Tuesday, Aug. 26, 2003 | 10:54 AM

Lately I have become obsessed with Vaudeville. It started with becoming (re)obsessed with Gypsy, which lead into the preoccupation with vaudeville (just as Cabaret lead into the fascination with Weimar era Berlin)

My grandfather actually was part of a vaudeville act with his Uncle in Rochester NY during the 20�s. He was a little boy and he would sit on his Uncle�s knee while his Uncle sang Sonny Boy by Al Jolson; both my grandpa and his Uncle wore black face for this number. (Later my grandpa would be part of a jazz band with his brother and cousin but that was after vaudeville ended and they just played nightclubs and the USO)

Change of subject.

You know, sometime when I�m upset about something, I don�t think I�m upset about that thing at all, only that thing is a substitute for something else, and I probably don�t even care about that thing.

All the stuff in my apartment is giving me a headache and making me want to throw up. I want to be a gypsy. I want to fit everything I own in one bag. I want to leave the door of my apartment open while I�m at work and people can just come in and take whatever the hell they want. I want life to be portable. All I really need is a few books, a few dresses, red lipstick, a laptop with a wireless modem and an ipod to store music, and a couple of books.

That kinda brings me back to vaudeville. I�d love to travel around the country and perform all the time. Live hand to mouth. Sleep in theatrical hotels and eat in restaurants.

I have so much memorabilia, you know? Old pictures and tapes and yearbooks and pressed flowers, and I hate all of it. I don�t want it around, and once a day I have this urge to put it in the trash. But then I know that one day when I�m eighty I�ll want it, or if I ever become a dead superstar it will be useful for my unauthorized biography. So I restrain myself from tossing it. I�m getting 6 inch risers for my bed, so I�m going to seal up all the memorabilia in boxes and stuff in under there where it can remain like a sunken ship below the ocean�s surface. Out of sight, out of mind.

And then at some point when I do become a gypsy (hopefully within the next year) I�ll just put it in a storage facility. Then once every couple years I�ll come back to Boston with any new memorabilia from failed romances or creative projects, and I can add that to the storage room, so that by the time I�m sixty, I�ll have my whole life stored up and I won�t have had to cart it around with me everywhere like the wasteful baggage it is.