The City of Stand Up

Really! I have been busy.  I have been taking comedy classes and did my first 6.5 minute stand up Friday.

I have been on stage before but this time, i went through the hardest process I have experienced in a long time if not ever.  

It is not the five minutes, nor the material which caused the distress in me.  It was the fact that the audience didn't know me.  Apart from a few friends who were to be there, I didn't know my audience. That was enough for me to tailspin into soul-searchdom.  I think I overreacted.  I was so scared.  I almost gave up so many times.  But I hung in there.  I had a story to tell and that's all I needed to know.  I convinced myself that I was having a date with myself, complete with dinner, some friends, and a chance to entertain them.  It is my night out to say the least.  Out of the house, my room, my studio, my kitchen and my little world.

Only to live and tell about it.  After theater, singing, talking to myself, writing and painting, here comes, standing up, Arpie.  You can call me R though. Did I mention cooking? Sorry to toot my horn, although I don't have a horn, therefore I am absolved.

I have a harmonica though and I hope to make it part of my act soon.

It was so nice chatting with you.

   

ANANAS

There was the picture of an apple cake on Facebook this morning with a very easy recipe.  I copied it and shared it.  A friend commented "Arpie, you can make this for me.  Thank you."  I wished him Happy Birthday which, coincidentally, was today.

I have not baked too many cakes in my life having had a penchant for the easier to make muffins, but this apple cake seemed also very easy to make.  It looked delicious, moist and crunchy.  It reminded me of the first cake I ever baked.  Upside down pineapple cake for a sweet 16 birthday celebration.  

I was 18 and had never baked anything like a cake.  Mom did all that.  I took the challenge and hollered from my balcony to Zepure's some 200 feet away where she lived with her family on the top floor "ZEPUUUUUUUUURRRE!"  She showed up and I hollered "DO YOU HAVE A RECIPE FOR AN UPSIDE DOWN PINEAPPLE CAKE?"  She hollered back "NOOOO, BUT DALITA HAS."  "WHERE DOES SHE LIVE?"  "IN THE BUILDING NEXT TO THE DENTIST'S, THIRD FLOOR."

I went, found Dalita, brought the recipe home, baked the cake and took it to the party.  It was a hit.

Now that we can find all kinds of recipes on the internet I meant to look for it all day today but each time I remembered something more urgent had to be done first.  Then I forgot.

This evening, I went to the grocery store to get a few items and the first thing I saw upon entering through the doors was a row of upside down pineapple cakes.

Of course I got one.  When the cashier told me that they had sold quite a few of them today, I told her this whole story without mentioning the hollering from one balcony to the other part.  It was shorter.

Thank you for your attention.

The City of Melancholy (Spoiler: Happy Ending)

There is no question about it.  I have emotions.  I have had them for a long time.  Among the array of emotions there is one that used to get hold of me every Sunday afternoon and into the evening.

Melancholy.  It is an amalgam of feelings and a disease. 

Among the inspirations one finds outside of themselves to ease, albeit temporarily, the state of melancholy, are books, movies, art, writing letters to far away places, being of help to others but on top of my list was music.  Whether to listen to, to dance to or to sing.

Enter Anne Sylvestre. She holds my hand.  She speaks to me.  She makes me discover a world hetherto unknown to little me in Beirut.  A friend had sang a few lines from one of Anne's songs and I was hooked.  

The first record I ever bought with my first paycheck was hers.  It was an odd size between a 33 rpm and a 45 rpm.  I was 17 years old then and I still have the cover.

From New Jersey, ten years ago exactly today, I took the train to Montreal to see and listen to her live the following day, for the first time in my life.  I had the cover of that album with me to show my dedication and perseverance to this great singer-songwriter if I ever got that chance.

There she was, on stage, singing the songs I knew and some I didn't what with living outside of an area where I would have heard them for sure.  The internet helped me find her again.  

At the end of the concert, it was announced that she will be glad to meet all who want to meet her at the exit area of the venue.

We rush to that area and have to wait because there is a lot of people who want to meet her.

Others, like me waiting for the madness of adoration to settle down in order to approach her, are hanging out and seeing the cover in my hand are interested to find out where I got it.  "In Beirut" I was happy to explain.  "I bought it with my first paycheck" I was happy to add.  Did I say happy? I was very proud of myself, yes, but there was this feeling of I am going to cry, oh God, don't make me, please, please! I need to be happy here.  I am meeting Anne in person.

I couldn't help but cry when she gracefully asked for my name to write something on the cover.  I couldn't talk, I couldn't smile.  I was catapulted to that 17 year old me state in Beirut.  She wrote on the cover, I thanked her and returned to New Jersey the following day.  I was devastated by my outburst and total paralysis during our meeting although she was absolutely charming, understanding and accommodating.

A couple of years later, her new CD came out entitled "Bye Melanco"...

  

I have come a long way since 17 but if it happens that I get in that state of melancholy I remember the first song on the album that speaks about morose Sundays and holding back tears when growing up, it then closes the curtain on them so they won't echo...reopens the curtain to a sky full of birds and I am instantly demelancholized.

Anne Sylvestre still sings to packed audiences in France and Quebec and in June she celebrated her 80th birthday, on stage, with her peers. That, my friends, is inspiration.

Merci Anne. Un grand merci.

   

The City of Colors

My paternal Uncle Arshahg who lived in Damascus, was in the business of washing silk threads.  The colorful threads came in bundles on the back of Abdullah's donkey who walked the cobblestone alleyway that led to Uncle Arshahg's residence, where he stopped and Abdullah hauled the bundles to the mill/factory a few dozen feet further down from the house as the alleyway became so narrow that a donkey would not be able to pass through.  So the donkey waited in front of the door of the house.  I would sometimes find myself there too.  I just stayed there to keep the donkey company or out of curiosity while others went around their business.  I looked at him, he looked at me.  He twitched here and there, moved his head this way and that way, and inevitably, he pooped.  That was my cue to close the door.

If it wasn't for his black shalwar and his head scarf, Abdullah looked like your regular Santa Clause with a huge white moustache on his sun-scorched face.  He was handsome and kind.  We were always happy to see him. I don't know how far he came from with his donkey in tow but he was tired.  So my Aunt Arshalouys would offer him some water.

I knew that once the bundles arrived, the girls would come to work.  There were at least half a dozen 20-30 year old women who worked in the factory. The process of washing and drying the silk and returning it to Abdullah's donkey a couple of days later was exhilarating. I loved being there and at times tried my hand at helping unsuccessfully. 

Sometimes, in the 1950s, we would find ourselves at my Uncle Arshahg's house for a week or so, in the summer months. This was the next best thing to do in summer besides going to a village in Lebanon.  Here in Damascus everything was more exotic.  Their ice cream, for example, was out of this world.  So good, and prepared locally in parlors in the old souk.  

Damascus still offered horse drawn carriages which served as taxis and us kids were always thrilled when we had the chance to be riding in one.  The sound of the horses trotting on the cobblestones had an otherworldly feeling which we cherished.  Kids sat opposite the adults on little benches that opened up.  The awning over where the adults sat was black and could be let down depending on the weather or time of day.  Sitting opposite the adults, we were going backwards of course. This added to the fun and the mystery of the ride.    

Aunt Arshalouys and mom in Beirut, both newlyweds.

At the time Damascus was quite cosmopolitan and there was an International Expo happening where my dad had a booth presenting various European made carpets.  My curiosity was spiked by the pretend Nestle milk ooozing from its can down from a height of maybe 100 feet and stopping in mid air.  If I was hungry, I was starving after seeing that.  We used to spread Nestle condensed milk on bread and have it as a sandwich back in Beirut.  A luxury in the likes of tuna or chocolate sandwiches.  

My Uncle Arshahg did not have children of his own so our being in Damascus was a blessing for everyone involved.  We were spoiled by his wife, Arshalouys  and his two maternal aunts, Manoush and Vartouhi who kept calling each other "kouro," sister in the dialect of Dikranagerd. 

Once a week we would clean the pond which was in the middle of the courtyard.  If there was a way to describe the joy we felt, I would.  First, we had to catch the fish with a colander and put them in a bucket full of water.  After that we would empty the pool and the water would fill the entire courtyard.  Reveling barefoot in inch deep water over marble floors is priceless.  What a great way to clean both the pool and the courtyard while having the time of our lives. This joy became ten-fold when on occasion, my cousins who also lived in Damascus joined us too.  They later moved to Lebanon.

To shed the courtyard from the scorching sun of midday, they would cover it with a huge awning from the upper floor, with ropes attached to a beige canvas, thick enough for this task.  They will pull from the ropes and the canvas would unfold over the courtyard.  Only one side of the courtyard had a bare wall, the three other sides were the residential quarters.  The kitchen, living and dining areas were on the ground floor, the bedrooms were on the second floor and there was a roof where we slept under a huge tent at night if we were not up watching the beautiful sky full of stars.  It was hard to stay up with such a deafening peacefulness.

The girls would arrive the next day and I would run to the factory bright and early to watch the process of washing silk threads unfold.  First, my uncle would wash them by hand wearing long sleeved gloves and he would put each bundle in my favorite machine.  This machine did only one thing.  It spun and let the water out  The water that came out was the same color as the silk that went into the machine.  For some reason this just made me feel like I was in heaven watching the colored water come out of a pipe, filled up a bucket which was then replaced with an empty one. This had to be done very fast in the beginning and slowly wind down until there were only droplets coming out of the pipe.

Time for the next color and batch.  Thus, red, turquoise, yellow, orange, green, blue, brown, purple and white silk bundles let their extra color run, this time satisfying the hunger for color that my eyes lacked.

Ever since I was a child, my maternal Uncle Hrant would bring me a set of color pencils every Christmas.  I would use them and tried not to mess the order in which they were sitting in the box.  The joy I felt then was equal to the one I felt in Damascus.  This was on a grand scale though, especially when the bundles were taken outside on the dirt courtyard and sled down long sugar cane shoots nestled on wooden horses for drying under the sun.  This is when the girls came out to pull each bundle by hand so the silk dries straight and not wrinkled.  They did this by inserting both hands into the batch and with a quick movement pulled their hands apart a few times.  The reverse action of clapping.  They went down the aile and restarted three times until the threads were dry enough to be taken out and the canes replaced by new wet bundles of silk thread.

As one entered the courtyard, they could not help but stop in awe at the site of rows and rows of silk, each row a different color, shimmering under the sun. 

             Work in Progress Take 1.

The City of Movies

As I put the DVD in the player, I suddenly and spontaneously felt gratitude about all that I have and I call my life.  As if I had stepped out of being an actor in my life and had become an observer, an audience member or a critique.  The latter, the critique makes life difficult most of the time but not today.  I think the critique was sound asleep and probably snoring. 

As the video started I thought about the influence big screen pictures have had in inspiring and shaping the dreams of many, to do good and to be the best we can be. Art had led me to think that I could have a life that is as good as they come.

Thankfully, my life showed signs of being as good as they come.  I was in the theater.

On stage, I felt good.  I felt so good that I started thinking that I can only be good on stage.  I sort of had a life outside, on the sides, like a bench warmer, watching the game but not being in it.  Well, here was a group, a team, my team, our team and I was in a play, playing.   

I was also a secretary and I didn't have a concrete plan about my future and an answer to my dad's "what are your plans for the future?" 

Years later, a dear friend told me that she wants to live her life as if it was art.  It made a big impression on me.  Yes, why not?  Why should art be a commodity, bought and sold?  Why can't I have a life that has a good script, a happy script, an uplifting and inspiring script and is not for sale. 

While the video was showing previews, I was still thinking about what she said and how I took that to be my cue to start living as hard as I could.  With abandon, without fear.  

The DVD contained a track where Martin Scorsese was calling our attention to the thousands of old films that are in need of restoration at the present time in the vaults of various studios, and emphasized the importance of preserving this culture for future generations.  

Now I can watch the movie.

Reel Interrupted

Last weekend I watched a DVD I had rented from the public library. From its back cover, I found out it was about a theatrical company.  Slings & Arrows was the name.  Turns out, it is a series in six parts, made in Canada with Canadian actors and the story takes place in Ontario.  A very enjoyable six part series.

It revolves around Hamlet and those who have played it and will play it.  The parallels of the story with the real life of the actors, is at times exhilarating, and at other times dramatic or funny. It is a script rich in pathos that honors the artistry of authenticityand of personal truth. It does not let go until the final applause, which made watching these episodes a real treat.  Just like in good theater.  

Watching the episodes took me back to when I came very close to being integrated into the Lebanese theater. Actors from different theater companies were chosen to be in a movie about a theater company in Beirut that was going to tour all over Lebanon by way of its mountain villages.  We did one day of interior shooting and one day of exterior shooting when all hell broke loose outside, in the real world… We never continued the film.  

I was extremely excited to be part of it because it was a first for me and also, all the famous Lebanese stage and screen actors (warning: names being dropped) like Nidal Ashkar, Roger Assaf, Sarah Salem, Mounir Maasri and Liz Sarkissian (end of name dropping here) were to be in the film.  

Auditions were held in the same apartment where most of the interior scenes were to be shot.  One of the improvisations I did with the director, who was imported from France to direct the film and whose name, sadly, I cannot drop for having forgotten it, was, I found out later, from the Costa-Gavras film “Z”.  It was the scene when Irene Papas, having lost her husband, played by Yves Montand, walks into their bedroom and goes through his pillow, closet and even cologne as we see every emotionplaying on her face in close-up.  

Mr. Assaf, who was one of the producers and the lead actor of the film, knocked on the door of our room which seemed to be someone's bedroom. He asked if everything was alright.  He said he was wondering why it was taking so long.  The director told him about my audition being so interesting that he did not want to stop me.

He said this in French, and I speak and understand French very well thank you, whereas the film was to be in Arabic. More about that later. 

I got the part. Secretary of the theater company.  I did not have to do any character studies and/or research for the part.  I had already been playing that role in life for a good four years now.

On the first day of shooting, the director wanted to start with my scene.  "ACTION." Seated behind a desk, in front of a huge typewriter, I am typing, then I look at my watch and realize it is late and continue typing. "CUT."    

For Take 2, they ask me to cuss after looking at my watch. "Say something" they kept telling me. Although I had heard every unsavory Arabic expression, I had never used one.   Someone gave me a moderate strength sentence to say.

"F... this job!" I said finally.

I looked at the director. He had a huge smile on his face and said "tu es une artiste", you are an artist.

What just happened?  What?  What?

   

Little triumphs like this one come to remind me that I am not a one hit wonder contrary to popular belief.  I had not yet played Martha in “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” and therefore, people had not yet started comparing everything I did afterwards to it. In fact, at the same time, I was preparing to play Elizabeth in Arthur Miller's The Crucible.  Quite the opposite.

It is one thing to be recognized in the community one grows up in, i.e. the Armenian community, it is another when, excuse me, a French director picks one person among so many from that same community despite that person's poor knowledge of the Arabic language.  

So poor in fact that I had managed to turn this handicap into a stand-up act at shorthand class a few years earlier. Every time I was in class (we sometimes skipped shorthand class for a little "école buissonnière"), the teacher would ask me to get up and speak.  My first performances as an actress took place on the stage of the shorthand class at Mouthany Institute.  What a contrast between this class and any of the classes in high school.  What an honor, what an opportunity, what a joy to have the shorthand class laugh out loud while I kept doing a monologue in Arabic with a Speedy Gonzales accent.  What an honor. I did not know if the teacher was laughing at me or with me.  But he would turn so red in the face with laughter that I thought he was going to turn blue and faint.

I had never practiced for this.  It was new to me too.  I had no idea where it was coming from except that I had spontaneously adopted a cartoon character's accent to make up for my lack of efficiency in the language of my place of birth.   

In the next scene, Mounir Maasri approaching me from behind, looks at what I have typed and takes it upon himself and his method of acting to read out loud, during shooting, what I had typed.  "Garble, garble, garble" he read and I burst out laughing half embarrassed and half surprised.  That typing in Arabic thing should have been practiced before the shoot.  How was I to know that they were going to give me an Arabic typewriter to type on?  This was Lebanon. It was a miracle there was a French director here, filming a movie in Arabic, so don't push it, ok? We did this scene many times until I could contain myself and pretend that indeed, I had made a typo.

It was nerves too.  I am sure I would not have laughed if I had known how to type in Arabic.  My bursts of laughter would not have been from nervousness if I had had some practice so that I could have made the mistake on purpose and been right there when Mr. Maasri was reading it.  

The next day, the first stills of the movie reached the newspapers with me behind the typewriter and Mr. Maasri standing behind me pointing to the page in the typewriter.  

I don't know how, but this Arabic language newspaper reached my (God bless his soul) maternal aunt's husband's hands. As I was returning to work after lunch, I saw him walk towards me waiving the newspaper.  He opened it and showed me the picture.  He was furious. "What’s this?” he hollered.  “Are you going to become an artist?"

There's that "artist" word again. What a coincidence.  It was only yesterday when its positive version was bestowed upon me. Life is indeed too short.

"I am going to talk to your mother about this; this is disgraceful," he threatened.  

Cut to only two years later, after I played in “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” This same man (God bless his soul), my maternal aunt's husband, hugged me and kissed me every time he saw me.  "Here, here, take a picture of me with Arpie."  

What just happened?  What?  What?

All the actors I mentioned above are still in Beirut where, somewhere, there is a reel interrupted while I am still typing here, in real Arizona.

Kentucky Derby, Fried Chicken and a Meatman

Three years ago, in April of 2010, I put some boxes and my personal computer in my car and drove cross-country to Arizona to set up house here.  My itinerary was to go west from New Jersey and then south.  After reaching Ohio via Pennsylvania, I changed my mind and started going south.  Lo and behold, right in downtown Cincinnati there is a sign that says Welcome to Kentucky and I find myself crossing a bridge.  Continuing south a sign on the highway for food and gas included Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I took the exit to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Maybe since the City of Brotherly Love herein-before, I had not had any.  I am in Kentucky and I can use some food.  What a great experience that was.  A whole buffet with vegetables and desserts.  And it was good. I always thank the Universe after a meal. 

Why am I going to Arizona?  I don't know, but I know I have to.  Unlike New York where everybody walks, Arizona is almost pedestrian free although, if needed, the light will tell you when to cross the street.

Everybody walked in Beirut too.  The streets were narrow and not too long from one block to the other.  It was not unusual to encounter people we know somewhere in the city.  Three women I knew and admired were walking towards me in the middle of the street.  I was on the sidewalk.  One of them said "You are still here?  What are you doing here?  Go! Go!"  Where do you want me to go? I asked.  "Wherever you want.  New York, Paris, London...go!"  They meant to pursue my acting career.

I got scared. Those were big cities.  Will Toronto do?  Because I have an invitation from there attached to a marriage proposal.  No?  How about Paris where I have many cousins?  No?  Philadelphia?  Who goes to Philadelphia to study acting?  Me!

In my first post on this blog, The City of Brotherly Love,  I talk about that. I also talk about Kentucky Fried Chicken in there.

Kentucky is also the Blue Grass State.  The grass is so green that it looks blue.  Going south on I-75 that's all one sees. It almost brought tears to my eyes.  Blue, blue grass of home goes the song I remembered.

I knew Kentucky was also famous for the Derby. There were a lot of boxes in my car but not a hat box. Besides, I was a month early. And which city does the Derby take place in I wondered?  Some cross-country traveler I am.

I reached Louisville, Kentucky right before sunset and decided to park and discover.  I took just any exit in downtown and ended up by the shore of the Ohio River.  A walkway, a boardwalk, a park, restaurants and people everywhere.  There is a bridge towards the west and the sun is setting.  Oh my, such a lovely sight comes but once in a lifetime I thought.  After all, I was going west.  Go west girl! I have told that to myself many times. 

The Ohio River in Louisville, Kentucky

How does a girl from Beirut end up unannounced and herself surprised on the shores of the Ohio River in Louisville?  Just going with the flow.  An unplanned journey of this magnitude took all of my energy and courage to complete in a week.  The Manager at my bank was shocked that I was taking this trip by myself.  "Aren't you afraid?"  she asked.  I had not had time to be afraid.  Afraid of what?

The only time I sort of got a bit worried was in a city in Oklahoma when I checked into a deserted motel at the end of a long day driving.  I was so tired that I slept.  Other than that, as I reached Flagstaff, Arizona, my legs were weak and I didn't know if I was going to make it to Phoenix which was another two hour drive going downhill on a winding highway at 65 miles per hour.  Not a good set up at the end of a long trip.  It was the hardest finish I ever had in my entire life.  I sometimes slowed down considerably just to feel safe.  I was very scared because I was very tired.

I finally spotted a Jeep that was going slow in the rightest lane and followed it for a good half hour before my final destination.  There is no hurry.  Or was it too late to say that?  Am I too fast or just crazy?  It is a good crazy when we know we are.

"You keep making big decisions in your life because when you were growing up, you were not allowed to make the little ones."  How true those words sounded when they were uttered by a dear friend over the phone a couple of months after I had settled in Phoenix.

From Beirut to Philadelphia, then New York, California, Beirut, California, New Jersey, New York, California, Rhode Island, New York, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Arizona.  These were not short trips, or vacations.  These were resettlements.  These were sudden decisions to move with boxes, personal items and suitcases, leaving behind or giving away all furniture.

It is amazing how in a short time, one can amass things, some necessary, some with the intention of a future use but most oh so replaceable.


By the time I reached Hollywood via New York and West Los Angeles in 1977, I thought I was ready to tackle a career in acting.  I went to a weekly acting school and prepared a portfolio with headshots, resumes and pieces of newspaper clippings.  My first audition that every student in the school also went to, was advertised in one of the periodicals for actors, maybe Casting Call, maybe Drama Logue.  I asked my friend Tony to accompany me to the audition.

While Tony was waiting in another room, this man with the last name of Meatman which should have been a warning but this is clueless me we are talking about, was "interviewing" me.

- So, what do you say if I told you that in order to get this job you have to sleep with someone?

It sounded like I was dreaming.  Did I hear this right?

- Excuse me?

- You heard me, he said and repeated.  What do you say if I told you that in order to get this job you have to sleep with someone?

Yes, I had heard about casting couches but I had thought that only happened to others.  I was not the casting couch type I thought, whatever that was. I am?  Who knew? It was hard to come to terms in my head with that fact.  It was a lucrative offering at the time with good pay and traveling said the ad.  The ad also said that it was for industrial films where we were to demonstrate products.

In my disbelief and disappointment as I could have used a job, I bought time to sort of try to change the course of events.
- I wouldn't mind that at all, I replied, but who do you have in mind?

I was thinking even Tony, sitting outside, unaware, can fit the bill but not this Meatman.  I was telling him off since it was obvious to me who he meant by "someone".

Tony had heard everything.  He took me to a bar for a glass of beer which I drank while crying and realizing that the signs were there from the start.  I just did not want to see them.

I had sent my resume to the address in the publication and had gotten a call back.
- Why do you think you were chosen for an interview?  He asked.
- I don't know, I said.  Because I am multi-lingual?
- 34B?
- Excuse me?
- 34B?  You wear 34B?
I did.  What has that got to do with anything?  Oh, maybe they are looking for a certain size I thought.    
- Yes, I do.
- Can you come for an interview?
- Yes I can.

After I told this part of the story to Tony, and for the next year, he kept bringing it up to sort of make light of it as it had really affected my morale.  "How is the Meatman?" or "34B?" he would repeat until he got me laughing about it.

I did not get the job.

- You are very inhibited Miss! he told me as we parted.  I threw myself in Tony's arms crying as we left this obscure building in an obscure area of downtown Los Angeles.

Today I found out where the Kentucky Derby takes place.  Louisville.