Chubb-crop

There you have it! I had to crop a photo today, so that THIS could not be seen.

Oh well. My agent is now sending me out for chubby parts. Bless her heart.

I should be really upset that I have so much of me to love. I SHOULD be. Truth is: I'm lucky to be alive, so I eat each meal like it's my last. Looks like death-row is treating me really richly.

Why Love is the emotion with the Highest Vibration

Love, love, love. It's the most powerful emotion. It's the shining star of the list of human qualities. Love cures, has the capacity to change perceptions and open the world up ever more so. How often I forget that?

After my accident, I was really bitter. "Why me?" seemed to be the resounding mantra that based my ideology. I was especially angry with my family. They weren't there for me, I'd whine internally. Never once did I share this sentiment. I horded it like a possessive lover. This all-consuming venom would erode every valuable relationship I'd ever treasured, and left me bereft on my own island of isolation, depression and castigation.

Shortly after recovering from a pain-killer dependancy after my accident, the rage had subsided, and I trudged the road to happy destiny. I cleaned house, and shone a bright light on my own limitations, which made it easier to detach from my resentments. After weeks of inner work, I realized my misery was often of my own making. My pride kept most people at a distance. My rage was a luxury I could not afford.

I had a show last night. It was important, in my mind, because it was the same booker who had extended an offer to me to perform many times before, and I was unable to bring the audience required*. I spent weeks promoting this show. Even going as far as going to other people's performances in exchange for support for mine. The juggernaught of pride was the thing that stopped me from ever telling the truth before. "I need you to come because I've failed every time I've attempted to do this before." So simple, yet so impossible to say previously.

I reached out to my family. I spoke with my dad and reminded him that he had NEVER seen me perform. That seemed incredible to me. I've been doing this most of my life, and unless I was on t.v. or in a movie, he had never gone out to see me in live theater. Actually, my parents had not seen me performing stand-up. I've really only committed to it for 3 months, but still.

It was close to curtain. I was ready to begin. There, like a twilight or dream, appeared my family. My dad, dressed in an ill-fitting turquiose stripped polo shirt, appeared just behind my sisters. I felt like I wanted to cry. They drove 1 1/2 hours to see me. I put on the best show of my life.

Funny, isn't it? You can have the SAME material, say the SAME things, night after night, but it is the night when your podium is made with purpose, your stage built on a foundation of love, that you are able to soar. When diving off that cliff, love gives you the wings that helps you to soar.

I spoke with a family member who told me that on their 1 1/2 ride back, they all sung my praises. One said that I made them want to pursue their dreams. My dad, perpetual critic that he is, said that I was the second best. No small feat, considering that my comedy IDOL was the headliner. Pretty impressive that I can go head to head with a 8 year pro. Well, I won't get ahead of myself, but that's what love does, I guess. Give you a really inflated sense of self.

"I'm the shiznick, biotch!"

* in case you didn't know, most of the mainstream clubs require talent to bring an audience to their club, in exchange for stage time

Who IS Adara Almonte?

I started performing stand-up comedy in the strangest way. I was beaten up on the street while going home with a vegan meal, the guy broke my arm. Totally random. Totally horrifying. Months later, I was brutally beaten by a cop who mistook me for an illegal immigrant. He herniated 2 discs in my cervical spine, nearly paralyzed my right arm (I'm right handed) and gave me a concusion which later caused me to fall 20 feet backwards down cement steps and give me multiple spinal fractures. What can I say? Men are drawn to me. Drawn to beat the brown out of me?
Anyway, that accident caused amnesia, a broken ass, neck and a broken spirit. I couldn't remember anything, and still two years later have memory problems. Sometimes, that's good, though.
I'd just graduated from an elite acting program, and with no memory, so a bleak future ahead of me as far as performing. Limiting as it was to begin with, memory deficits did NOT enhance my situation. As I laid for hours on my back in the darkness of my newly crippled world, I thought of all the greats who came before me and inside of me. jk
I thought of Frida, Beethoven and Bart Simpson. And maybe Cartman from South Park, too.

What pained me beyond description was the lack of a creative outlet. I matured rapidly in this limitation and saw the world in a way that only bitter Jewish women on the Lower East Side did.

My friend, tired of hearing me whine, I suppose, suggested I take a comedy class. So I did. The Manhattan Comedy School. Boy that was fun! A room full of hostile men with fragile egos getting out their rage through passive-agressive humor. Where do I sign up! I was in heaven!!!
I got more out of the class than I put in to it. That was the 2 hours a week where I would show up like a deer in head lights and talk about obsessing over not being breast fed, vaginas and how I had one and other classy topics that I refuse to cover in this blog.

They had a showcase. It dawned on me, an hour before the show at the world-famous Caroline's Comedy club, that I'd better prepare something QUICK, PRONTO, ASAP. Vanity, friends, the bane of my existence had necessitated a set and rapido. So, off I went on stage and became someone I'd never been. And people laughed. God only knows what flew out of mouth that day, but the booker called me back. Then called me back again. Then...well, you get it.

I was IN this, folks. I realized that I had been doing shows here and there, and it was really feeding my creative appetite to put out products that I was thrilled with. Except, I wasn't nearly as thrilled as I thought I'd be. Turns out: comedy is a craft. fffffffaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I had to take another class. I do well with classes. Don't judge me.

Off I went, to the Gotham Comedy Club class, taught by Jim Mendrinos. This guy is AMAZING. Not only did he magically infuse my self esteem with the little engine that could mentality ("I know I can, I know I can!") but also, after his class, I had magically accumulated 70 pages of work. wtf?

No idea, folks, no idea.

Well, as of the end of the class, 1/07, I was officially an unofficial comic. I bandied about at open mics, put my hat in the rings of pros before me at auditions, and took committments to perform at various clubs. It sucked ass for a little while. Between my memory problems, injury and the loss of 5 family members in 4 months, the last thing I wanted to do was get up in front of a group of people judging me and responding to my material with silence. That's how it be sometimes!

Look: I could take the path of least resistance and talk about titty poppin, car washin video vixens and the ghetto they grew up in, or I can talk about the things that I really care about. It ain't pretty at times, but it is wildly fulfilling. So, June '07 I made a committment. I was in a serious relationship with comedy. (cue throbbing heart sfx here)

There are days when I can't get out of bed from the pain, but somehow, a good laugh can change that in an instant!

Ever Click to Clean?

Check it out. I received a card the other day that was black, with embossed gold lettering reading, "I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you." So simple. Right?

There was a part of me that wanted to scream at this person and ask, "what kind of shit is this?" and then tell them that they should include their email address, or something practical. Wait! That wasn't me. That was the printer downtown that said that! Anyhoo...

Long story short, I receive a book as a gift. "ZERO LIMITS" by Joe Vitale. I remembered so many of my schoolmates telling me that this guy was 'corny'. (I went to a really good school). Funny how peer groups tell you what to think, and you do? I mean, if you're reading this you do. If you aren't then you don't and whoopty-shit...you're special. Anyway...positive energy. Love, the highest vibration. Forgiveness, the most powerful weapon we have. Apologies: now that could be viewed as a good thing, or an impossibility. Impossible if you had my life, yuck, yuck, yuck. Well I'll be a pig wrapped in a blanket if it didn't change me. On the inside. Where you can't see. But it's still valid.

Have I told you lately that I love you? Would you forgive me for my and my ancestors trespasses, that I may better serve you? I am so happy and so grateful that you are alive.

Corny, or do you want to meet me...cool, huh?

Privacy...wtf?

Is nothing private/sacred anymore? I wrote something somewhere, thinking nothing of it. I mean, what are the chances it would come back to haunt me? My real opinions on something that had to do with privacy. It's private. Don't ask.

What cracks me up about the world we're in today is that nothing on the web is sacred. OMG: i almost wrote 'scared'. Freudian slip, eh?

Here's the deal: 'restraint of tongue and pen' is never more important than it is now. Who knew back in the day that modern times would so closely mirror scenes from MINORITY REPORT?

"I.D., please" has become as acceptable as 5 second delays on t.v. Interesting that Bush Nation brought that all about. Big Brother, Brave New World, 1985, New World Order and Police Nation. WTF? None of this would be so disturbing if I had Oprah money.

See, if I had Oprah money, I'd be able to hire a kick as s mouth piece which would let me get away with murder. Not that I'm about to murder anyone, but if I did it....right OJ, right?

Here goes Nothing

So much for being up on the times. Everyone seems to be blogging. "look at me!" read my blog! Validate me, myspace me, facebook me, da da da da da da da da...to infinity.

Here's my deal: I want to make a difference in the world.

No one's ever tried it directly in the stand up circuit.

Is it possible to make a difference, say what you mean and not say it meanly, and also be a social climber without star fucking?

I don't know, but it's worth a shot!