And now ladies and gentlemen... It's time for the Crash...

Above, you'll see your friend Kristina having one of many scrīpted/un-scrīpted onstage nervous breakdowns as part of the five part APACUNT panels.

Three cities in one week. This is how we do it. I got back to LA on Wednesday afternoon, only to do another show here last night for the Breaking the Bow Festival. Tonight I head to San Francisco for my cousin's wedding and a talk a college class in Oakland on Tuesday. Somewhere between all this, I'm vowing to edit my short film for the Tavis Smiley blog, write some new stuff to perform at the LA Storytelling Festival next month, rework this old scrīpt for me and D'Lo to perform in November, write a City of LA grant, and maybe a few more if I can get my hands on them and not get sick... will that even be possible?

Well, one thing's for sure! Staying busy sure does stave off the existential crisis shit.

In NYC I must say that my personal hygiene hit an all time low. I'd wake up each morning in my friend's basement in total darkness (it was the bottom floor of her loft), hungover from the show and drinking the night before and each morning had to decide in a flurry: "Shower or eat?" The eating usually won. My gums would not stop bleeding every time I brushed my teeth. Pretty much everyone at the Festival and East Village knows what I look like without make-up... and I'm talking raccoon eyes, walk of shame at 4am-- that kind of no-makeup. I ran out of underwear a few days before leaving and had to get creative (I won't tell you how). By the end of my stay little fruit flies would float over my head (I forgot I had bought bananas the week before that had gone bad) in my friend's loft. So I ate six bananas in two days (don't ask what that does to one's digestive track). All this, moving at a furiously paced New York minute, yanking pounds and pounds of crap around the East Village and back to Brooklyn at all hours of the night.

I began to feel my organs disintegrating into the rest of my body by the second day of performance. At our last show I was so exhausted, I almost passed out onstage but then channeled it into an amazing (or so I think) onstage nervous breakdown that wasn't in our scrīpt. I hosted the Kong Magazine roll-out party in Brooklyn before I left town. I almost fell asleep in the corner of the bar by the end of the night and yet, we were done at 9pm.

My flight back to LA was in two legs. The first too cold, I shivered and held my own body in my arms for warmth, my muscles straining to heat themselves even inside my jacket. The second leg of the flight was too hot. I was sweating, arching my face towards that fan thing above your seat.

I had a few minutes this morning to reflect and rest and was struck in my inactivity with a strong sense of under-accomplishment. What is it about working so hard that all I can think about is how nice it would be to rest. And that when I get rest, I feel so unaccomplished that I need to work more? And harder?

Goddamn you Chinese genetics.