacher was crazy.  I wasn’t sure why because I was just a kid, but my radar for the insane was already pretty spot on, and she was off the charts as far as I was concerned.  I also didn’t think she was a very good teacher.  But when she played the violin, she didn’t seem like a batshit insane cat lady, who’d missed her mark when she decided to teach children… not at all.  When she played the violin, it was like she transformed.  She wasn’t a looker (to put it nicely), but when she played she radiated beauty.  She was right there, with every stroke of the bow, and the world seemed to slow down, as she bestowed her gift of music.  Even though I had always identified myself as a bad ass rock n’ roller type, it was quite clear to me even then, the violin is the music of the soul.

I wriggled through a crowd to get a glimpse of Danny Elfman.  He’s a petite man, very thin, dyed red hair, tinted glasses, sporting a suit I thought only he could pull off.  That’s what a genius looks like.  We all wanted to get a glimpse of what a musical genius looks like.  I felt it was kind of creepy, standing amongst these other fans, watching Danny Elfman on a red carpet as paparazzi clamored, and journalists asked him questions.  But Danny Elfman seemed perfectly at ease.  I mean, he was once a rock star.  Claustrophobia got the best of me, so I moved to other side of the fountain, where I watched from the back, photo-bombing Danny Elfman from a distance.  This, perhaps, was even more creepy.

But creepy is what Danny Elfman and I have in common.  It’s what all Tim Burton fans share.  As a kid, The Nightmare Before Christmas and Edward Scissorhands, resonated with me in a way I’d yet to experience through film.  The images, the characters, the story, the music… it was all so pleasantly dark.  Tim Burton’s world is lonesome, and grim, but it’s also stunning in it’s macabre but bewitching allure.  Elfman and Burton share a vision of the world where the ordinary is frightening, and beauty lies in the shadows.  Elfman’s music perfectly captivates this world.  Danny Elfman and Tim Burton are one of those rare duo’s of extremely talented people, like Paul McCartney and John Lennon, Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David; when combined, they’ve created something truly extraordinary.

The Lincoln Center is an impressive venue (to put it mildly).  As a born and bred New Yorker, I felt almost guilty it took this long to be a spectator there.  I came from work and was wearing “my finest attire,” which was three steps above being homeless, but I was feeling pretty classy with my clean teeth, curtsey of medicaid.  I sat in the audience with the enthusiasm of a kid getting strapped into a roller coaster.  This is going to be great.  People shuffled in a couple minutes after eight, and I found myself to be appropriately annoyed at the disrespect, while the conductor just smiled politely.  Once everyone was seated, and the orchestra began… I was totally blown away.

I don’t think I could properly put into words how ecstatic I was to be there, and I cannot put into words how tremendous the whole performance was.  The orchestra was phenomenal, with a screen behind them featuring clips of the films, and original artwork by Tim Burton.  There is something magical about live music (and comedy!).  These are the best of the best musicians playing Danny Elfman’s music, which has been inspiring me from childhood to adulthood.  I listen to Danny Elfman’s Pandora station when I write, because the world of Burton/Elfman is not a world I felt I understood, but a world I felt I’ve always existed: misunderstood, forlorn and melancholy, yet mesmerizing with a peculiarly funny charm.  Danny Elfman once said in an interview, “I always thrived on negative energy.”

The evening only got better when Danny Elfman sang as Jack Skeleton.  “There are few who’d deny, at what I do I am the best, for my talents are renowned far and wide.  When it comes to surprises in the moonlit night, I excel without ever even trying.”  There was no place else in the entire universe I’d rather be than watching Danny Elfman sing as Jack, right here in New York.

Only two days later, my good friend, comedy Yoda, and director of my pilot Honest Living, John Trueson, texted me that Terry Radigan’s trio, Vicky Kristina Barcelona (who cover Tom Waits songs) were performing in the East Village.  Terry Radigan, who actually scored Honest Living, is a fantastic musician who John has known since she started out.  I am a huge Tom Waits fan.  As Waits said, “I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things.”

So, Wednesday night, I headed to a more underground New York music scene, the Rockwood Music Hall.  Rockwood Music Hall has three different stages.  We started at the wrong stage, but the band we saw (regretfully, I did not get their name (this is why I would have been a terrible journalist)) was great.  I spend pretty much every night at a comedy club, or a bar doing comedy, so I haven’t been to funky music venues like this in years.  I used to frequent bars featuring local and up and coming bands.  I love doing that.  I miss it, and I forgot New York City isn’t just the best city in the world to become a great stand-up comic, it’s also a breeding ground for superbly talented musicians.

The first time I met Terry I saw her perform in the city, and I was not only impressed by her talent and music, but she has a genuinely cool Brooklyn swagger, which the Brooklyn hipsters are trying emulate.  They opened their set with “Temptation,” Terry on guitar, Joy Askew on piano, and Amanda Homi boogieing with finger symbols and cheshire grin, as they shared and rotated vocals.  I was floored.  They were/are amazing.  I had a smile on my face the entire time.  The only bad part of the whole performance was that it wasn’t longer.  After the show, we waited around to say hello to Terry.  John looks at me and laughs, “you have a gift for always looking uncomfortable.”  Admittedly, I was pretty buzzed, and I was crushed to learn I hadn’t looked “cool” as I intended.  John was right, my body language screamed discomfort.  I’m never sure what to do with my arms.  But I was really overwhelmed, in a good way, as the gears in my mind were churning out characters and stories faster than I could comprehend.  Between the Danny Elfman show, and this one, I just wanted to write.  I was so inspired, I needed to process my own thoughts and feelings, so I was coming off as weird.  To see me this way, is to see the real me.

Come Friday, I was sorely dismayed I hadn’t picked up a gig, as I hate not working.  Relaxing makes me anxious.  However, my cousin from Virginia happened to be in New York, so instead of moping around, I went to enjoy some time with my cousin who I don’t get to see enough.  We went to the South Street Seaport, which I had also never been to.  Now that I’ve been there, I will be sure to return, because I love old ships.  In another one of my childhood fantasies, I’m a deck hand on a ship where I write depressing poetry.  Also, I swing from ropes with a knife in my teeth (bad ass).

Saturday morning, I woke up refreshed and inspired.  It had been an amazing week.  New York is a remarkable and magical place, filled with amazingly talented people.  I was thrilled to be amongst them, and attempt to be one of them.  I put on my running shoes, and strap my phone to my arm, ready to start the day with a good run.  Then, just steps outside my apartment, I see my (almost) brand new car with a busted bumper.  Someone hit it in the night.  It felt like I was injected with a syringe of toxic rage.  I started cursing, and yelling, as bystanders watched my tantrum.  My jaw clenched.  My hand curled into a fist, and I had to consciously tell myself not to punch my car window.  Punching your car window will not help anything.

It was a good thing I was already dressed to run.  Running helps when my illogical brain takes over.  Running helps logical brain regain some control.  Just like that, I hated New York.  It’s disgusting, there’s too many people, most of them are idiots.  It’s too damn expensive.  I’m exhausted.  I’m not getting enough work.  There’s no justice in this goddamn world.  I cursed whoever hit my car.  Not just him, but his family.  I cursed his or her children, and their children.  If capable, I’d put a hex on them that would last for generations.  I’m physically running from a hideous version of me… I’m old, and lost my beauty, with grey hair, and defined wrinkles not from age alone, but for holding onto things that should have been let go.  Ugly, and worn, a witch in a fairy tale, I’m still cursing the innocent because their mother or father fucked up. Who is bad guy here?  Queue Danny Elfman music.

I later soothed my anger with booze as I consulted my shoulder people.  I call them shoulder people because they’re neither angels nor devils.  On my left shoulder, there’s a two inch version of me with a green visor and a calculator, reviewing my bank account and finances going, “well, in a week or two, if you spend almost no money on food, we can save enough money to fix it.  So, basically, we’re fucked.”  On my right shoulder, there’s another little me slugging a bottle of something slurring, “I’m gonna fucking kill someone.”  Wow.  Ok, neither of you are helping this situation at all.  It’s fine, alright?  It’s fine.  I’m fine.  We’re all fine.  “We’re screwed,” little left shoulder me says, “this month is so light for work.  We’re failing.  We’re failures.” Then, little right shoulder me pulls out a violin and does something I never could… plays the violin.  The world’s tiniest violin.