Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Monday June 27th 8pm
(formally hosted by the salty host, Nisse Greenberg under Storytelling at Perch)
356 5th Avenue Brooklyn, NY
hosted by Bridget O'Neill

The theme will always center around the name of the show, Purge.
Webster Dictionary defines "Purge" as, to remove (impurities and other elements) by or as if by cleansing and isn’t that what storytelling really is? By storytelling we relinquish our inhibitions, we throw-up our past. Storytelling is a confessional booth with an audience in my catholic association.

The theme is open as necessary: purging/cleaning out your unwanted junk from your home or office, ridding oneself of an annoying friend, a facebook friend, a bad relationship, or even breaking a habit. You may have had a colonic, have suffered from bulimia. No story is too bold for this show. Bodily functions is a story’s warm blanky and are encouraged.

Perch Café, a small, intimate, quaint café with a designated area for live shows nestled in the heart of Park Slope. Home to many storytelling venues such as: The Story Collider, Mimsy, The Standard Issues, My Bad, and others. Drink specials, and food is available. Bring your video cam, or recorder.

If you would like to be considered for for an upcoming show, please write me at:
perchstorytelling@gmail.com or send me messages on my facebook page.
Purge is the 4th Monday of each month.

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

It was Friday the 13th and in lieu of getting spooked, I got inked.

The stress was high that afternoon. I was working as a Photo Agent, and waiting to sign off on a big assignment. It would be hours till I’d have the answer.

My tattoo laden, young spirited assistant, Kate offered me the best solution to the waiting game, “You’ve been wanting to get a tattoo for awhile now…..” This was true. I wanted to get good ol' fashioned anchor tattoo on my upper, right arm. Ahoy matte. “and a few tattoo shops in the city offer $13.00 tattoos on Friday the 13th”.

Elated, I called my brother who was also bragging about getting his first tattoo of Joan of Arc. A tall, slender, toned, shaven-headed, handsome, artsy guy, it’d be fitting that he’s already have one, or some. I think he’s scared, but he says it’s become too typical and contradiction to his independent ways.

But Kate stopped me in my tracks and informed me we could only choose from the shop’s flash, a set of 8-12 art-ready tattoos that are posted that day.
It was highly unlikely that they’d have Joan of Arc, but more likely that they had an anchor.

She warned me of the daunting long lines and being my own boss I left the office, and convinced my brother to come just for moral support in hopes that he’d change his mind.

On the subway ride over I wondered what type of limited art I could comfortably settle on: a ladybug, a heart, a unicorn.

The line wasn’t that bad but it was only mid afternoon. I saw the flash and my heat sank: a skeleton with top hat, a skeleton with a deck of cards, an ice cream cone, a broken heart, and the number thirteen worked into all of them. I turned to my brother and said, “forget it, they’re so bad they couldn’t even be ironic.”
He looked himself out of curiosity then said, “what are you talking about Bridget, there is an anchor.”

How could I have overlooked this?
There it was at the bottom left hand corner, an adorable navy blue and red anchor, but included that damn number thirteen.

I placed my name on the waiting list, handed over $20.00 ($13 plus, the lucky, mandatory $7.00 tip) scored myself a ‘to go’ margarita in a Styrofoam cup from a local restaurant and discussed the location of the tat with Jason.

Convinced that I could talk the artist into excluding the thirteen.I just knew I’d be able to. Sometimes I just knew when I wanted something to happen it just would, like I could will things to happen.

The last time this happened was back in art school when I was so broke and working three jobs, having three roommates that our school offered a semester in Florence, Italy. It was irrational to assume that I could enroll when I couldn’t afford food, let alone an international flight and boarding abroad. But, I knew I was going. The next day a friend at school bought me a ticket on her husband’s miles (first class) and offered to cover the boarding.

It was there in Florence that I got my very first tattoo at a late age of 27. I always wanted a sunflower tattoo and where better to get one than in the land of sunflowers; Tuscany.

It was hot, I was stressed, it was a bad day, and I made the great mistake of getting inked at the only tattoo parlor in the entirety of Florence in 1998. The artist who appeared to be on a heroin stupor carved the misshaped sunflower, sans the standard black border, into the inside my left foot area. She did it with one hand, cigarette in mouth using brown dried up ink. The pain was excruciating. It was the worst tattoo ever. Thirteen years later people still comment on my ‘henna’ tattoo.

It goes to show how I don’t put much thought or planning into getting inked, it is more spontaneous.

This would be my second.

Slurping down my margarita with anticipation, my brother and I discussed location. He warned me that my upper forearm was prime real estate, looking down at my left foot insinuating that I wouldn’t want to advertise a mishap tat.

I defaulted to the outside of my lower right calf, above my ankle. After only an hour, they called my name and I got the guy artist that I was hoping for. I sat down told him ‘the anchor please’. He said, “good choice.”
Using my feminine whiles, I asked him to exclude the ‘13’ as it was a great piece of art on it’s own. Annoyed, yet flattered he replied, “I designed this, and that’s not the deal.” I won’t say either way if he obliged, but I walked out a happily buzzed girl with adrenaline sparking through my veins.

My brother looked down at my ankle and said, “Perhaps this signifies that you are finally grounded, anchored if you will.”

Thursday, March 17, 2011


Being Frank

A quote by John Lennon, “If you had the luck of the Irish, you'd be sorry and wish you were dead." OK, Well this is a bit extreme but still the luck of the Irish is shite, and here is why in my case 10 or so years ago. It was St. Patty’s Day. I was 25 living in Philadelphia. I had planned a trip to see Frank, my boyfriend of two years and my first true love who had recently moved to Manhattan to finish his degree at Bard. I was both excited and nervous to see him: It had been two months since his move, and although we talked on the phone for hours and he came to visit, neither of us discussed what this move meant.

I boarded the train via NJ Transit and shared a car with a bunch of Irish revelers. Beers in hand, voices loud and hearty, they bellowed about the parties they were headed toward— and their merriment was contagious. An Irish- American myself, I was anxious to partake in their green pride. I’d looked forward to a perfectly shaped clover sculpted into the head of a pint of Guinness and losing my inhibitions at Flannery’s. Frank, being of English decent, would claim to have 15 percent green blood in him—it didn’t hurt that he knew the words to all of the traditional songs.

Frank, always a gentleman, met me at Penn Station. He made my heart jump upon seeing him: tall, 6-feet-2, big blue eyes, sandy blond hair now shaved. His frame was thinner since his move two months prior. He took my bag and my hand, and we took the 1 train to Tribeca and the huge loft he shared with friends. When Frank and I were living together in Philadelphia, we used to visit his friends here. Back then, the space seemed so New York, and so did his roommates: actors, film producers and art directors—they were arrogant and wild. Although my cool self would feel inadequate in their presence, they would unfailingly create a memorable night of debauchery. When we arrived, I couldn’t wait to get warm, have a beer and head out into the night. Upon arriving this time, however, I realized that this wasn’t going to be the visit I had imagined.

The apartment wasn’t full of roommates: It was just Mike, a mutual friend of ours, and two Australian birds. I felt I had walked in on their double date. Both the girls were drunk and surly, demanding more drinks to continue their St. Patty’s buzz. Frank happily fulfilled them. I focused on the TV so I could grasp the picture that was laid out before me. Basketball was on. I knew how fanatical Frank was about March Madness and how changing the channel would cause him to go completely apeshit.

It was then that one of the girls whined, “Can I change the channel, basketball is so bor-ing.” I looked to Frank and waited for the freak out, but instead he enthusiastically responded, “Of course, whatever you want,” and went to the kitchen replenishing their gin and tonics.

After a few more minutes of nobody acknowledging my presence, one of the girls draped herself over my boyfriend and asked, “So, who’s the ice princess?” “This,” he said, excluding my title of girlfriend, “is Bridget.” I asked Frank where he found such a quality gem. He lowered his voice, asked me not to make a scene and answered. “We met at Flannery’s tonight after I called to invite you down.” Seething, I grabbed my coat, my eyes filled up rapidly. “Bridget, where are you going?” he yelled.

“I’m leaving.” I awaited the lame lines like, ‘what’s wrong?’ ‘Stay’. Instead, he bypassed the bullshit and leaped into, “ok, I’ll walk you back.”

What a fucking gentleman! I ran into his bedroom grabbing my coat from his bed, and even seconds mentally taking in his bedroom, his dresser, the bed I bought him for Christmas for his move, the photo of us framed on his dresser next to the Atlas Shrugged book he adored and read over and over again, obnoxiously.

I threw my coat over myself as I frantically searched for my life support, my cigarettes. I fled down the 55 steps of his, cold, drafty, ugly, run-down, arrogant loft while fishing for my lighter in my left pocket, and freeing a Marlboro Light from the other. I needed to light it before I stepped outside to keep from fainting with grief. The door slammed behind me and I walked down the street in the freezing cold. Frank was trailing behind trying to catch up before I reached the 1 at Chambers. I was sobbing uncontrollably, and shaking. How could he be so cold, so disrespectful to me? Clearly, he no longer felt the same way towards me anymore.

After two years of commitment, I couldn’t understand how he could bring a barfly back to his place while I was on my way to see him. The person he had become was unrecognizable to me, and quite frankly repulsive. Who was this guy? He finally caught up; I was on my way down the subway steps when he screamed, “Bridget! Wait! Stop!” Finally, any glimmer of hope I had in him recognizing his faults, and regretting his actions, he grabbed my arm firmly; I turned towards him achingly looking up at him, my nose red, my eyes swollen and asked, “What”?
“Bridge….. you can’t smoke down there.”

I just stood there astounded, and tried to absorb those ridiculous, vapid words as they vibrated in my head. I ran downstairs underground, through the turnstile and boarded the train. I wanted to let everything rush out of me till I was dry. I was a wreck, falling apart, I wondered how and when if ever, will I ever feel better again? It was then, that I looked up and saw him sitting across from me. I was flabbergasted, not only because he was seeing me back to the station, but because I looked down at his hands, in his lap he was that fucking Atlas Shrugged book. It was then when a grin washed over my face, and thought, I will be just fine.

See my other blog for more stories.

http://photoballads.blogspot.com

Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Hey Folks.
I finally have a new blog. I separated this new blog featuring all of my writing and performances and have kept my other blog, Photoballads as it was originally created for art and photography.

This blog will include daily rants, information about upcoming storytelling shows, comedy and book reading events as well as include reviews of said events. It will also serve as my resume: my performances and writing. So, to those of you reading this.... Book me for your storytelling show, hire me to write!

Thanks for listening and I hope to see you around. Please link me to your blog, and I am happy to do the same. I am very supportive of all storytellers out there and happy to help in any way I can. We need each other!

© Getty images

Jimmies aren't racist
The dictionary definition for JIMMIES used to be "decorative things." They have also been called toppettes, shots, fancies, trimettes and sprinkles. Jimmies were first developed by Just Born Candy Company. Born briefly pondered that question before deciding to accredit the name to the producer, Jimmy Bartholomew. The new product was named JIMMIES. In Boston, JIMMIES are to ice cream like mustard & relish are to a hot dog.

It seems primarily a Boston/Philly thing, but some European terms for these controversial, decorative candies are called: "Hundreds and Thousands" and "mice"
see here

Who could believe such an innocent little speckle of candy could cause such controversy? If you have any links, stories or photos that you'd like to share, please do!!!! I will include them in my blog and credit you, of course! Come on you Bostonians and Philadelphians alike! Oh and as noted in past articles, jimmies are chocolate, the colorful ones are sprinkles.
When I was 4 years old, my Mom and Dad would drive me and my little brother to Dairy Queen off of Rising Sun Ave. in eyesore Northeast, Philadelphia. I would order vanilla ice cream with chocolate jimmies, and my brother, chocolate with rainbow jimmies. Once in the car, I thought it would be funny to raise my ice cream cone up into interior roof of the car, splattering flecks of jimmies so they would adhere there, and telling my brother, "Look! ants, ants on the ceiling." Yep, I was a weird kid.