My first ever standup special!


I WROTE this in its entirety. I've laughed much more at other things, yes, but I am extremely proud of this body of work that took a long time to complete.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NCcGi9aDkYk

My unique approach had me choosing to leave out swears and humor that might make an audience uncomfortable. I do believe I succeeded.


Keep writing!


-Amy Zylberman

My First Love

My First Love

Some warm-enough summer evening in New England

played host to my boyfriend visiting.

More focused on the kisses surrendered to my neck

than how fast the times were at Ridgemont High,

I urged my first love to lead my upstairs,

pin me to pillows and advance in ways that’d make my friends jealous.

Untangling our arms and adjusting our shirt hems,

we ascended into another hallway,

bothered only by the barking of my guard-dog golden retriever,

always suspicious of anyone else offering love to me,

as they were her competition.

Drained after our encounter,

he drove on home, and I took to sleeping,

insistent on remembering how it felt to be adored

so I could replay it in a dream.

An hour later, stirred up from sleep by my brother

“Mom!”

She roused, fastening robe, a thunder down the stairs

“Is she okay?”

“Her eyes are rolling, she’s falling over”

Earlier, my hound’s oaky brown eyes

focused on my green ones,

though I was too busy, involved in his, a sweet blue.

In my pajamas, I was a torrent of worry,

fleeting towards my family.

My heart lurched as my father strained to lift her,

blonde, matted hair and massive tumors she carried as accessories.

Amazing, how quickly we packed ourselves into the car,

dog on mother’s lap, and I in the backseat,

pulling away from a brother who would watch the house.

In a white room, a woman in a more professional robe assessed her pain.

Caustic words like “test” and “seizure” circulated,

but as with everything, a decision was necessary.

At thirteen years old, I started my adulthood

and my ever-loving companion lost hers.

With hand to paw and souls outstretched,

I watched her eyes close in peace, and my parents’ in tears.

Though the truth was finality,

I could find no explanation as to why she wasn’t wagging her tail

in an effort to cheer up her owners, kiss their hands,

indicate without words that she was okay.

If I had stayed with her longer,

I may have caught the instance where she looked woozy,

tilted on her legs,

balance escaping her chocolate-chip cookie paws.

Something about the summer and girls craving attention,

I suppose,

but I am irritated that I ever clung moreso to him, considered him my first love,

when she always had been there,

trotting ever-nearer with a tennis ball in tow.

Soda Fountain Poem

Soda-Fountain of Youth

In my unfinished basement, amongst old couches,
used bed frames, and unfinished photo albums,
contained in dirty, dusty racks.
I found soda-fountain quality ice cream dishes,
made from a thick glass with sturdy stems and a
well to collect accumulations of ice cream.
About 24 of them, tucked away for no occassion.
I was eleven when I found them,
and I envisioned an entire after-school-special around these dishes.

First, flyers would be sent out on pink parchment, paisley patterned
proclaiming “You’re invited to Amy’s Ice Cream Party”
Then, it would be the day of the affair,
and my mom would drive me to the market.
I’d allow my fingers to grip onto cold cartons of rocky road,
golden vanilla, cookie dough, triple chocolate
until we paid for them.
Containers of whipped cream, jimmies, cherries,
walnuts, toffee bits, and other morsels
that even now make me hungry
all in the trunk, melting quickly.
I’d set up balloons in the early evening,
pastel pinks and purples to match plates we picked up.
I’d lay out all the dessert dishes, spoons beside each one.
And then, the doorbell would ring,
giddy girls hugging me with genuine excitement.
Soon, calamity, with dozens of girls,
sprawled out on our sofas,
gossipping about boys and confessing that
we just maybe liked the ones who teased us when we were ten.
Later on, we’d serve ourselves, a veritable buffet,
ice cream until our guts busted,
caramel drizzle and warm hot fudge.
Girls with eyes too big,
Pouring M&Ms, syrup, fruit into their glasses.
Tongues savoring something better than
cafeteria food and boxed lunches,
the ice cream colliding with the toppings
making a soup that stayed still until scooped up in spoonfuls.
And those big-eyed girls, reduced to sugar-comas
would thank me for an excellent event,
telling me that they’d see me in school and at their next party.
I’d watch them from my porch, driving off mechanically
one by one with their mothers, into the corners of our small town.

Though the elements came together effortlessly,
that event never took place.
I was never revered in my junior high,
in fact teased for being different, chubby, a brace-face,
boy crazy. Stupid. Ugly.
In my dank basement,
the answer to all my insecurities lied between those racks,
but we never once made an effort to clean the glasses,
open up our family malt-shop.
I never once was queen bee, laughing over a sundae.
I don’t know if having the dishes at my disposal
would have made a difference in my younger years,

shaped the supposed soda-fountain of my youth.
But, still I am amazed that the minds of children
just want social, surprise, sweet, sundaes almost, always.

A Unique Creative Writing Exercise

I am not your Ukulele Bitch. I refuse to listen to you pluck the goddamn strings anymore. You’re not with the right person for me. I don’t believe that you and I are meant for each other. You can sit there strumming your ukulele but I myself will want to be with each solitary male who walks in here without company. Does that scare you? I’m sorry if it does, but the tunes from your ukelele scare the shit out of me. Frankly, we have no use for tiny guitars in this relationship. Yes, darling, I called it a tiny guitar. Well I’m sorry it’s not, at least in your opinion, but it’s never provided me any joy. I remember when you got it for your birthday and you asked if I’d care to hear you play it. I said yes but you should now know I meant no. I don’t think it was a terrible gift, but you and I are two different souls, and I myself would never ask for a ukulele.

How many strings are on the ukulele anyway? How many would it take to lash a few wrists in this coffee shop? Why in God’s name do you keep bringing it back to the coffee shop anyway? Wish I could stop craving mocha lattes all the time and also that you didn’t come with me. I also wish you’d move out of the building, but I suppose you pay your rent just as I pay mine. I’m so very thankful I’ve never witnessed you collecting rent money by playing the ukulele on the sidewalk. I’d toss a penny in the case because I’ve been taught that giving a person a penny as a tip is by far the most insulting thing you can do. I know that you’d want to talk about it afterwards too, but I’ll be tired. Just let me sleep.

I wish you never played the ukulele the first time we met. I had just moved into the building and you were helping me move my boxes in and around. I loved your glasses and then I would have listened to you play the goddamn piccolo. I just thought you were neat. I came by way too often then, room 401. I didn’t like your room, but I liked what you added. Colorful posters of bands like Radiohead and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and bobbleheads of Russian Czars of the past and half empty bowls of macaroni on your counter. I like how I sank into your couch. I like how you took off those glasses of yours that I liked and pushed me onto the couch and touched me when I told you it was okay. Now, I’d like to do that with anyone else. Anyone else who has no ukulele talent, that is.

I think it’s pathetic that girls are always staring at you, groups of two or three of them, sipping their caramel macchiatos and texting their actual boyfriends, reconsidering breaking up just like they wanted to last Valentine’s day. I eat my chips and want you to think that I’m too fat or too bitchy or too short or whatever and leave me and go be with one of them. I bet at least one of them is a Tiffany. I just don’t like that name and I never did. I see you two now, though, artsy as the day is long in your apartment down the hall. I’ll be able to write down my press releases in peace and I won’t have you chasing after me to go out and get lattes.

Doesn’t the ukulele weigh you down? You have to take a carrying case with you each time you take it. People treat it as they’d treat someone with a dog. What instrument is that? How long have you had it? Can I see it? I swear that a golden retriever is ten times better than any instrument that makes you envision the seedier sides of Hawaii. I don’t suppose that thoughts like that often cross your mind. What does cross it? The fact that you have a girlfriend who cooks you pasta as you try to book your gigs? The fact that last Christmas you took her to meet your family in Boca Raton and all the did was sit on the couch the whole time? You’re an ugly person, man. Ugly.

Hope you enjoyed that. Penned it in class, really quickly. I liked how it came out.

Free Admission? You Can Bank On It

Often times, college kids are strapped for ideas. "But I've already SEEN Mean Girls fifteen times." "Okay, well then what do YOU want to do?" See what I mean?

Recently I came across the Bank of America Museums on Us program. What is it? Glad you asked. For the first FULL weekend of every month, your Bank of America card is your admissions pass to 150 Museums across the country. Each state is included in the list.

Not only do I salute Bank of America for providing free admission, but I salute them for giving me something to look forward to each month. Not even reality t.v. does that for me.

Some of my favorites include:

Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, MA

Harvard Museum of Natural History in Cambridge, MA.

Las Vegas Natural History Museum in Las Vegas, NV

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, New York

Museum of Photographic Arts, San Diego California

Go to: http://museums.bankofamerica.com/ to see a complete list. Go out and enjoy some priceless works of art (literally).

Frieda B., You and Me

Greetings followers,

Sorry I haven't updated in some time. It's probably because I've been busy with my internship! I'm currently working alongside author Renata Bowers, creator of Frieda B. Published early on in 2010, the book is already becoming a local favorite for elementary schools and high schools, children and adults alike. Getting a behind the scenes view of what goes into promoting and developing the Frieda B. (soon to be) series is really interesting. Renata is an excellent advisor, who gives me great advice each day I work with her. I'm taking away plenty from my job; tidbits from how to get your work published to organizing events and even building my own future internship program.

Frieda B. Herself is an amazing children's book, and I'm not saying that just because the author is my advisor. The quality of the writing and illustrations is top notch and the message is even better: Dream your dreams big and believe they can be! Children have vivid, ever expanding imaginations, but the message applies to everyone. You should never let go of your dreams, from 5 to 95. The nicest thing is that Renata cares about the message of the book getting across to a captivated audience more than profiting, which is so nice to see in a world that's run with money.

Treat yourselves and buy Frieda B. Herself; for you, your siblings, your parents, and others you know. Go to FriedaB.com to find out the easiest way to get it, or to find out a list of retailers near you.

Promenade

A bright pink dress with bows to stand out amongst others,

and a corsage boasting flowers and lace.

Young bodies sway and pose and stand

for their parents who invested so much in the day.

“Turn this way, darling” a mother squeals,

The explosive eruption of camera light

shines down on the kids of the neighborhood,

who adapt from blue-jean overalls to ball-gowns

and shaking rattles to slow dances.

One girl, coral dress, who had preened in front of her mirror,

lipstick tube gliding over her lips,

poses with her boyfriend, who

holds her waist

like you’d hold a photograph,

fingers unsure of where to be.

A boy in a black tux with an orchid boutonniere

toys with the notion of calling his date “beautiful”,

her hair up and doted with pearls and glitter.

A boy and girl stir at the thought of holding each others’ hands.

The heavy makeup and bursting energy will wear off in a few hours,

and the boys in their tuxes will still be too shy to say a thing to their dates,

but for now, their middle-age parents do their best

to capture another awkward moment in the life of their teenagers.