Welcome back sailors. I finished out my six weeks in April, told Angel not to have too much fun without me, and headed back to the big city. The night I arrived home, my dear friend Arthur who you may remember from previous contracts, was waiting for me at my apartment in Brooklyn. When the clock struck midnight I turned 40. The day of I had a very small, last minute party downstairs in Carrie’s apartment featuring 10 of my closest friends, Mediterranean tapas, a pillow pit, two cakes, many bottles of amaro and one large pizza. It was perfect. So far I love being 40. Friends who’d already done it tried to explain the freedom involved with the transition, but you really don’t get it until it happens. 

Shortly after I crested that great big hill of life, I shipped off to Vegas for three weeks to work. Vegas is so weird. I was there at the perfect time of year, April, when it’s not too hot yet. In the middle of the summer it is hell’s front porch. Everything in Vegas happens in a casino. I hate casinos. But I like working so here we are. I split my time in Vegas between crashing with two different friends while I hosted a really fun variety show at a classic downtown hotel. I’ve said in the past that I would never take a full time contract and move to Vegas but time has taught me that I am not in a position to say no to any job that wants to pay me money to do the thing that I love. Do you know how low the cost of living is in Vegas compared to NYC? It’s absurd. I hate the highways and the cars and the tourists and the dry, dry dryness but I would absolutely take a long term contract there if someone offered. No one IS offering mind you but the point remains.

Back in New York I found myself in the position of having houseguest after houseguest. I never really had a moment to myself. I presented a precious, personal work in progress at a much anticipated art salon of creatives for a production company that I respect and have the privilege to collaborate with. It was powerful and informative and gave me creative fuel to move forward. More importantly it gave me a project to focus on during my next contract at sea.

In the blink of an eye I’m back onboard. It’s amazing how adjusted I’m becoming to this lifestyle. Shocking really. I don’t want to use the word “comfortable” because that would be overstating it, but at ease. Except when I’m not. I’m currently writing this from the floor of a rarely used staircase in the theater because it’s raining outside and the passengers are boarding and the chair in my cabin is too hard. Whatareyagunnado? The fact that I am once again only doing six weeks here instead of the full six months makes a huge difference. In total this current little dance with Poseidon will equate to one half contract, three months total. Barely a blip.

What’s the difference? How did I finally gain this ease of life as a cog in the corporate ocean going machine? I acquiesced. It’s as simple as that. To anyone who’s ever acquiesced to anything you know that it’s not actually simple at all but heart wrenching and very slow. But I did it. I accepted the reality of my situation. I AM a mere cog in a giant floating machine. I keep my head down, I follow the rules, I do my job well and I continue to have the privilege of taking advantage of this corporate money to work on my own personal projects while getting paid. I don’t need to have too much fun, I don’t need to fall in love or get laid or make friends. I’m here to make money, create art and build muscle. That’s it. And considering the state of the world, I am LUCKY for it.

I’m in New York so seldom these last few years it barely feels like mine anymore. Being at my apartment feels like being on vacation. It’s weird. It’s shaking up my sense of self. Am I still a New Yorker? My home is there and some of my most chosen people, the gigs and venues where I cut my teeth and became the performer I am, my cat… But my work isn’t there, and for the most part neither is my body or my mind. So where do I live? Is this the beginning of the transition out? If so where am I going? That’s my question for the ages. I’m always wondering where I’m going and I’ve never known the answer. This can be an uncomfortable way to live, but I’ve acquiesced to this too. I can never see the path in front of me because I am the path. The path stretches out behind me, not in front.

I was supposed to spend all of August back in Vegas, but that show decided to take a hiatus for the summer months so I’m suddenly out of a job and homeless as my apartment is sublet until September. I’m attending a wedding in Greece as soon as I debark in July so I’ve decided to just stay in Europe. One of my best friends lives in Geneva and spends the summer with her family at their chateau in the French alps (insert laughing emoji here because I know how that sounds). My beloved Charlie is directing a show at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, an event I’ve always wanted to attend and hope to perform in next year, so I’ll be bopping off to Edinburgh for a bit. I’ll go visit Arthur at his new apartment in Manchester. There’s a producer in Germany I’d like to meet in person. I wrote a parody of “Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps” in five languages for the polyglots that I can pitch to cabarets in different countries. I’m really trying to make some fucking lemonade out of these lemons. I’ve always been the type of person to chose adventure over comfort. So here we go.

Thank you for hanging on with me and this journey. It is looking very likely that I will do another full contract next year. The ship I have my eye on starts on a sexy Caribbean itinerary out of San Juan and then crosses the Atlantic to hang out in Spain and Italy for the summer before going into “dry dock” in Palermo. America is pushing me out like a splinter and I can’t fight the universe forever. I will keep my roots in NYC for as long as I can and will continue carrying you along with me in my Sicilian leather backpack for as long as you’ll have me. If you’re looking for more juicy ship gossip, stick around.