I am a stand-up comic living in L.A. who is not only painstakingly pursuing a career, but someday hopes to find a healthy relationship. This is a difficult task for a girl with such high hopes. I live in the Land of Oz where the studios are the wizards, and image is everything. But, if you look real close, you might find that the shiny tin man is just a person looking for his own heart.

Here is how my story begins. The names have been changed in order to protect the dicks. I don’t have much to show for myself monetarily. I have no means of transportation, other than my legs, my hairdresser’s car, my best friend Beverly, and various men, who may or may not want to get into my pants. Today I’m not putting out, so I have to take the bus.

I usually walk to the bus stop with a large bag that holds, my gym clothes, make-up, hair gel, performing clothes, and a Marilyn Manson lunch pail, that I use as a purse. On the other arm is slung, a lap top computer case that my Dad gave me as a Christmas gift. I found it to be an odd gift, as I don’t own a computer. I don’t even own a cell phone. No, worse than that, I don’t even have a pager. I am proud to say though, that I have creatively put the case to good use. In it I store, three notebooks filled with comedy material, a phone list of work and social contacts, and three razors. The razors were left over from a recent road trip. They’re still in my case, partly because I’m lazy, and partly because if I get sexually lucky, I can shave my cookie in a pinch. I soon realize that walking around L.A., with large bags on one’s arms, is not a positive image to present in the haze filled Land of Oz.

I stop at a local convenience store to use the A.T.M. I wanted to purchase cigarettes, and make change for bus fare. Hopefully waiting for the money to spit out of the machine, a questionable man approaches me. “Excuse me.” “I don’t want to be rude, but are you homeless?” he enquires. “Why do you ask?” I reply startled. “Because of all the bags you’re carrying.” he answers. No I’m not homeless.” “I don’t have a car.” “I just got out of prison for killing my husband, and they won’t let me drive yet.” At that exact moment twenty dollars spits out of the machine, punctuating my last statement like a burlesque drum roll. Without missing a beat, I purchased a pack of Marlboro Lights and made my exit.

As I walk to the bus stop, I began to think about why I smoke. It was a gorgeous man who introduced me to smoking. He’s long gone, and I’m still smoking. I take full responsibility for my smoking, and for my failed relationships. Like smoking, these are some of my bad choices. Romantically speaking, the last six months have not been good. First, there was Bipolar Butt Boy. “Hi, I’m Dave.” “I’m bipolar, bisexual, and I’m a Gemini.” One week into dating Dave, he declares his love for me, asks for a monogamous relationship, and sleeps with another man. I was wondering why it looked like he was wearing glitter sometimes. Twelve days later, Dave meets Kiwi a cocktail waitress from a local comedy club. They drive to Vegas, and he marries her.

I felt like I sent a virus infected email to the comedy club, and it attached itself to Kiwi. I hope that her computer doesn’t crash, but I suspect that it will.

I finally finished walking to the bus stop. I sit down on the bus stop bench, light a cigarette, and began to contemplate a dream I had once. In the dream, I was dating a lot of different men. I was very confused, because they all looked the same. All of the men had dark hair and no faces. I woke up frustrated, because I wasn’t able to tell them apart. Bobby represents the archetype of what my dream was about. Bobby is just one of a long string of emotionally unavailable men. Who eloquently utter the words, “ I don’t want a relationship right now.” Rarely do we hear these words before they see us naked. Bobby is more memorable to me, because right after he gave me his relationship campaign speech. He then asked, “Would it be okay if I dated your best friend?” When I began to cry he stared at me perplexed. His face was inquisitive, like a monkey trying to understand tears.

Then there was Mr. Tight Wad. Mr. T.W. is carrying more emotional baggage; than the bags I carry to the bus stop. Mr. Tight Wad suffers from a disease called the Miser Syndrome. The disease develops from too many years of carrying emotional baggage. Over time the weight of the baggage causes the patient’s arms and hands to shrink in size. As a result, they lose the ability to be able to extend their arms far enough to get their tiny little hands into their pockets. Not only does the patient become cheap, but also their shrunken hands can no longer give a strong handshake. I am sad to say that the small size of the patient’s arm’s and hands makes masturbation virtually impossible. This frustration causes many men to become very angry. The patient also finds it difficult to get laid, because most women fear that the sight of small hands may be indicative of one’s penis size. T.W. is in his mid forties. They say that older men are more mature and they make for better relationships. Tight Wad isn’t one of them.

We decided to get to know each other over lunch. “Where do you want to go for lunch?” T.W. asked. Before I could even move my lips fast enough to give a reply. T.W. blurts, “How about In and Out?” “Well, I’d like to go someplace where we could sit and talk.” I said. “In and Out, is pretty much in and out.” We ended up going someplace where we could talk, or rather I could hear him talk. I listened to him talk about the “The Twelve Step Program”, and how he wanted to give back all of his goodness to the universe. I analyzed Tight Wad’s A. A. buzzwords, and began to sense that he had missed a few steps in the program. “ You’re so Cool.” T.W. says. His voice was high-pitched revealing illusion happiness, which I suspect was about to crack and emit a terrible darkness. “You’re so easy to talk to.” He comments as his voice crescendos even higher. The annoying pitch causes my emotional conscience to shatter like an opera singer breaking a champagne glass. My mind was bursting, “ How would he know if I was cool? I haven’t had a chance to speak yet.” Not soon enough lunch was over. “I really like you.” He whispers as he violates me by rubbing my shoulders. “Let’s do it again.” “Okay. I’ll try.” I secretly told myself. Who was I kidding? I never wanted to see this man again. Here’s where I’m not so cool.

As I contemplate my own self-improvement. The bus finally stops in front of me. I put out my cigarette, and mechanically walked onto the bus. I took a seat, and gazed out the window deep in thought.

There is one area of my life where I am not so cool. I am passive aggressive when it comes to rejecting people. I made excuses not to get together with Tight, and I avoided his phone calls. I didn’t feel good about this. I realized that it was time for me to be honest with Mr. Wad.

The confrontation did not go well. My phone rings. I knew it was he, because “MR. TIGHT WAD” flashed on my caller I.D. screen. I answered the phone, and within less than a minute, I dropped the Dear John bomb. It goes off with an explosion. “Well that’s just great.” T.W. says with sarcasm. “I haven’t seen your comedy show yet, but I’ve seen the act and it stinks!” He slams the phone down, and the line goes dead. I stand there stunned. Smoke comes out of my telephone, my eyebrows are singed, and my face is blackened with soot. I’m not sure, but I think I heard cartoon music in the background. My memory of what happens next plays out like an independent short film. I dial T.W. back. He picks up the phone. (The scene begins)

Tere: (speaks as fast as she can fearing she will be hung up on again) “ I’m sorry.” “ I have a problem with confrontation.” “ I should have told you earlier.” We all get rejected.” “ I get rejected.”

Mr. Tight Wad: (He interrupts her rambling with a snarl)” I don’t need your Ann Lander’s bull shit!” “By the way, you owe me for lunch!”

Tere: (Surprised by his comment shouts with sarcasm) “But you took me to Wolfe Burgers!” “Give me a fucking break!”

This is the last and final comment Tere is able to make, before we hear the harsh slam of the receiver. Two seconds later the phone rings, just like it would in a “B” horror film. (The sound of the phone ring echoes with distortion) (Camera shot zooms in on telephone.) Being an actress, Tere answers the phone paying homage to the horror film genre. (Scene begins)

Tere: “Hello.” (She answers phone breathy and timid. Tere is trying to do her best fem-fatale impression.)

Tight Wad: (Voice is distorted to sound like Linda Blair’s in the Exorcist) “ I found your address by dialing 411!” “I’ll be sending you a bill for my lunch.” The phone goes dead. All you can hear is the eerie sound of the dial tone.

(Tere then gives her best wide-eyed Gloria Swanson take towards the camera.) (Scene fades to black.)

I have this theory in life, that we are all stars of our own movie. These men guest starred in my life, and their parts are over now. The Academy will not be considering them for an Oscar nomination.

Like most blockbuster movies, mine has a happy ending as well. The finale is a simple one. I survive the flying monkeys and give them back to the circus. One of my favorite scenes in a film is when the heroine overcomes adverse circumstances. The heroine’s newfound self-confidence makes her beautiful and sexy. Just like Dorothy’s makeover in the Emerald City. Our heroine is transformed wearing trendy and hip clothes. The camera films her in slow motion. Heads turn in amazement as she glides through the crowd. Everyone must be thinking,” Who is that woman?” “How can I get her phone number?” What if this happened to us in real life? We would see a bunch of people walking around in slow motion buying coffee from Starbucks.

Today, I imagine myself to be the heroine. What is my destination? A Tall Nonfat Grande Latte. Rock music with a techno edge begins to play in the background. It is obviously my theme song. I walk off the bus in slow motion, slightly twirling on the handrail. I am wearing my special clothes. My breasts are lightly bouncing in tune, with each long stride my legs make down the bus stairs. Waiting at the bottom of the stairs is a dwarf, who feels compelled to whistle and dance a little jig for me. As I walk past him, a breeze flows through my long dark coat. The coats charcoal colored cloth becomes art, as it magically flays in the air. I give a Mona Lisa smile to the camera. At that moment, the picture stops in freeze frame. The movie has ended.

My trip down the yellow brick road of self-discovery is sometimes painful. I pause for a moment and inhale a deep breath. As I exhale I feel a sense of peace, because I have finally become okay with me.

I live in the Land of Oz where the studios are the wizards, and image is everything. When I looked inside myself, I discovered I was home.

Tere Joyce is a headlining comedienne in Los Angeles. When she's not busy being hit on by deviants and perverts, or being awarded "Comedian of the Week" honors by Publicity Whore, you can catch her performances at the Icehouse, Comedy Store & Ha Ha Comedy Club. Tere is considered one of the fastest rising female stars in comedy.

-(review & pic Tere Joyce)-

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