Oh Boy! Oh Boy! Oh Boy!
My online lover tagged me! First he tagged me, then he rescinded his offer after I made fun of him...and then he tagged me again! Oh LOVE!
I'm all juicy over the opportunity to disclose five "intimate details" (things no one knows about myself) to the
two terrific people that read this blog! Okay kids! Here goes!
I was a Cheerleader Captain... but a really, really bad one.I tried out for the Cheerleading Squad in the 6th grade because because my best friend Erica wanted me to do Squad with her. The first two years I was on Pep Squad and fucking hated it. By the time we were in 8th Grade, it was understood that Erica, Christine Szymcheck, Maria Martinez, Jill Seifert and myself would automatically get to be captains. We were a
fugly pack of lazy bitches and our Coach was a 60 year old retired Rockette named Ms. Davis.
After the first try-outs of the season I was dorkin' out in the locker room and found an ancient can of Feminine deodorant spray. Without thinking, and just to get a giggle out of the girls, I sprayed "Ms. Davis Must Die" on some lockers with the foam from the FDS spray. It created county wide Pre-Columbine-Massacre styled hysteria the cops came to school the following Monday to hold a conference. I meant absolutely no harm and would've totally gotten away with it had it not been for Mena DiNuzzo. Mena was the village idiot, a Mob-boss's daughter and self-proclaimed bad-ass who thought authorities would assume it was her doing cause she had some sort of invented reputation. Everyone knew
I was the really hardcore bad ass in town!
I had to fess up and did the best fake crying act of my life. That year I won the respect of my classmates, the attention of cute rebel boys and the Teacher's Torment Award in 1993's Deerfield Indian' yearbook. [I understand I hold the record for the most office detentions short of expulsion of any female student in that school's history].
I didn't know my real name until I was 13 years old.My real name 'Rosemary', was not a big secret or anything- it was just that no one bothered to tell me. My family knows me as 'Rory'- a cutesy boys nickname my mom gave me. It got me into all kinds of trouble with teachers who thought I was lying to them during attendence.
Teacher: "No. You're name is
Laurie."
Me: "No. It's
Rory... It's an Irish name."
Teacher: "Rory is a boy's name."
Me: "I know."
Teacher: "Go to the office."
If you don't know the full story, then you probably don't know me and my family's obsession with the NY Giants. Ask me about it sometime over a pint if you're really curious. *
Religion scares the shit out of meI went to an all girls catholic high school located on a hill, off a highway, across from a Sears Roebuck Auto Center. I was constantly freaked out by the eyes of all the religious statues on campus. I used to high five one Jesus statue all the time on the way to French class, until I accidentally broke its arm. After a bad acid trip in Chapel one day, I was convinced a statue of the Virgin Mary was possesed so I taped over her eyes whenever I could. Growing up in New Jersey near a reservation inhabited by Satanists, I have always been secretly afraid of the Devil and anything related to Satanism. I have never seen the film
Rosemary's Baby and I will NEVER watch the
Excorcist in it's entirety.
I beleive I accidentally killed a man when I was five years old.My Dad was a trucker and beer lover- in that order. When I was a little girl, it was not uncommon that I accompany him to local pubs where he would look for work. During the recession of the early 80's, truckers bars in NJ sometimes doubled as unemployment offices and daycare centers. Shipping yards were usually my personal playground and I used to imagine the cargo beds were gigantic leggo blocks- I had a strangely over active imagination. Back then, my Dad drove a bright blue 72 Sierra Grande pick-up truck, when he wasn't hauling loads to Cinncinati in his Rig.
There's a bar/liquor store on Rte 22 in New Jersey called Chrones Tavern that only trucker's frequented and we popped by there one afternoon after shopping for a Christmas tree. My Dad picked up a six pack of Budweiser and headed into the back, to the bar area, to find the owner and pay up. It was dark inside, but about 3 or 4 in the afternoon so the sun was comin in through two basement level windows next to the rear exit. I saw a dart board and asked my Dad to teach me how to play. I threw the dart and hit some fat guy named "George" (the bartender called him that) square in the back of the head.
I don't know if it was my dart or his drunkeness, but 'George' toppled over onto the floor and before the bartender noticed what happened- my Dad was in the parking lot, beer under his arm, exit door fully ajar. He left me in the bar and I ran out into the sun, really confused. He yelled out to me, "Get in the truck princess. C'mon! Get in the FUCKING TRUCK PRINCESS!" We sped off with that year's Christmas tree and what I now believe was a stolen six pack of beer- all the while my father was laughing like a madman. From that day forward I was convinced I was a criminal, a bad seed, and somehow had made my father very very proud.
I have never paid for an improv/ comedy class.My friends and some random loveable drunks in an East Village bar pooled together $300 for my 23rd birthday so I could take an improv class at the UCB. I ended up taking my first class with Armando Diaz and have interned/ worked for my comedy training ever since. I have unfortunately never taken a class at UCB - I could never afford it. To this day people ask me if I'm going to audition for Harold teams and I have explainto them that I'm not elligible.
Comedy, oddly enough, is kind of a personal pursuit. I use it to promote the legacy of my late brother Sean Stevens- my mentor, hero and the funniest human being I've ever known. Not too many people know about Sean and I think it's a real shame- he's obviously a very powerful influence over my life. He was an aspiring comedian and I know he would have rocked the comedy world to its core.
I'd like to tag some of my favorite present day writer/comediens who inspire me just the same...Becky Yammamoto, Rachael Mason and Louie PearlmanI think I'm supposed to tag five people, so as a weird sub-level addendum to this blogging experiment I'm gonna hit two funy guys with one tag. I nominate the Gethard Brothers as my combined fourth and fifth tags. I don't know either of them that well personally, but I know their mother is super punk rock and they understand the trials and tribulations of industrial New Jersey.
