"Bronx Tales"

I was part of Lehman Stages’ “Bronx Tales” at the Lovinger Theatre for

the second consecutive year.  It is an evening of true Bronx stories and is directed by Dante Albertie.  It is an enriching experience for me, and so good for my spirit.  They want the real deal, and they don’t restrict me.  They help me come out with my stories.  Last year, my story was mainly about the first time I saw a grown man’s penis.  This year, my story was about my buddy and I being stopped by the police.  Dante does his job very well.  He knows how to direct us to develop our stories.  The storytellers are very varied – the people and their stories. 

This year, a couple of my co-workers brought their evening students.  

Many of the students (who are adults) know me because I have subbed for their classes when their teacher had to be out.  Many call me ‘Miss Mindy’ though I always tell them they can call me Mindy.  Now they were going to see ‘Miss Mindy’ speak very unteacherly and grab her crotch.  This is an example of worlds colliding. 

“I didn’t think you had it in you because you’re a teacher,” one man told me after the show.  “You taught our class when our teacher was out.  Remember?”

“Oh, I remember.  I was very nervous tonight that people who call me 'Miss Mindy’ were going to see me grab my crotch.”

We both laughed.

When the video is out, I’ll share it.  Meanwhile, I love that my friend 

Mindy Levokove took these photos at the end of the show.

Mindy Matijasevic, Geevanesam Sharun Devakanmalai,  Skaly Cornielle, Jonathan Berenguer, Jose Roldan Jr.

Future happenings:

Friday, December 22, 2017 -- "What Were the Sixties Really Like?" at Cornelia Street Cafe, Greenwich Village.  6pm  (I'll be reading a slice of memoir.)  $10 includes a drink.

Friday, January 12, 2018 -- Twisted Lipstick at Sir D's Lounge, 837 Union Street, Brooklyn; Doors Open 7pm; Showtime 8pm; Investment $10 Online, $15 @Door, 2 Item Minimum  (I'll be doing a 12-minute comedy set.)

Some Days Are Like This

Saturday morning.  Slept late.  Needed those

hours of healing.  Early afternoon, step out to get my two-dollar breakfast at my favorite Arab bodega.  Four police vehicles are in front of my building.  Two are vans.  I guess I’m not the most miserable person in the building.  When I return with my coffee and piece of pound cake, the cops – some plain-clothed, some in uniform – are going in and out of the building.  Three neighbors out front, one of whom speaks English, are talking in Spanish.  I ask the one who understands me what happened.  “I don’t know,” he says, “I just got here.”

I go home to my own troubles.  Can’t say I’m not curious about what’s going on though.  I don’t wish tragedy on anyone, however, I have to admit that I’m grateful this one isn’t mine.

In my life, I’d been bullied, and I’d been mugged more than once.  Though

it felt terrifying, they were strangers and it wasn’t personal.  But when an ex prefers me dead rather than alive and free, that hurts way worse.  Especially when it is voiced through his sons who had no reason of their own to feel that way.  Their father had emailed me shortly after we parted that he was lucky to have been loved by the most humane person he ever knew.  His sons don’t know that; they are the carriers of his rage.  I don’t think they know that either. 

Betrayal by those I have given years of time, energy, and deep love to is 

why I stay out of relationships (of the romantic kind) now.  I’m not saying I’m never tempted, but it just doesn’t seem worth it.  Too risky.  I need my energy (whatever’s left).  And I’d like to live (“selfish bitch” that I am).

After having my breakfast, I take out two bags of garbage which means 

having to go outside and into the alley (a place I was firmly warned to stay out of all through growing up).  The police vehicles are gone.  No neighbors outside.  I don’t know what the scene was all about.  Maybe, today, I am better off not knowing.  Some days are like this.

11/4/2017