It is really really hard to stay still.

In effort to try to drum up work, I call this corporate entertainment booker every once in a while to “check in”. Every time I speak to him it sounds like he is in the middle complete chaos – locked inside a cage filled with a gang of killer parrots and dodging a wrecking ball that is flying through his home office. He speaks in half sentences, seems to be out of breathe, and the phone call always ends before anyone says goodbye. Trust me, if the guy was more professional and polished sounding I’m sure I wouldn’t have the gumption to keep calling back, but because this guy is such a fuck up, the pressure to impress is off. Finishing a thought seems impressive.

Recently I received a cryptic phone message from him that said “…Florida…Ritz Carlton…one night…$800…all expenses paid.”
I immediately left a voice message and then emailed again asking for details, how much time I’m supposed to do, who the job is for, what the setting is like…
It’s Monday and I’m supposedly flying on Friday and I don’t have one stitch of info. So I call him up again. He just asks me to drop by the office tomorrow to go through the job and he can explain the costume to me.

The WHAT? The WHAT? Oh no no no…I do standup. I don’t do costumes. I don’t want to get dressed up like a big burger or a sassy cigar girl or a bottle of Paxil. I just want to show up in nice jeans and tell some safe corporate-friendly jokes that won’t offend anyone! Well they’ll offend women with babies a little, but that is it.

The problem is… I have a huge issue with saying no. Or rather – I can’t say no. I don’t want to disappoint, or rock the boat, and if I got myself into this predicament, it is my job to see it through. Maybe it won’t be so bad. I hate it when sentences like that pass through my head. It means I’m minutes away from being dressed up as a giant goofy pineapple.

I get to his office. It is exactly like talking to him on the phone. Utter chaos. Strange people are running around the shared office, many different phones are ringing, papers are strewn everywhere and yes, and there are two large mean looking parrots. Two big evil parrots sitting there, mocking whirlwind of activity with loud obnoxious squawks. I hate those parrots. He tells me he only has fifteen minutes before has to run to a meeting while dragging out a big green duffle bag. The costume is inside – the suspense is killing me – just how much of a fool am I going to be making out of myself?!!! Then the reveal comes. I feel a drop of sweat trickle down the back of my knee. The job is not to be a mascot, a character or a cigar girl…it is being a moving statue. A moving statue. Like the guys on the street who are completely spray-painted silver like robots or made up like comedia dell’arte dolls – and they wink at you or wave if you give them a quarter? Yeah. Like those.

The idea was that I, Ophira Eisenberg, would be dressed as a gold marble Grecian statue – there was a wig and a toga, garlands of grapes and everything - and I would be standing in the middle of the reception room where the members of the large corporation would enter to sample wine at 7pm and mill about before they went inside for a big dinner and dance. I would stand frozen like a statue, and do a little physical comedy with people as they entered the room. Quickly switch into another position, like give them the thumbs up or look at my watch, and then back to the statue pose. People go crazy for that stuff. Someone out there dreams of this job. It’s just not me.

But I get it – it’s not shoveling manure. But I can’t do moving statue. I mean shoveling manure – let’s face it – like it or not I CAN DO IT. Moving statue – don’t people go to mime school for that? Don’t they spend years perfecting it as a real craft?

I walk into my apartment with the huge duffle bag in hand, and my boyfriend diligently asks “so did you get the details of the gig?” I can hold back the tears of frustration and embarrassment no longer as the facts have settled in. I have spent the last ten years of my life working on telling jokes only to drape myself in fifteen yards of splattered painted fabric for $800. It was going to be great.

On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I spent most of the day worrying about the gig. What happens when I break a pose every 10 minutes? Will they escort me out? Can I train myself in two days to do this? Imagine if someone said to you – I’m going to pay you to do a back flip in 6 days. You have never done a back flip before. What would you do? Can I get my body to do something it has never done before in 2 days? I thought about placing ads on craigslist and at performer hangouts for a moving statue, asking that person to pose as me – even if it was a guy he could probably get away the name Ophira, or say nothing and claim that it’s all about getting into character. But in the end, because I am a sucker for punishment, I took a taxi to the airport and boarded a plane.

I arrive with the duffle bag and get into the hotel van and I find, two good looking guys who are booked on the gig as well. But not as moving statues. Thank fucking god. No they are part of a singing act where they pretend to be waiters and then mid dinner, put down the trays and burst into opera! People go nuts for it. The guys seemed cool; one even seems to be flirting with me, in between talking about his girlfriend. It’s driving me mad that I can’t tell them that I’m not really moving statue but a stand-up comic and a pretty good one at that – but maybe not so good or why would I take a moving statue gig?

We finally arrive at the Ritz and it’s quite beautiful for the first 5 minutes and then I start realizing what it really is – just another façade. I feel like I can see the seams. I go to my room and while trying to make a desperate call to my boyfriend, my cellphone flies out of my hands and lands under the bed. I scurry to get it and find an entire emptied bag of barbecue potato chips living there. The fakeness of the glamour of the Ritz Carleton is compounded by my presence in it. Many more layers of fakery.

My phone rings. It’s the event organizer. He’d like to meet and go through some details with me. Divine. I can’t wait to invest even more time in this ridiculous project. I meet Jeremy, a very nice, very gay, event organizer from the Boston area. We talk and he immediately asks me about the strange scar on my head. Most people don’t notice the scar on my head, or maybe they do, but they don’t say anything. I tell Jeremy it isn’t a very pleasant story and he says he doesn’t care, so I tell how I was in a car accident when I was a kid, flash him the operation scar on my stomach and tell him about my friend not making it. He listens with interest and compliments me at the end by saying “just be happy that you’re attractive enough to pull of scars.” No one’s ever said anything like that to me. How long have I been doing moving statues? Great now I have to start lying. There is no good way to say I’ve actually never done this before. And I’m sucked in because now I like him. Now I don’t want to let him down.

I go back room and stare at the TV until it’s time to go downstairs and start putting on the makeup and getting ready for my gig. I am so nervous. What series of poor calculated decisions brought me to here? Where should I start tracing back so I know where to alter? Please don’t say day one.

I walk into Meeting Room A and the singers are there snacking on the food that has been put out for the artists and staff. I grab a chair from a tall stack and situate myself in front of a mirror they brought down from me so I can start the work of mixing gold and black face paint together and cover my face, neck, arms and any other exposed flesh. “Don’t forget to cover your ears” keeps running through my head. It feels like a layer of creamy peanut butter on my face and I know every pore will be festering a teenager’s red pimple when I remove it. I surprising do a great job of the makeup. Maybe I am naturally gifted in theatrical makeup? Maybe I’m losing my mind. I get into the body suit, which, as luck would have it, is slightly too small and therefore pulls really hard in the crotch area. I pull on the wig and with a full face of metallic makeup and costume, I don’t even recognize myself. I have disappeared.

I get on my little platform and my eyes connect with a jazz guitarist, hired also for the event to provide smooth ambient jazz for the corporate world to nibble on hors d’oerves to. He has this sad look on his face that says – sure I may have to play Kenny G covers, but at least I don’t have to wear a ridiculous costume. I strike my pose – and hold. This isn’t too bad. I can do this. Whatever – this is easy. The first few people filter in and I shift into tapping on my watch looking exasperated and then swoop back into my pose. One women jumps and another lets out a scream and then they all giggle like rich people do when they realize they’ve been had. I had no idea it would freak people out. What do they think – that I am actually made of marble? That the company just strangely decided to place a big crazy looking statue here? I continue. Some people laugh, lots of people jump and scream cream, a few idiot guys that didn’t get enough attention, even in their frat house, try to “fuck with me” – but I made it through. Thankfully I can’t compete with an open bar.

My arms are getting crazy sore and shaking and keeping them up in the pose is excruciating. I shift my pose to the other side, but within minutes that side was pulsing with pain. How long I have been up here? I glance towards the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes? I’m supposed to be here for an hour!!! Sweat runs down my forehead as I hold my pose for a few minutes and have to figure out a way to switch. What if I faint? I try my best, but I have to keep switching my pose every couple of minutes because my body is falling apart. And then my toga falls off to expose just me in an ill fitting unitard. The jazz guitarist snickers. Fuck. I decide to just get, wrap it around me, and go back into the pose. What else am I going to do? And then I feel a tap on my foot. It's Jeremy. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or not but he’s here to tell me that I am done. I help usher people into the dining room and then run to my room. The rush of relief was like ending a horrible destructive relationship that went on for two years longer than it needed to. I taste the freedom of knowing that I will never ever ever ever have to be a moving statue again. I feel high.

I take a hot shower, wash off the gold and black makeup from my face, ears, back of my neck. I put on fresh clothes and go back down to the event, hoping to take advantage of their open bar as no one would know that I was once the moving statue. The boys were singing when I hit the ballroom and the corporate freaks were going mad for it.

After only three sips of wine I felt like I had been drinking for hours. Maybe it’s the endorphins, maybe it’s the Florida air or maybe it’s the fact my skin can breathe again. The boys finish and seem just as thankful as I am that the gig was over. We uncorked some wine together and started a long debaucherous evening. You know those evenings when you’re away from home, maybe you’re on a vacation, or maybe you’re just having a night on the town after you finished a big project – that moment when your reality has shifted and you feel connected to…nothing – except the moment? That’s how that evening felt – like there were no boundaries. Anything was possible as we ordered another round on the master account. Somehow the conversation moved to anti-depression and anti-anxiety medicine. I have never been much of a pill popper myself, but Jeremy produced a vial of what he claimed were the mildest nicest anti anxiety pill on the market. It would make you feel just a little mellow but really really nice. He offered them to the group. I took two, swallowed one and saved the other one for later.

The rest of the evening - was a blur that I don’t feel anxious about not remembering.

I went for a walk to the ocean, hung out with the singers, lost my socks, gathered a handful of email addresses, and woke up in my hotel room with gold and black makeup all over my pillow. Getting up that day just seemed extra hard. I was stiff and sore, moving any part of me ached including my brain cells. The wind hurt blowing on my face. It was good training for being a moving stature. I gathered my stuff, my costume that I so wanted to light on fire as my final statement on the weekend and I got on a plane back to home.

I saw Jeremy as I was boarding the airport van and gave him a hug. “I’ve worked with a lot of moving statues but you’re my favorite!” You’re so fun to hang out with!” And that’s how everyone gets ahead in this world. I, the worst moving statue in the world, could steal work from the famous Gold Elvis guy from Fisherman’s Wharf because someone deemed me fun to get drunk with. And I took his pills. Lucky for the other moving statues of the world I hugged Jeremy and thought “there is no way I will do this ever EVER ever again”.

It's way to hard to stay still.

Why I cried during Spelling Bee

I saw Spelling Bee The Musical and I cried my eyes out.

It's not particularly cool to admit that, but something about seeing adults play children who spell words wrong just sent me over the edge. It's embarrassing. But more embarrassing things have happened. Like in the 11th grade, at Karen Green’s party, when I experienced a spontaneous nose bleed in the middle of making out with Brad Morrison. Brad Morrison, the guy I had dreamed about all year while listening to Phil Collin’s “Against All Odds”. That was a trillion times more embarrassing than sobbing through Putnam County’s Spelling Bee. No amount of googling has ever turned up any evidence on Brad Morrison. I figure if you can’t find someone on Google, they’re not doing anything special. He’s probably a suburban dad working in the transportation industry (mostly chemicals and soy bean oils) or private investigator. Or he lives happily in a place where there is no google. You can definitely find me on google – mostly from a New York Times article where I made some nasty comments about new mothers, babies and those ridiculous SUV strollers called Bugaboos that clog up New York City street sidewalks. It’s better than being ungoogleable...I think.

So Spelling Bee is supposed to be adorable. And it is adorable. I thought I'd hate the adult-playing-children part of it – the image of an adult who dons a baby sounding voice for effect makes me cringe – but the actors were so damn good, they didn’t push, and therefore, I just went with it. Like a vegetarian to a juice bar – I threw down a little too much money, downed my mulched grass, and deemed it delicious.

The problem was I couldn’t handle the kids losing. Seriously. I hated watching them follow the script, spell their word wrong on cue, and have to leave the stage. Seeing an adult play a child whose dreams are crushed before they can even comprehend how disappointing life is, just got to me. You know that kid – in real life – isn’t going to get over it real quick either. They’re going to remember the humiliation of losing for a long time and it’s going to affect whether or whether not they think they can “win” in the rest of their lives. They are going to focus on their failures instead of their successes. They are going to find solace in alcohol and maybe even drugs. And then they’ll start doing stand-up comedy.

That’s why I cried during Spelling Bee.

And just for the record, I've never been in a Spelling Bee.

John Mayer is no History Boys

I saw the Tony Award winning Broadway show History Boys tonight. For one – it is amazing. For another - it made me feel part of the sub-intelligentsia. I sat there intently starring at the stage, listening as hard as I could, and trying to get my brain to switch for the US magazine mentality to a more New Yorker mentality. There is an entire scene in French for god sakes! Eighteen years in Canada, ten of them taking French as an option, has left me with the ability to say “Où est mon stylo?” Something you need to say all the time in France because the French love stealing pens. And Q-tips. The French are crazy for Q-tips. (or as they say in Paris – “Idiots pour les Q-bouts.”)

Speaking of which, my favorite television show premiered tonight: CSI. They have a huge Q-tip prop budget for that show. I know it’s not the smartest show – but it’s a delicate ratio of ¼ mystery solving, ¼ TV science, ¼ gore and ¼ music video. Viola! A hit.

I also like pretending Gil Grissom is my dad. He just strikes me as an excellent father figure. Maybe I find his obsession with archaic literature and entomology as a way to hide his true emotions, an endearing trait. In real life I’m sure it would be totally annoying and drive me to alcohol / expensive therapy. Plus, I really like watching the characters snap on latex gloves and peer intently through microscopes in lab scenes that are shot with a blue filter so it seems like they’ve been up all night solving the crime – yet they still look impeccable. Sexy and exhausted. Unbeatable.

So the episode is going along as per usual when all of a sudden Nick and Catherine are dancing at a night club for no apparent reason. Are they celebrating finishing a case half way through the episode? What is the purpose of this scene? And then I see they are dancing to John Mayer, who is playing live on CSI. Wasn’t he just complaining that Jessica Simpson used him for cheap publicity? Hey Mayer – Que faites-vous?? I’m not so sure having your second song, a soulful ballad, as background music for Nick to hook up with a nameless blonde and for Catherine to black out after downing a spiked cocktail, is any worse that ten paparazzi snap shots with a publicity whore/divorcee. The next time I hear “Slow Dancing In A Burning Room” I’ll be thinking about roofies. Merci Mayer!!

Better Than Employee of the Month

I'm Story of the Week!

Check it out:

From Mr Beller's Neighborhood's Website:

"In If Prozac Fails, Try Orbitz, writer and comic Ophira Eisenberg takes a flying leap from Canada to New York City, where she learns to deal with windowless apartments, cat hair duvets, and flying cockroaches."

http://mrbellersneighborhood.com/story.php?storyid=1956

If you haven't been to this site before - there are tons of great stories by different writers and performers all writing on the theme of good ol' New York. You'll dig it.

Or try this...

For the July 4th weekend, I was lucky enough to go up to Cape Cod with Allison Castillo and a few other fine friends. In a state of famished panic, meaning we had eaten every other scrap of food in the house, I made veal meatballs on the barbecue. They were quite the hit and now Allison's mother wants the recipe. Of course these meatballs were prepared and consumed while drinking close to a thousand watermelon "surprises", but I think they will still hold up.

Here's the recipe... I think...

Ophira's Watermelon Surprised Induced Veal Meatballs

1- 1 1/2 lb Ground veal (can't remember exactly how much we had)
1/2 c Minced onion
3 garlic cloves minced
2 ts Salt
2 tb parsley flakes (or fresh parsley - always better)
1 ts Pepper
1 ts Paprika
I may have thrown in some oregano - I bet I did
2 Eggs
a drizzle of olive oil too
1/4 c of bread crumbs or a little more or less until desired consistency is reached.

Throw those suckers on the barbecue and turn until you decide they are done (by sampling many of them). Serve with distilled beverages.

Memories of Brookings....

You’ll notice that there is no TV in the room. That’s because I didn’t know that I had to bring one with me. So I asked for one and volia! Look what ended up in my room:



With the AV cart and everything. Now that is fantastic and fits in perfectly with the rest of the décor.


I went for a little bit of walk and thought what life might be like to live in Brookings, SD.
I could live here and barbecue:






I have to say – everyone here makes me feel really interesting. They are so nice. Really nice. Nicer than Canadians. Seriously. I think this sign says it all:



Ah – ever heard of a flaming brick the window?

I went for some Chinese Food and ordered not one Tsing Tao but two. The waiter looked at me like I was some kind of alcoholic freak. Single girl, alone, at a Chinese Restaurant on a Tuesday night, ordering numerous beers. Wow that is sad.



Okay I need an art director.

Brookings, South Dakota.Town Motto: Why?

So I’m in Brookings for a week entertaining the new college students at the State University of South Dakota. Shelia E was right – we don’t need the Glamorous Life. Or at least we just don’t have it.

So, they told me that they would put me up in the dorms.



At a certain age you just can’t stay in bunk beds, and single bunk beds or not. Did I want this to be the room that I hang myself in? No I don’t. So I did some maneuvering, that I probably shouldn’t have and I made this:



Ha ha! Okay I'm losing my mind.

The Spa Who Hated Me

Licensed to disappoint.



I think this year I actually aged. I said I didn't want anything for my birthday, no party, nothing. And then the day came and I was as disappointed as a fourteen year old that there wasn’t a huge surprise party or a mini parade. No puppies, no keys to a car with a bow on them, no cake baked with nickels and dimes inside. No nothing.

My birthday is on January 2nd. Thirty (+x) years ago my mother actually had to leave a New Year’s Eve party because she was going into labor. What she was doing at a New Year’s Eve party that close to giving birth is a little suspect, but it was in a time before low carb diets and pilates. That was back when a beer a day was seen as good for the baby. I was also born a month premature and so I came out all small and jaundicey. A 5 lb yellow baby. That meant a lot of time in a plexiglass cylinder under the fry lamp until I was ready. Maybe it was due to the beer a day theory.

Anyhow – historically my birthday has SUCKED.

To be fair last year I managed to have a good birthday. I woke up alone, strangely, even though I did/do have a boyfriend, and went to the Turkish and Russian baths with my roommate, felt very self conscious with my post-Christmas-holidays bathing suit body, had an amazing massage by an Russian man who kneaded me until I was Gumby, ate dinner with a small group of friends, and finally went to a bar that was – surprise! - chalk full of friends, acquaintances and even some people I don’t really like! That is the sign of a good birthday party – if even a few people you don’t like show up.

This year was different. This year it was left in my hands. Clearly nothing should ever be left in my hands. I decided at the last minute that I would try to persuade a bunch of my girlfriends to join me at a reasonably priced spa…which now I learn may not exist. I picked Juvenex Spa. It looked nice. It had a little something called the Jade Journey where you travel from super hot sauna to super hot steam room to a series different temperature baths. Plus there were facials, body scrubs, and massages to be had… all in the heart of Korea town. Should I be suspicious of a spa that is open 24 hours? I suggest for kicks you visit their website and read their faqs. Funny stuff. http://www.juvenexspa.com/homepage.html

So, a few friends were willing to spend $150 on spa treatments on my birthday. Four of the adventurous ones showed up and we proceeded to steam and soak – but much to our chagrin, half of Manhattan was also there walking around nude and soaking in the communal hot tubs. I’m no prude, but taking a bath in the same water that some stranger’s naked body has lingered in FREAKS ME OUT. Not like a thin layer of spandex acts like a body condom between someone’s viral body and a hot tub… it just looks better.

My Jade Journey left me with a bit of wisdom, a new mantra… and that is: you should be able to choose in life who ends up naked beside you. No more nude surprises.

But the spa wasn’t awful. The steam room was pretty amazing. The sauna/stone pizza oven was really cool. There was a bar section where you could drink spring water infused with cucumber and eat fresh fruit. Somehow I found myself spending a lot of time sitting at the spa bar. Old habits die hard.

I bought myself a way too expensive facial. All my friends were called to have their treatments and I was left there waiting and waiting and waiting. On my birthday. Just sitting there, growing older. I calmly asked the spa workers when I could expect to be called for my service. None of them spoke or understood anything remotely close to English so they just nodded their heads, smiled, and scurried off. After an hour I made the choice to lose my mind on the young Russian woman who sat at the reception desk. Russians tend to have thick skin. She didn’t even blink until I threatened to cancel my appointment and refuse to pay. It was two hours after my scheduled appointment. I was forgotten. On my birthday. I kept thinking about that way way way too much.

I was finally ushered into a treatment room where a young Korean girl was running around frantically and asked me if I can wait a few more minutes. This really got to me. It hit me that I wasn’t having a good time. I was spending a lot of money and not having a good time. I felt like Eeyore with a broken balloon. The Korean girl called me in I laid down for my treatment. I had worked myself into such a state that all I could think about was fleeing the table but I didn’t know how. I really don’t like rocking the boat…or the bed in this case. The young facialist began her routine of cleaning and cleansing and trying to make me feel better by telling me in high pitched broken English that I looked beautiful – and finally as the clay mask started to go on, my frustration broke and tears just started flowing. I was so embarrassed and tried to hold back, but it was no use. Years and years of pent up birthday frustration poured out making the clay mask run off my face and sting my skin, further rattling my facialist, who tried to mop up my tears with cotton balls while repeating “you should stop cry!!”. Her hysteria off set my exasperation and I finally stopped crying. We looked at each other – she told me she wasn’t going to cut any corners and I wasn’t sure why she was saying that as I hadn’t accused her of ripping me off or anything. Fifteen minutes before the facial ended I found myself letting go a little, but it was basically the worst I have ever felt during a $200 spa treatment.

I emerged from the room and there were my four friends waiting for me, sitting uneasily in towels and robes. It made me laugh a little, the idea that I had put them in such a ridiculous situation – manipulated them because it was my birthday. Little did I know the spa had a surprise in store for me! The mean Russian receptionist appeared with a cool whip and canned fruit birthday cake and a bottle of Spumonti! The kind of thing a young whore gets on her 15th birthday. Of course they forgot to get forks, so they said if we could wait a few minutes they could find some. I was fucking done with waiting and plunged into to the white whipped cake with my hands and my friends eagerly followed. It was delicious in between gulps of sweet pink champagne. The mood was light. We made fun of the spa, its naked weirdoes, my salty mud mask and the cool whip cake. What the fuck are you going to do, right? Except lay down the credit card and see if you can steal a robe. I opened my notebook and started a new section called “Things I will never do on my birthday again”. Numero uno: Buy a $200 jaded journey.