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Fara Greenbaum spent 10 years working as a stand up comedian in NYC, performing at virtually every club in town, except Dangerfield’s for some reason, which is just as well since it’s so far east. She wrote and performed two solo shows, ‘How I Became an Astronaut’ and ‘My New Weird Show’ which were presented at numerous theater festivals. Fara is also a dancer and dancing is her eternal expression of delightful devotion. For the past few years Fara has been residing in South Florida while undergoing a deep personal transformation, so we’ll see what happens next.
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by Fara Greenbaum 10/1/2019 Every night, before going to sleep, I check under my bed for monsters. I don’t check because I’m 100 percent certain there’s going to be monsters, I check because I’m not 100 percent certain there’s not going to be monsters. My childhood fear of monsters lurking “in potentiale” under the bed has persisted. Most of my adult life I slept on a mattress and box-spring without a frame so there would be no space under the bed in which a monster could hide. Several years ago I moved and purchased a very low bed. It does have space in which a monster could hide. So now, I have to check again. It’s a nightly ritual. I enter my bedroom, turn on the light, kneel down and check for monsters. So far I haven’t seen any, only the box from my flat-screen tv and a picture I drew of myself sailing on my favorite catamaran. The placement of these items under my bed is highly strategic. I figure that the lowness of the bed combined with large items underneath prevents an entire segment of the monster population from getting under my bed, as they simply will not fit. It often occurs to me, right before I kneel down to check for monsters, that I haven’t really thought this through. What will I do if I kneel down and there ARE monsters under my bed? I have no plans for that. What will I do the one night monsters are not not there? My first thought is; freak the fuck out. I mean, that’s what’s most likely to take place is it not? 1. Kneel down 2. See monsters 3. Freak the fuck out. At this point you’re probably thinking ‘Monsters? Really? Get a grip. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of…monsters getting a grip…on my leg. My monster under the bed fear stems from a fear of something reaching out from under my bed and grabbing my leg while I’m asleep. When I was a little girl I was 100 percent certain this would happen. Not only would I check under the bed but I would also wrap myself up tightly in the covers in case a monster got under there while I was sleeping. I would wake up in the middle of the night gripped by fear that a monster had snuck underneath and was getting into prime leg grabbing position, frantically unwrap myself from my anti monster leg grab cocoon and get down on the floor and check. It was a terrifying ritual I repeated endlessly throughout the night. No wonder I was such a skinny kid. I think it’s a sign of maturity that I’ve dispensed with the bedsheet mummification portion of this ritual and am now satisfied with one cursory glance under the bed before climbing in. What changed? It probably all boils down to life experience. Life experience has taught me that if a monster is not under one’s bed from the get go then he’s probably not going to show up later. It also often occurs to me that this monster under the bed fear is ridiculous, especially since I’ve conquered so many fears in my life and experienced so many liberations, including but not limited to; the joy of being thoroughly myself, the ability to be around people without being altered by their states of mind and no fear whatsoever of writing extremely long run-on sentences that are grammatically correct. I'm not afraid to die, or so I think. On the one hand I imagine/hope death will be a lovely respite from the relentless yammering of consciousness. On the other hand, I do believe in reincarnation and I don’t want to leave the incarnation I’m currently in, as it’s super rad and tons of fun when expressed well. But really, on a deeper level, my fear of monsters is about feeling unsafe because the world can be an unsafe place. I think monsters are scary because they’re uncaring and impervious to reason. Humans do possess the facilities to care and to reason, but, tragically, not all of us are expressing these abilities. There’s all manner of scary monstrous behavior taking place amongst the humans. People hate and often kill each other for the way they look or the places they’re from or things they believe. People subject themselves and each other to physical and mental enslavement. Greed and short-sightedness have created enormous inequality. The earth is being defiled in the name of progress. It’s enough to make even the fiercest leg grabbing monster seem cute and cuddly. Humans need to grow out of being monsters. Much like I need to grow out of checking under the bed. The only way humans can evolve past monstrous behavior is through heightened compassion and an expansion of consciousness. Those of us who are not acting as monsters but are watching monstrosities play out on the world stage need to stop watching that show and turn our attention, thoughts, words and actions toward creating a beautiful world. I do believe thoughts become things, so the very act of writing about monsters is making me apprehensive. I’m worried that speaking about the under the bed monsters will breathe life into them and when I kneel down tonight to check I will find a monster indeed. This monster will either be A. perfectly shaped to fit under my bed despite all the precautions I’ve taken or B. too large to fit and just wedged himself in there, exit strategy be damned. However, if I truly believe thoughts become things and I’m waving a flag for the power of positive thought and action, I must admit I’ve been going about this checking under the bed business all wrong. I’ve spent over 17,000 nights of my life checking (or preventing the need to check) for monsters under my bed, when I could’ve spent all that time doing something entirely different! Like checking under my bed for pots of gold, or the elves that left them, or even the catamaran I drew in all it’s 44 foot glory, although there would be no need to kneel down to see that, as it would definitely stick out from under the bed. Yes, from now on when I perform my nightly ritual I will expect to see something far more delightful than monsters under my bed! Furthermore, in the spirit of my total liberation from potentially lurking monsters I’m going to apply this same course of action to the other place in my home I check on a nightly basis, my closet. Because fear is just reaf spelled backwards, |
by Fara Greenbaum
12/1/2019
I hate touchscreen technology. Hate is a strong word, yet not strong enough to truly express how I feel. Hate may be a strong word, but it’s a short word. Loathe. Loathe has more letters but still only one syllable. Abhor. Abhor has 2 syllables and abhorrence has 3 but it sounds like an embarrassing gastrointestinal affliction. Okay, I’ve got it. I really have a bee in my bonnet about touchscreens. Who decided it was a good idea we all have to live our lives appeasing finicky little screens that only like to be touched in certain ways with a certain type of pressure from certain angles? Imagine if you had a lover like that…you’d kick them to the curb! You wouldn’t swipe them ever so gently to the curb. But lo and behold everyone’s slavishly going around caressing their darling little screens. Who do I have to fuck to get a mouse and a keyboard around here? I actually have a blackberry (they still make those? you’re asking and probably googling) with actual keys that I love dearly, and If I’d wanted to spend $200 more (and really I should have) I would've gotten one with a teeny tiny little mouse so I’d never have to touch the damn screen for the rest of my life! No EMF’s for me! I’ll be the last cancer free person left on earth! just banging away at my keys to my heart's content! Although I suppose if there’s no one left to text that would be kind of lonely.
For future generations, survival of the fittest will favor those with the skinniest fingertips. Forget about bulging biceps or heaving bosoms, skinny fingertips will be the most highly sought after physical attribute. Fingertip reduction will be plastic surgeries next big boom. Cultures that still practice arranged marriages will prize skinny fingered prospects. The skinny finger craze will definitely result in a brand new genre of fetish porn. (Skinny fingertip porn may already exist, I did not conduct a Google search to find out).
Touchscreen technology is not the only bee buzzing around in my bonnet. This hive of annoyance also includes how technology has turned people into socially awkward dorks. Last time I was in NYC a friend invited me to a night club out on the Hudson river that was an Ibiza import to hear some DJ friend of hers that was apparently all the rage. The place was fairly cavernous and there were probably 300 people there, 298 of whom were standing stock still on the dance floor holding their phones up to film the DJ. The other 2 club goers, myself and an African American gay gentleman who was definitely born before 1980, were dancing our asses off. It’s extremely eerie to be dancing amidst a sea of non-moving non-talking phone holding robots. I just can’t wrap my mind around the idea that someone would prefer to spend their Saturday night out with friends filming a guy who’s also standing pretty much stock still while pushing buttons on a computer, a film they will most likely never watch and neither will anyone else for more than 5 seconds. What happened to dancing? Conversation? Laughter? Flirtation? Spontaneity? All gone apparently, drowned in a sea of stationary dorks.
If I could only liberate myself from this persistent buzzing by untying my bee filled bonnet…I’d fling it at people who constantly take pictures of themselves. I was on a water taxi from Miami Beach to Key Biscayne, sitting up front and looking forward to the sea spray when a group of about 8 male tourists from a foreign land embarked. They spent the entire trip standing in the bow, blocking the view while they took a million pictures of themselves and each other. I don’t think a million is an exaggeration. I wished I could speak their language so I could yell at them over the engine ‘You already got the picture!’ or ‘Just sit down and be in the moment’ or ‘Nobody’s going to fuck you because you’re on a boat!’ With that last outburst I was imagining they were taking all those photos for Facebook or Instagram, with the hopes that some fair maiden back home would see them on a boat, be overcome with desire and tackle them as soon as they deplaned. To me this scenario seems highly unlikely, but then I don’t know the people they know.
The moral of the story is…look up from your phones. Feel the breeze, see the stars, smile at a stranger, savor the moment! You can dick around with your phone when you’re dead.
by Fara Greenbaum 2/10/2020
If I had a time machine, I’d use it to go back in time and prevent certain sounds from ever having been invented. Number one on my sound hit list is the eeee…..eeee….eeee…. alert a truck makes when backing up, which is also the sound of a construction elevator going up and down the outside of a building, so I’d be killing 2 sounds with one trip. Leaf blowers and car alarms would be next. As to the methodology I would employ in order to prevent the invention of offending sounds, I certainly wouldn’t want to cause anyone physical harm. I would either A). prevent the thought of an offensive sound from having been formed in the mind of the inventor or B). prevent the formed thought from manifesting in physical reality. Perhaps I could pull the plug on funding for offensive sound research and development. So many possibilities! I don’t have the time machine yet and am still working out all the kinks.
That eeee….eeee….eeee…. sound is one of the primary reasons I had to leave NYC. I could hear it 24/7 inside my apartment and it was incredibly unsettling. One holiday weekend I couldn’t take it anymore and actually checked in to a hotel one block from my apartment where I knew it would be quieter. The front desk guy looked at the address on my ID and was like ‘really?’. The fact that I lived a mere block away compounded with the fact that this particular hotel was mostly frequented by gay men must’ve struck the front desk clerk as an impenetrable mystery, or at the very least a boring mystery, or, maybe he never gave it another thought. I prefer to imagine he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, plagued with how none of it made any sense. I myself have been at the mercy of several unsolvable mysteries, one being the conversation I overheard at a newsstand in NYC many years ago where a lady was saying to the man behind the counter “my second favorite metal is titanium”. I have so many unanswered questions in regard to this statement A). What was her first favorite metal? B). Who the heck has a favorite metal? C). How did they get on this topic of conversation? D). Does she just go around town regaling people with tales of her favorite metals? E). Was the man behind the counter an active participant in this conversation or just being polite? F). As a non-native English speaker did he understand what the heck she was talking about?
It’s fairly quiet where I live now, at least at night thank goodness. During the day there’s some annoying lady who lives downstairs and is always yelling at her dogs. Like a really intensely angry crazy lady yelling. I’ve never actually seen her, but I’ve definitely heard her, and have been cursing the day she was born. This lady really needs to stop yelling at these dogs, at least within earshot of me. She needs to either A). Not have dogs. B). Have dogs but not yell at them. C). Take her dogs a few blocks away from the building to yell at them. D). Go to therapy to deal with her anger issues. E). Take Ayahuasca to deal with them faster. F). Fuck off and die.
Perhaps I can combine all my noise reducing efforts. Once the time machine is up and running I could send the crazy yelling lady and her dogs back in time to visit potential inventors of offensive sounds as a kind of aversion therapy. After about 10 minutes of listening to her they will have done a complete 180 and turned to inventing ever more sophisticated types of noise cancelling technology. I will leave the yelling lady and her dogs in the past as a constant reminder that silence is golden. Once I’ve effectively rid the world of all offensive sounds I will take my time machine on a quick trip back to that newsstand to hear about the lady’s first favorite metal. Ah yes! Peace and quiet and peace of mind. Can’t wait.
Fara Greenbaum
4/5/2020
Oy, vey. The coronavirus. This is a situation that is not only fucked up it’s also fucked down. The scary and potentially dire health and financial consequences of this pandemic are in no way shape or form funny. However, since I’m a person with a natural inclination for humor, I can’t stop thinking of jokes about it.
I have been in almost total isolation for a while now and it’s made me realize that, although I have long been fantasizing about getting away from people (not all people, but most people), I do crave human interaction. BCV (before coronavirus) I would come home at the end of the day feeling triumphant. ‘I’m finally alone!’ ‘Woo-hoo freedom!’ Now, without any human interaction, I don’t get so annoyed at people that they make me crave solitude. When I come home from a sporadic venture outside there’s no victory dance. It’s just the me show, starring me, me and more of me!
I’m an obsessive compulsive claustrophobic germaphobe who enjoys spending a lot of time alone so, apparently, this is my era. I am not happy about it….but….as it turns out….I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG! All of my diagnosed OCD behaviors…relentless hand washing, phone cleaning and the avoidance of touching door handles, subway poles or anything in a public restroom? BCV that behavior was considered neurotic. NOW…practical! Spending 75 percent of my time alone? BCV…unabomber-ish. NOW…prescient! Feeling claustrophobic around a lot of people? BCV…anti-social. NOW…instinctual genius! And I’ll tell you, as the self-nominated spokesperson for claustrophobic people everywhere, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for! No more leaping away from close talkers! And those people with no sense of personal space who keep stepping forward every time you take a step back? NOW…they get it! They finally get it! Claustrophobes around the world are, at this very moment, filled with a secret glee, jumping for joy and virtually high-fiving from six feet apart.
I keep thinking of this woman I used to see all the time in NYC who would never touch a door handle. She’d stand in front of a door until someone else opened it, all the while clutching her purse in a paper towel. I used to think…’well that’s a little whack-a-doodle, even for me’….but now I realize…she was a prophetess of an era to come! I’ve taken her germ avoidance methods up a notch. In the 2.0 version I’ve dispensed with the waiting and the purse and just walk around clutching a piece of balled up paper towel (recycled of course) in my hand and use that to touch everything. Watch and learn people, watch and learn. Also, for those of you who read my previous columns, you’re already up to speed on my hatred of touch screens…and guess what….I WAS RIGHT ABOUT THAT TOO! Now the whole transactional procedure takes me twice as long as I must hold the stylus that's attached to those damn machines in my balled up paper towel hand and have so far been experiencing some operational difficulties, to say the least. It is physically possible to use a touch screen through a balled up paper towel but you really have to press down hard. Extra hard. Like don’t be shy about it because there’s a bunch of people in line behind you at Trader Joe’s and we really need to get this show on the road.
Every time I come home from a walk or trip to the store I have to sanitize myself and everything in my backpack, and being the OCD germaphobe that I am, this has now become a very confusing, stressful and lengthy process during which I spend about 20-30 minutes dithering in my kitchen. In what order should I disinfect everything? Do I need to wash my hands in between touching every item? If I washed my hands with dish soap do I need to wash the outside of the bottle I just touched with my not yet disinfected hand? This sanitizing process has evolved into a real chicken and the egg situation, and is so mentally exhausting I’ve limited myself to one trip outside a day. It used to take me forever to get ready to go out, now, it’s coming home that’s the problem.
In essence, what I’m saying is, that although this is a terrible and scary time I wish was not happening!- the coronavirus has officially validated all my life choices. It’s an era I can really sink my teeth into. A moment in history where I can lean in and grab the bull by the horns….so to speak. You didn’t think I would actually put this era in my mouth did you? Or lean against it with my bare shoulder? You can be damn sure I’m not grabbing any bulls.
by Fara Greenbaum
6/1/2020
I recently rented a car so I could drive around screaming my head off. My new normal is spending 50 percent of my time furiously enraged and 50 percent of my time meditating, breathing, dancing, biking, walking and driving around with the windows rolled up shouting profanities so I can calm the fuck down. The rental car companies have taken a huge hit and I think it would behoove them to market themselves to angry, car-less individuals who may enjoy an afternoon of yelling in an automobile. There are so many things to be angry about right now. Let me count the ways.
I am furious with this countries leaders for having complete and utter disregard for the value of all human lives. The people running the show should not be running the show. They shouldn’t even be standing outside the show selling scalped tickets, although that would be right up their alley. I am furious with the state of Florida for not paying unemployment during COVID 19. Now the governor has reopened the state and is forcing people to go back to work even though it is not safe, because hundreds of thousands of people have not received any benefits. I think that, even though all these ‘leaders’ claim they don’t believe in science, they are actually conducting an experiment to see how many of what they consider to be ‘expendable’ people will get sick and die. I am conducting my own experiment to see how long these soul-less assholes can exist without being sucked into a black hole or bursting into flames. A girl can dream, can’t she?
I have spent the last 2 months trying to collect unemployment in Florida. Their website was designed by Franz Kafka and could be used as a military torture device. Anyone would crack after just a couple hours of use. I have also spent insane amounts of time on the phone, faxing, emailing and mailing the Florida Department of Economic Opportunity. I have even tried alternative methods of getting in touch with them. I sent a request for monetary reconsideration via carrier pigeon, and believe me, it’s not easy to find a pigeon in Florida. Carrier seagull would’ve been more efficient. I stuck a letter in a bottle, addressed it to P.O. Box 5250 in Tallahassee and flung it into the sea. I sent them a smoke signal of my employer's federal identification number. I hired a psychic and she submitted my social security through mental telepathy. Let me tell you…if you feel like you have too much sanity, that your mental health is just too darn good, I highly recommend applying for unemployment in the state of Florida. Their department of economic opportunity will provide you with the opportunity to lose your motherfucking mind. Trust. No more sanity for you! Good riddance! Who wants sanity? It’s so much better to be muttering to yourself in a dark room whilst killing mosquitoes with your bare hands.
I have recently been provided with a fresh opportunity to be furiously enraged. They reopened the state and 90 percent of the people I see packing the bars and restaurants are not wearing masks or keeping any social distance. If these people want to self-select out of being alive I won’t stand in their way…BUT….they’re putting all the people working in these places in danger, as well as anyone else they come into contact with after their night out on the town. Get ready for a big spike in cases! Not that you’ll hear about it since they’re not releasing accurate numbers because ‘it doesn’t look good’. I’m of the opinion death looks worse.
I’m lucky to have many self-care practices to turn to so I don’t, as they say in Massachusetts, ‘have a cow’. For those of you unfamiliar with that expression it means ‘freak out’. Why having a cow would make you freak out is beyond me but I guess it depends on the circumstance. Having a cow in my apartment would definitely freak me out, and I’m also lactose intolerant. I am fortunate to be able to turn to meditation or deep breathing to calm down. Today however I accidentally took a deep breath in an elevator. I am now getting my apartment in order because in the event of my untimely demise I don’t want people finding the 5 million receipts I’ve never gotten around to shredding. At this point the carbon copy on the receipts is so worn down they’re mostly blank, and could just as well be recycled totally intact. In fact, come to think of it, the credit card numbers on those receipts are now defunct. I can use them (instead of gloves or paper towels) to open door handles and touch buttons. I knew I’d been saving them for a reason!
Wishing everyone reading this health, peace and prosperity. Keep calm and…drive around screaming your head off.