Virgo 4° (August 26)


Monday and a horrible day of back and forth with a performer who suddenly threatens to back out of the festival. I know I sound like Penny Arcade, but this younger generation of performers do not have the same esprit du corps as the ones that came before. They are on one hand really poverty conscious always whining about having no money and on the other they act like prima donnas who feel they should already be rich and famous. They don’t seem to appreciate always what’s on offer because they don’t stop to smell the roses, or hit the bech, as the case may be. Pete beamed in to see if we can do lunch but we are facing a full client day so we have rescheduled for Wednesday. There is possiblity still left….I never finished that sentence. If you read yesterday’s entry you’ll know that some shite is going down and that I’m scrambling to suddenly write a show which is fine except that it will take me all night and I really don’t care whatever comes out today comes out today I will try to write for about six hours straight and see what happens…..

So I left off yesterday saying: . I am reminded—oh this is a good thing, I am getting improvisational ideas that I haven’t put down on paper—I am reminded of a story of a performer friend of mine who was doing a benefit with other folks, some very famous, for something in London I don’t remember it’s not important….but the story goes something like this:

This one young performer was newly sober and back stage and having a panic attack, performance anxiety in the extreme, and was shaking in the wings, and suddenly Marianne Faithfull appeared, as she often does (trust me) and this young performer said oh my god I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do and Marianne said well why don’t you have something to drink and the young performer said oh I’m a newly recovering alcoholic and I’m in the program and can’t drink and Marianne said well yes, I can relate, because so am I; so why don’t you just do what I do have only have some white wine. Anyway I haven’t had the chance to hone the delivery of that so…Okay, so I decided a couple of days ago, when one of our young performers fucked— I mean said in his inimitable millenial fashion that he just couldn’t swing performing the festival after all this year I thought well we put a lot of effort into this and we have never cancelled a show, we have replaced people, but never so last minute and so what to do I’ll speed write a one-man show and so I thought okay what are some of the things people do in one-person shows, solo plays if you will, and so I made an outline of certain things I’ve noticed because I’ve seen and produced and presented hundreds of shows in my life so one of the first things I’ve noticed about first-time shows by certain aritsts (and very often all their shows thereafter) is that they are autobiographical if not narcissistically so. So I figured, great finally I have a place to put that part of me, I mean I don’t think I’m a malignant narcissist, well at least not all of the time, maybe sometimes when I drink too much (drinks) but that doesn’t happen more than a few times a week so, yeah, it’s a bit of Russian Roulette, but we should be fine. The first title idea I had for this show was actually Quinn Cox Drinking Red Wine and Seeing what happens which, well let’s just call it the invisible subtitle.

The last of the baby boomers, I was born a city kid in Jersey City to be exact. We lived in an apartment building complex called College Towers near what was then called State Teacher’s hospital. This was before the white witch exodus to the suburbs of the 1970s. My mother, a celtic Pisces with red hair and freckles and eyes that looked inward and she was born Margaret Anna Mary McDonough, but everyone knew her as Peggy—and she was a good witch. And she had a sister, Muriel, whom everyone called Mickey, and she wasn’t. She was a mean girl. And was what you would called fast back in the days before slut shaming and had a child out of wedlock, living with my mother and her parents in their cold water walk up flat, and, as my mother put it, news traveled fast and guys were “coming out of the woodwork” assuming she was cut from the same sexual cloth as Mickey, which she wasn’t. My mother was a good girl who worked from the age of fourteen (as I later did) scrimping and saving to buy herself clothes, suits and dresses, that she could wear on interviews and to secretarial school and for church and socials and for other good girl reasons. These suits and dresses would consistently go missing; of course my mother knew Mickey was stealing them but she never saw her wear them. Anyway it was that type of dynamic, growing up with a bad seed (as I later did); and by the time my mother was pregnant with me at the age of 32, late in the game, and nearly six years since her first child, Peggy and Mickey had been estranged, already, for nearly a decade.

Early in the pregnancy, the phone rang and my mother picked up and it was Mickey who said, no more no less, you’re going to have a child, it will be a boy, and he will be born on my birthday, September 28, which I was. Now these sorts of predictions, apparently, weren’t strange in their small world, but it was typically my mother who had the psychic flashes, which she largely kept to herself, she later told me, as they happened so often and so early in her young life that she tried tried to train her mind to fight them off becaue they frightened her. Apparently she never could fight them off completely. And it was at those times when I would see her standing looking out a window or seated in a chair, trancelike, with those eyes pointed inward that I knew she was in some sort of stat of revelation. All my life I never had to pick up a phone to call my mother, I would simply send her a message to call me. Or,the other way around: I would get a flash the phone would ring and seconds later it would. The phone also had a special ring when she called.

 By the time I was born, which was some thirteen or fourteen years after Mickey’s first child, she had married her baby daddy and had a total six children. Fertile Murtile my mother called her with a slightly abhorrent tone. Anyway, my mother decided, due to the psychic flash and because, as a good witch, she was hoping for some repair with her only sister, perhaps for her own mother’s sake, as her father, my gradfather died, during her pregnancy with me.


To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree pointof the Sabian Symbol will be one degree higher than the one listed for today. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365 or 6 days per year—so they near but not exactly correlate.


Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go!
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