My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Sentence of the Day 1/31
"I know it sounds immature, but I'm really glad my last name isn't Wiener."
Blogsitting
I'm blogsitting today for Mr. Coward. I don't remember asking for this privilege, but apparently that's what I'm doing today. It's a lot like here only there are different people talking about poop and pee mixed in with really depressing things.
Sentence(s) of the Day 1/30
"Plimco, was that the kid with the hole in his butt?"
Followed by...
"Doesn't everyone have a hole in their butt?"
Followed by...
"I seem to recall that he had some hunk of his butt missing because I wanted to put a small votive candle in there."
Monday, January 30, 2006
Hire me to do your voice overs!
People. If any of you have any voice over work you need done, I'm your Plimco. I would love to be able to quit my day job and do voice overs all day. I did one back in the fall. I was at the recording studio for 30 minutes. At the end of the session, they handed me a check for $300. I couldn't believe it. For my voice! My fucking voice! I use it every day for free! Take it! Manipulate it! I don't give a shit. For that particular commercial, it was a national radio spot, I played a young black teenager as well as a 60 year old Caucasian cancer victim. I do accents too. Southern, Irish, Cockney, British, German, Jamaican. I can do it all.
Wait. You know what would be better? I could be the voice of a cartoon character! They need to come up with a new family member or pet on The Family Guy and I could totally do that. Or, what was that MTV cartoon that had that bitter girl that spoke in a monotone? Daria? Yeah. I would love to be Daria.
My Email address is to the right. Thank you for your time and I look forward to hearing from you.
OAFC
Ongoing Ambassadors for Christ. That's what that stands for. That's what I was. An ongoing ambassador for Christ. It pains me to admit this. We would get together for one weekend a month at various churches across Tennessee and Kentucky. On Saturday we would break off into groups of 2 or three and get dropped off in your neighborhood. We would then ring your doorbell at 9:00 on a Saturday morning and ask you for your time. If you did not slam the door in our faces, we would ask you a series of questions culminating in the big one:
If you were to die tonight, would you expect to go to heaven?
I don't know if I can go on. I'm so ashamed. Isn't that awful? On so many many levels. This is one of the reasons, ladies and germs, that I would appreciate it if you refrain from witnessing to me on my blog. It gives me horrid flash backs. If some kids were to knock on my door at 9:00AM on a Saturday and ask me a question like that now? I just don't know what. I would be so pissed off.
We would actually go on these OAFC weekends not so much to witness to America, but to kiss boys. We would have an "hour with God" private time to read our devotions. If we were lucky, an "hour with God" could turn into an hour with Wilson making out in an abandoned Sunday school room.
Wilson. Sigh. I was so in love with him. He didn't like me though because I was fat and younger than everyone else. He liked Miss J. They had this thing where they would greet each other by sticking out their tongues and one would lick the other's tongue. It was kind of gross. Looking back, Wilson has to be the most unattractive guy I have ever met in my life. He looked like a little greasy rat. And he had all of these unfortunate wobbledy moles all over his body. And warts on his hands. He was pretty nasty. I have no idea why I liked him so much. Last I heard he joined the army or the marines or something.
Sentence of the day 1/29
"They have a dog named Bacon."
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Year of the Dog
So, I was feeling all lame and stupid for talking about my dog so much lately. Turns out today is the Chinese New Year and it is, in fact, the year of the dog. Ha! I'm not lame and stupid just apropos. Let the dog stories commence.
An act of humility
You know what humbles me? Filling up my dog's water dish and placing it on the floor for her. I'm not sure what it is about this act that is so humbling, but it is. Perhaps it's that water is such a simple and basic and pure substance. Perhaps it's that the dish is so silver and mysterious. I read this book, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, and they were magicians and they were constantly looking into these silver dishes of water to see the future or to see what their enemies were up to on the other side of the world. I like that. It humbles me to do something so simple and basic yet necessary for this creature who is dependant on me for life. She is so loyal and submissive all the time for me. It's nice to return the favor once a day and carefully carefully stoop to the floor with a dish of water.
Waking up crying
Isn't that the most pleasant feeling ever? Being awoken by your own sobs. Tears streaming down your face. Your dog jumping on your diaphragm to lick them all off.
5 more shows. 5 more shows. I only have 5 more shows.
I know it's just this left over conjured grief bonking around in my subconscious. I know that's all it is. I hate dreaming such sad sad things, though. I hate it. And the lump stays in my throat. The tears stand tip toe in my eyes ready to erupt at any time. Good thing I have a matinee today.
When you're an actor, if you are somewhat decent at what you do, you get the reputation of an entertainer. One who entertains. Oh, let's hang out with Plimco, she's funny. She'll entertain us. Most of the time I have the energy for it. Last night I didn't. I went to the top of this very tall building to listen to jazz music and have a drink with Henry, Sally, and her crack head sister. They were all grumpy. I guess I'd be grumpy too if I recently stopped taking crack or had to hang out with someone who recently stopped taking crack all day. But I get there and there's this odd relief that comes over all their faces and I swear they all turned their chairs slightly to face me. Oh, Plimco's here! Tra la tra day! Let the entertainment begin! Folks, I challenge anyone to live through the death of a loved one, go to their funeral night after night, and be in the mood for a dog and pony show. I left my dog and pony at home. I gave a few half hearted attempts, got a couple laughs, and then just sipped my 28$ 14 year old Oban. I'm sorry, honey. I'm fresh out of crack. Go smoke a cigarette and shut up. To be fair, she did share half her cheese burger with me. That was nice.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Masturbation Fact and Fiction
Is there any truth to the warning that if you masturbate too much you will go blind? I'm just asking because I have a friend who...well...she's too embarrassed to ask for herself and I said I would make sure because I don't want her to go blind. Seriously. Is that true?
In which I admit something odd
I have an odd habit. Maybe you could call it an obsession, but I wouldn't. Just a healthy curiosity. I look at haunted dolls on Ebay and read their stories. Some of them are so stupid they make me laugh out loud. They take pictures of them and comment on the orbs in the pictures. Some of them scare the shit out of me. I've never bought one. I just look at them and read their stories. I went through a phase where I collected scary dolls. I still have a few. My favorite is in storage in Tennessee. She's naked with metal joints exposed and one eyeball is missing so you can see the metal in her skull and her hair is melting off to reveal this discolored scalp. At first glance she looks tortured and sad, but I think she's beautiful.
LIVE BLOG!
I'm going make an attempt at live blogging because I normally can't get away with it.
Ahem.
So I'm sitting here using the woman who owns my house, her laptop. My cat, The Bald Monkey, is curled up with a pensive expression on his face in a window shaped sun spot on the alarmingly green carpet. My coffee is cooling beside me in my jack-o-lantern mug. (Am I doing this right?) Fluff Bucket is curled up on the left side of the couch like a giant danish. The Postal Service is blaring upstairs so that I can hear it downstairs. It's sunny and not bitter and I'm procrastinating because I need to get my car inspected before the end of January which is, what? Tuesday. Shit. I need to do that.
This is now officially the most boring post of all time ever. Damnit. Why isn't live blogging all it's cracked up to be? I need a host of midgets to come in and start sucking on my toes or something.
Sally and her Crack Head Sister
Last night my closest east coast friend, Sally (her real name is much better), and her crack head sister came to see my show. Crack head in that she was addicted to crack for the past couple months. She disappeared, ran away from home and wouldn't call anyone for two weeks. She took out all her money from her bank account. They found a baggy with traces of crack in her bedroom. Sally was so upset. I would talk to her every day and try to comfort her, but what do you say to someone when their sister is missing and could be dead and is a crack head? I don't know what I would do if my little sister was a crack head. You never want to have to say that: My sister is a crack head. Then we started thinking, crack is expensive. She must be out of money. She is 24 and attractive. How else is she going to get crack. Ugh.
Crack head showed up last weekend. Sally then flew her from Chicago out here. She's been de-toxing on an airmatress in Sally and her Henry's (Sally's husband) basement. Sally thought it would be nice for the crack head to get some "culture", so they came to my show last night. Instead of staying with me, they got a hotel room at this ridiculously ritzy hotel in downtown ______. They invited me over for cocktails. If a bank and a bowling alley had a baby in Colonial America, that is what their hotel room looked like. Nice bathroom too. Ahem.
I put on their complimentary fuzzy slippers and jumped on their beds and we all giggled the night away like it was a slumber party.
Sally has enormous breasts. I'm talking epic. She can fit a Poland Springs water bottle full of vodka under one and a Nestea bottle full of Seagrams under the other and they fold over and... Just skin. She's fantastic to have around when going to baseball games and concerts. She can even get searched. Nothing. Her boobs, "the girls", are legendary. Hence, my sentence of the day. We were reminiscing about the Tom Petty concert last year and I was trying to impress upon the crack head how much respect she should have for her sister and the girls. They've supplied me with hours of enjoyment.
I was noticing how these siblings interact. They are 8 years apart. Miss J is 4 years older than me and The Big E is 4 years younger. So they are the same distance apart as Miss J and The Big E (Huzzah! Math!). They have a much different relationship. They pester each other and argue and Sally gets super fed up with her and I kept thinking. Wow. My sisters and I have SUCH a different way we interact with each other. But they also have this weird Polish nonsense language they use to speak to each other and goofy nicknames and they made me wish that I was having a slumber party in a giant posh hotel room with my sisters.
That place has a chocolate bar. A chocolate bar?! I'm going to try to get over there for some of that this afternoon.
Sentence of the Day 1/28
I know it's only 12:45, but I heard this at 2:00 this morning and I just don't think I'm going to hear anything better than this all day:
"Your tits are legendary."
This was followed by a close second, "They've brought me hours of enjoyment." What makes this hilarious is, these statements are completely innocent. I'll explain in a minute...
Sentence of the Day 1/27
"I left in the night with my iron and my plants."
This was how my Argentinean friend described leaving her first husband. I think that is beautiful. She added after, "I don't even know why I took my iron. I never iron anything anymore..." And she has a cute accent and pronounces the "r" in iron.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Why I'm fairly certain that I don't want to procreate:
I can't imagine having something growing and swimming around and moving inside me. That shit freaks me out. I would be like a pod person! This thing feeding off of me? Eating what I eat? With a brain and fingers and eyes and AAAAAK! It makes me squirm just to think about it. A little parasite. A little leech. Slurp slurp. And it could be awake while I would be asleep. God. Doesn't that freak you out? I just can't even imagine living like that. I am not a pod. I am a Plimco.
My BIGGEST pet peeve
Take your fucking Christmas decorations down! It is January fucking 27th. You've had over a month! I don't want to be reminded of the gift of our lord and savior Jesus Christ on January fucking 27th. That plastic Santa in your front yard is just gaudy. Put it away. Santa makes me angry.
Hey, Mr. Mayor! Why the hell are there still giant red bows on all the light posts down town?! You CANNOT pass those off as Valentines decorations. It won't work. I can see right through it.
That big tacky wreath on your front door is making me want to physically hurt someone. Who came up with the idea of wreaths anyhow? The Greeks? Sure, wear them around on your head, but take them off your front door. Please? Before I leave you a bag of maggots in your mailbox.
Hey. You know what? Why don't you stop drinking your coffee out of that stupid Rudolf mug? For the love of god. Show some respect for Rudolf. He only works 1 month a year, buddy.
TAKE YOUR FUCKING CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS DOWN, AMERICA! It's over. Let it go. Let it go.
Sentence of the Day 1/26
"My flight leaves early Saturday morning."
Later, Steve. Buh-bye.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Expressly for you, my mute Wisconsin reader:
It appears that I have an avid, silent reader from Wisconsin, so I've decided to tell my only Wisconsin story for them.
My mother's mother had a lot of family in Wisconsin. One great uncle lived on Maiden Lake. I think it is a super small and remote lake. We went there for a family reunion once. I must have been 6 or 7? Miss J, how old were we? Anyhow. The family reunion was boring as family reunions tend to be and we were young enough that we didn't remember anyone and our second cousins were boys who liked to rough house and we were like, what are you doing? Let's all be quiet and read a book. They piled a bunch of cots in the basement and threw all the kids down there. They had this abnormally round and fluffy cat too who would stare at us from under a cot. The big E was still a big baby. As in infant not petulant. Right. Miss J. and I ended up watching The Fly. I can't remember the details surrounding how or why we were allowed to watch this horrific film, but we did. We had never seen a horror film before in our lives. We watched it in the dark damp basement on Maiden Lake. I don't remember anyone else watching it with us, but I don't see how that's possible. Gracious. Have you seen that film? It is STILL scary. When he vomits up all that phlegm and then crawls around on the ceiling and when he starts growing that shit that starts piercing his skin and his EYES and he's all naked in that cocoon thing and he hears stuff really well and AAAAA!!!
We couldn't sleep. Impossible. Those cots were uncomfortable anyhow, but we kept staring at the ceiling side by side periodically whispering to the other, "Hey. Are you still awake?" Yeah. Are you? Oh the horrid images in that film! They still haunt me. That big fat cat kept scaring us too.
Then the dawn saved us. We saw the first bluish beginnings and jumped up and ran outside and down the long wooden dock. The fish were so awake and alert and happy to see us. They were HUGE lake fish. Although I was pretty small, so maybe that is just my memory playing tricks on me. We would stick our fingertips in the water and they would suck on them. It was so slimy and weird and their fishy tongues were alarmingly rough. Someone, I can't remember who, had the brilliant idea to sneak into the kitchen and see if there was any food we could feed to them. They seemed awfully hungry! We snuck upstairs amidst the sleeping adults and opened the fridge. All we could find was American cheese. Do you think they'll eat it? There's one way to find out.
Those fish ate that cheese up, I tell you. It was a frenzy! They were ravenous! We watched on in awe at the churning lake. A healthy breakfast of American cheese for our fish friends in Wisconsin.
And that was expressly for you, my mysterious Wisconsin reader. I hope you liked it.
Disliking People by Default
I have this problem which makes me a horrible person. I dislike people by default. If I find out the following about you, I immediately have a preformed opinion about you:
You're a Republican
You're a Christian
You're a Yankees fan
All 3 are immediate turn offs. I hate this. I know it's shallow and not fair, but I can't help it. The same thing happens if I find out you're a racist. Here. Let me tell you a story:
Once, my drummer friend was drumming in his band at a bar. I went to support his percussive performance. I met a beautiful man there. God, he was so hot. Tall, nice lips, gorgeous smile, perfect teeth, grey eyes, great voice, energy, laugh. Sigh. He was in shape too, but not so much so that he looked like a wrestler or anything. Yeah. We started flirting. I can't remember what his initial line was... Oh, I think he commented on my Thundercats lunchbox or something. So, Mr. Beautiful buys me shots of whiskey. Ugh. I shouldn't do shots of whiskey. We continue that shouting conversation unique to bars where angst ridden bands are playing. I start imagining what Mr. Beautiful will look like naked. I start wondering how kinky he is in bed. Our hands brush against each other and I get chill bumps. I giggle, blush and just know we're going to end up making out in the bathroom. Somehow, I don't know how, George W. came up in conversation. Mr. Beautiful says he doesn't see why W is so unpopular. Heck, he voted for him. What's the big deal? He thinks W is a fabulous person and stands by him %100. I said, excuse me, Mr. Beautiful. I'm going to go to the bathroom and decide if I want to continue talking to you. He shouted something about being a hippie liberal to my back as I walked to the bathroom. I sat there for a minute or two. Then went back out, watched my friend's band, and went home alone. Goodbye Mr. Beautiful.
I don't know how to fix this. I know there is more to a person than their religion or political affiliation, or sports loyalties, but I just can't get over it. I have nothing against Jews. I have ultimate respect for Jews and Buddhists and Muslims and atheists and Wiccans...ok, not so much Wiccans, but STILL. Why does this keep happening to me? I could be having sex with so many beautiful men!
I try to call my grandmother once a week. She is 6 feet tall and puts a "rinse" on her hair. She used to be a red head. You know those old lady hairdos that look like helmets? Yeah. The effect is that she looks like she has an orange afro. When I talk to her, every time she tells me how she prays to the Lord every day that, if it be His will, He will send me a good Christian man. I say, Gramma, finding a good man isn't necessarily a priority of mine. I enjoy my independence and- She then cuts me off and says, you know a good place to meet a good man, Plimco? I'll tell ya. Church. You start going to a good church, you'll find yourself a good Christian man who will take care of you so I won't have to worry about you all alone up there in the big city. Thanks, Gramma. Thanks for the advice. Her prayers must be working, damnit. I keep accidentally falling for closet Christians.
How do I fix this? Can I ever possibly hope to get over this and be able to have sex with a Christian, Republican, Yankee fan? God, it makes me physically ill to even write that.
A brief word on theatre etiquette:
If you are sleepy or on muscle relaxers or have just had a giant meal of sausages and a bottle of wine and are planning on going to see a play that does not involve any animals, pyrotechnics, or motorcycles, and instead involves people talking for extended periods of time about fairly heavy subject matter, please refrain from going to the theatre. And under NO circumstances should you sit in the front row. You will fall asleep.
I cannot tell you how difficult it is to deliver a eulogy to an audience, with the house lights up to half so I can see them, when there's a large, ugly woman in the front row sleeping. Blatantly sleeping next to her large, ugly husband. I was large and ugly once which is why I am allowed to use such language. You need to get your large and ugly asses out of the theatre. I'm trying to act up here. There are other people that sort of care what I have to say. I'm trying to deliver a eulogy to a fucking "dead body" when there's no dead body and I'm miming away and and there's this "ghost" buzzing about me and talking to me and my monologue is like 3 pages long and you're fucking SLEEPING RIGHT THERE. I hate you. Why did you spend money to come see me only to sleep? You do not have to pay for nap time. Nap time is free. Go home and go to bed. Yes, I'm delivering this entire eulogy to your stupid sleeping wife. Wake her up! She's pissing me off. Ok, thanks for nudging her, but she only nodded awake for 3 seconds and then went back to sleep. Why don't you jab a fork into her thigh? That might help.
Ugh. I fucking hate that shit. You go to the theatre, you need to be able to stay awake. We are not a television screen. We can see you. Surprise! I know, it's hard to believe. We can hear you too, fuckers. Stay the fuck awake while I'm talking. Or at least sit in the back where I can't see you so that I may pretend that what I have to say is somewhat engaging and the manner in which I am delivering it is somewhat entertaining. Have you heard of coffee? Drink it. Fuckers.
Sentence of the Day 1/25
It's a tie. I know! What are the odds?
"Actually, I thought about you while I was brushing my teeth this morning."
and...
"Hey, before you place my dick on stage, I need to powder it."
Disclaimer: Judging the Sentence of the Day is based solely on the amounts of glee produced in the body of the Plimco upon being exposed to the sentence.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
The time we all saw Titanic
Ok folks. It's time for the Titanic story. I can't go on and on about how fantastic I think storytelling is without telling my favorite story. So...without further ado...I give you...
The Titanic Story:
Once in the not so recent past there was a Thanksgiving. Then the day after Thanksgiving came. Everyone was sick of eating turkey, so mom decided to make her world famous meat spaghetti. We all partook. Then me, my 2 sisters, and a few random cousins went to see the hot new feature film, Titanic, at the movie theatre. I used to be a manager at that movie theatre. This information will prove itself significant later. Pay attention.
The theatre is packed with post Thanksgiving families sick of sitting around and looking at each other. We all fill up half a row. The film begins. And what a film it is. As the saga unfolds, we get to the portion in the epic where our hero is freezing in the water while his romantic interest floats on her board. My little sister, E, is sobbing. That intense suck-up-your-snot hiccup crying. She was so sad for poor Mr. DiCaprio. She then chokes on her own snot and proceeds to barf all over the row in front of her. Everyone is shocked. When I gather my wits about me, I rush to the concession stand to get paper towels. I used to be a manager there. (See? I told you it would come in handy later.) I walk back into the darkened theatre....walk back into the unmistakable familiar smell of my mother's spaghetti.
We clean up the sad soul in front of her...as best we could. E is apologizing, but still very much glued to the screen and still very much sobbing.
Oh me. I love that story.
To be fair to her, she vomits all the time. It's this crazy reflex. She gets in a highly stressful situation? Vomit. She's watches someone die at the movies? Barf. She's nervous before competing in a horse show? Puke. And she vomits with a big Bleh! and then she's fine. She carries on with her business as though nothing happened. Man, I wish I could do that. Experience stress...eject stress from my body...and move on. My older sister, J, and I tend to repress instead. Ah well. Not everyone can have a vomit button. She has a gift.
Send in the clowns
I thought I wanted to be a clown a few years ago. I actually looked up and met with a real live clown and we had coffee and I picked his brain about clowning and then he tried to get in my pants and I left him to his devices, but that is another story.
I wanted to be like that girl on the Big Comfy Couch.
The reason I chose not to pursue this course was a) the art of clowning seems to be a dieing art these days and as depressing as this is, it was unrealistic to imagine going very far with it. and b) When on stage as a clown, you have no one else on stage with you. You are playing off the audience and the audience only. They are your other character. Rarely are there multiple-clown successful shows. I like reacting off of other people on stage. It's important to me. I would be so lonely to be stuck in perpetual monologue. I took a monologue show to Edinburgh a couple years ago and I got so...yeah, I guess lonely is the word. Lonely on stage. Having only me and my energy and the audience's reaction to play off of got old. I missed playing with people. Playing.
The woman who plays my lover in my current play is a professional clown. That's her day job. And she constantly has this energy surrounding her and we have positively cracked up thousands of times in rehearsal. Our interaction in the dressing room and in public for drinks after could be its own sketch comedy show. I was talking to her about clowning and she told me that auditions are coming up in February, and she'd help me with getting material together, but... I don't know if I could do it. She's a clown at a hospital. She entertains children with terminal diseases every day. I don't know if I could do it. I love kids, children. I hang out with them all day every day and have been for a while. I don't necessarily wish to have any of my own ever, but I sure do enjoy hanging out with them...when they are well. When they are not going to die next week.
I was a candy striper in middle and high school. I could handle some of the sickness and sadness. I saw my first penis in the hospital. Here's your paper, sir. Oh! You're not wearing any pants. Gross. You're old and sitting in the middle of your room on one of those stand up/stand alone pottys. I didn't think it would look like that.
I'm getting off topic. Hospitals. Make my skin crawl. It is unpleasant to be around sad and sick and smelly people all the time.
But... to make them smile? These kids. To entertain them? Gee, that seems like it would be so rewarding, you know? But look at them. It breaks my heart. I don't think I could do it. I don't think I'm that strong a soul. I wish I were...
Sentence of the Day 1/24
"Will you please ask them not to bring tuna for lunch on Tuesdays anymore?"
Ha! I love it.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Gentlemen, your advice?
So, I have this friend. I enjoy spending time with him. He is funny and a good listener. I am comfortable around him. I've made him dinner a couple times (the two things I know how to cook) and we've taken my dog on a hike and such. I am not attracted to this guy in the least. I have absolutely no interest in him sexually what-so-ever.
Others that have seen him around me have commented later, "Plimco. _____ is so in love with you, it is sad." I'm told he looks at me with adoring eyes when I tell stories. He hangs on my every word. Like I said, good listener. I've never given him ANY physical encouragement. When I was dating the last guy I didn't like all that much, I would have sad dude come along with us for such multiple player sports as kareoke. Sad dude would get all despondent at points in the evening and once had a complete panic attack/melt down/shaking/crying fit. I guess I should tell you that his mother died a few years back in a horribly tragic and dramatic way. Sad dude is on anti-depressants and other fun drugs.
So, my question is: Do I still hang out with him because I enjoy hanging out with him or is this just giving him false hope and leading him on and fueling his unrequited love? He needs friends, I think. And he's funny. I don't know. I haven't been returning his calls because the last time we hung out we went to a play with this other couple and I broke the news that the guy I didn't like all that much dumped me and sad dude was all, "Yeah. You two were disgusting. It disgusted me to see you together. I'm so glad THAT'S over." Then we watched this play that was all about sex and relationships and revenge and afterward sad dude was all sad and weird and bailed on us. I haven't spoken to him since then. We played phone tag last night and tonight he wants to know if I have any plans.
If you were this guy, would you rather I just gently stop hanging out with you and get out of your life so that you can get over me and move on? Or would you rather I continue fighting for a friendship and just a friendship and we still spend time together putzing around as pals?
If you are not a dog owner, you have a civic obligation to read this
Dear non dog owners,
When you see a person walking down the street with their dog and the dog appears to be tugging ahead enthusiastically on the leash, I realize that a little joke immediately pops in your head. Stop. Think twice. Although you think it is funny because you thought of it all by yourself. It is, in fact, not. We have heard it. Over and over. 7000 times. Please, for the love of god refrain from saying the following:
"Hey! Who's walking who?"
And then you proceed to chuckle because you think you are so funny. You are not. I hate you. Stop saying that shit to me. I try to be kind and respond with, "I know, right?!" and then force a little laugh for you, but I realize this only encourages your loathsome behavior. No more. Next time I will just spit on you. That is all.
1/23 Sentence of the Day:
Plimco's favorite sentence for Monday was:
"It would be like me asking you to spend a week in a Muslim recruitment camp."
This is not as hilarious out of context, but there you have it.
Monday, January 23, 2006
She wants revenge
Have you heard this song? "Tear you apart" by She Wants Revenge? Holy shit, that song is hot. I'm not sure what it is about it, but every time I hear it... Damn. Maybe it affects me in such a way because a) it's a lovely story and b) the chorus is in first person and he's obviously singing this to me, personally. Obviously.
Sentence of the Day
I have this brilliant idea to record my favorite sentence of the day here. I usually have a favorite sentence of the day. This is not a sentence I say, but usually one that is said to me or overheard. Not that I eavesdrop on people...
Ok. Without further ado, Plimco's favorite sentence of the day is (Actually this was my favorite sentence of the day on Friday when I first came up with this idea, but you'll get over it.)
Ahem.
"Look! You have corn stigmata!"
Yay. Yes, I know that's two sentences, but I don't care.
ASL Rehearsal
Saturday we had our ASL rehearsal. Our ASL performance is next week, I believe. The interpreters had to be placed on stage with us and had to see where and when we moved around so that we don't run over them. They had all sorts of questions about our characters too. I've never done an ASL show before. Apparently they are playing our characters. Not just signing what we're saying. They're acting. Deaf people have favorite interpreters and come see shows just because so-and-so will be interpreting. They're celebrities. It is bizarre to be on stage and have this little silent, but very active twin next to you. It's like having a physical echo to everything you say. I'm told that it will be very interesting when we get an audience too because the laughs and reactions will all be slightly delayed. We will have moved on from a joke and then there will be a laugh. Crazy. I was so conscious of talking with my hands too. My character talks with her hands a lot. When we were doing the run through for the interpreters, I was uber-conscious of how I use my hands. It felt so inadequate. Superfluous. Why was I using my hands to get this point across when how they were using their hands made much more sense? It felt stupid.
Anyhow. This is a whole world of translating performance that I knew nothing about and find extremely interesting. My new favorite thing is the sign for noodle bake. It kicks ass. You get to make the little noodles with your pinkies. How fun is that? Noodle noodle noodle. I think I'll quietly say noodle all day.
Forcefield of Grief
People. This play is going to be the end of me. I don't know if I'm going to make it. I'm so emotionally drained. I'm a shell of a person. And we're only half way through. I'm so fucking sick of facing my own mortality night after night after night. My lack of faith. I'm sick of going to funerals and delivering eulogies and speaking to dead people and crying and making people cry. I used to never cry. Or if I did it was once in a blue moon and always in private and I would only allow myself to participate in this behavior for about 3 minutes. I've been crying every night. On stage as my character, but... It's still crying. I think I've pulled something in my throat because you know when you cry and your soft pallet gets all weird and raised and quivery? Yeah. I pulled something. And I wish I could shake it. I've always been able to shake it before. Shake the character, then skin I was in for an hour and a half or so, but... This is different somehow. I don't know why. It shouldn't be. I don't have that much in common with my character. I guess it's because she's dealing with stuff that I refuse to deal with and it is incredibly painful for her. And for me to do that, to go through that knowing that Plimco the person is too much of a coward to go through it herself... ugh. It is very very difficult.
We had great audiences despite our crappy reviews. Our new motto is: Come see______ it doesn't suck as bad as people say. My beautiful friend, we'll call her Sally even though her real name is much cooler than that, said, "Oh, I don't listen to critics. ET got horrible reviews when it first came out." ET. Ha! What a silly analogy.
We go out after the play and drink because we must. Saturday night we went to this stupid new trendy bar. After I spilled my 2nd martini because I was making horses out of my hands and making them dance on the table top, I nursed my 3rd martini which was really only my second. Gin. Up. Dirty. I could tell my fellow actors were ready to go. Leave, said I. I'll be fine. I'm just going to finish this and then I'll go too. So they left me at the table. This place was packed. Shoulder to shoulder young trendy professionals in their young trendy outfits with young trendy drunken smiles on their young and trendy faces. I can pass for a young trendy professional if I really want to. And I'm sitting there. In this packed club. Drinking alone. And no one approaches me. No one even looks at me. I had a whole table with empty chairs and no one asked if they could sit. They all remained shoulder to shoulder packed, but stayed at least 5 feet away from me and my table. I swear I have a forcefield of grief around me. I stink of it.
Friday, January 20, 2006
I could be your eccentric neighbor
This morning it hit me: I'm the eccentric neighbor.
I wake up at something stupid like 5:30AM. I throw on this giant pea green, old lady coat with faux brass buttons over my pajamas. My pajamas usually have something asinine like dancing monkeys on them. I then slip into my bright red plastic garden clogs in fair weather. Galoshes in the shape of frogs in rain, sleet, or snow. I don some bright and hideous scarf and a dopey hat. Me and my giant fluffy dog then shuffle down the still dark street for our morning walk and poo. Sometimes I sing little songs. Mostly I just grunt at the approaching dawn or talk to myself. Occasionally I'll run into early morning risers at the bus stop. They don't usually say "hi". They just ignore me or scream and run to the other side of the street depending on how they feel about giant dogs.
Oh my god. I'm the eccentric neighbor. I've finally arrived.
McCallen
So after all that amazing press yesterday containing such zingers as "heartfelt but dull" and "the drag routine of _____ was laugh out loud funny, but not in a good way", no one came to the show. As in zero. Zilch. Nada. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. I mean, it was a Thursday and the theatre next to us didn't have any audience and had to cancel too, but... That's just sad. So the actors and the writers and the directors went out to get drunk. I got an 18-year-old glass of McCallen. It cost over $20, but I didn't care. So smooth. So delicious. McCallen, I love you. When I ordered it this nice lady sitting at the bar said, "Damn, girl! In my next life, I want to come back as a woman who can hold her scotch."
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Primal Scream Therapy?
Have you heard of this? My friend was telling me how she thought her upstairs neighbors were killing each other and called the cops and when the cops came the neighbors just laughed and said, "Oh. You must have just overheard our Primal Scream Therapy. Oops."
I think I may want to sign up for this. I've been having a fairly primal day.
This was not my intent
People, I really did not intend for this blog to become an on-line diary all about me me me and blah blah blah and listen to my over glorified life and I bought a really cute pair of shoes today and yippity yappity do. I have important things to say. Really. I'll try harder. I promise.
I guess what it boils down to is an appreciation for good story telling. The ability to tell a story well and the ability to listen to a story, read good stories, share stories and comment on them. That's what attracted me to blogging in the first place... So, I guess that's why I'll stay. To practice the art of story telling. And if some of those stories happen to come from the banality that is my life? Well. You don't have to read. I'm just practicing.
Reviewed
So about 15 reviews came out in publications all over town today. Yeah. They were all pretty lame. That sucks. Reviews usually help get audiences...unless they're shitty reviews. None were mean to me personally. Plimco the actor. The critics had more issues with the play itself. The writing. The structure. One called two of the other actor's performances mechanical. Ouch. Mine was dubbed as petulant. I can live with that. I think. My character is supremely petulant, so at least that came across, right? My performance was also referred to as "solid. The authenticity of her grief and confusing dilemma quite moving." One review said I "played the part very well. The audience could more than see her confusion, they could feel it. The performance was very real, very raw." What?! I'm so confused. They could FEEL my confusion? What the hell. That is just weird. It also sort of freaks me out to see my face plastered all over town. But it's just one day. Famous for a Thursday commute.
It's so funny how actors take those little adjectives to heart. They repeat them over and over in their brains after a review comes out. Critics, beware! Your simple word choice speaks volumes to the psyche of an actor. Once a critic described my portrayal of a character as "all coltish connivance". I think this was a positive statement, but for months afterward I was all, crap. I'm totally a horse, aren't I. I totally look and act like a horse. Shit.
Petulant. Humph.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Dr. Appointment
So, I have my follow up Dr. appointment today. The follow up from the hey-how-are-those-crazy-drugs-helping-you-quit-smoking?-Here-let-me-prescribe-you-some-more appointment. (God, I love me some hyphens.) The first time I met with this doctor, she asked me when my last cigarette was. I said, two days ago. She and her supervisor seemed all skeptical that I could do it. I tried to tell them, no. I really quit, people! Why won't you believe me? They had this total "we'll see..." attitude that drove me crazy. I'm going back today and that was still the last cigarette (made from tobacco) I had, 50 days ago. Ha! I wonder if they will give me a balloon...
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Leave, Steve!
Why won't Steve leave? I don't want to live with him anymore. You may remember Steve from such Plimco blogging favorites as "The Corned Beef Incident". Yeah. That was in December. He's still there. Living in my house. Ok. It is technically his house. The house he grew up in, but he was not part of the deal. When I decided to live there I was not told that there would be a man with questionable hygiene 30 years my senior living with me for months on end. One of the reasons I moved from my previous situation was that I was living with a much much much older man. I do not wish to repeat this less than comfortable living arrangement. I have learned my lesson.
Please leave, Steve. Please? Go back to Florida or wherever you came from. Thank you for building the extra cabinet next to the stove and I'm really enjoying the extra counter space, but your cigarettes stink up the house and I've recently quit smoking, Steve. It's hard to smell that all the time. I appreciate that you have an uncanny love for the crossword puzzle. Hell, I like me a good crossword puzzle every now and again, but must you sit in that same spot on the couch for hours and hours and hours? I can't remember the last time I sat on that couch. I used to make myself an afghan cocoon and lie on that couch watching PBS. I miss those days. Steve, I used to not have to shut the door to the bathroom when I peed or took a dump. I didn't have to worry about walking naked from the shower to my room or about blaring the Pixies and dancing around on the furniture. And another thing. It kind of creeps me out the way you call me "Darlin'". Oh, and do you ever brush your teeth? I've never seen a toothbrush. Maybe you have dentures. I've never heard you take a shower either, come to think of it. You burnt and melted my special red teapot to a crisp. You left the door open and let my dog escape into traffic. You make comments when I sleep in until 10:00AM on a Saturday the morning after tech week where I've had an average of 4 hours of sleep a night such as "Good AFTERNOON, Plimco. Nice of you to decide to face the day." That's really not funny at all, Steve. I don't see how my sleeping patterns are any of your business. I'm sick of listening to you snore when I get ready in the morning. I'm sick of throwing away your nasty nasty nasty yellow crusty Q-tips that Fluff Bucket brings me from the bathroom.
I want my house back, Steve. I want my privacy back. It's time for you to leave.
Monday, January 16, 2006
My dog got beat up
So, last night after cocktails and tapas with the actor who plays my grandmother, I decided to call my ex-boyfriend. Never a good idea. This is the ex-boyfriend who was a model. He's growing a bald spot in the back of his head now. I think his modeling career is on hold. Anyhow. He was house/dog sitting in the yuppie town to the north and I said, hey. Can I bring my dog to come play with your dog and we can drink wine and watch cartoons so that I can remember how to laugh again? Is the dog you're sitting kind to other dogs? "Oh, yes. This dog loves other dogs. She plays nicely with other dogs all the time. Come on over."
I think he thought this was a booty call. This was not my intent. So I show up with Fluff Bucket and we decide to take the dogs to the neutral territory of the ice encrusted golf course across the street. His dog was a German Shepard. She kept annoying Fluff Bucket, but we thought they were playing and having fun being dogs...until the evil dog grabbed Fluff Bucket by the neck and wouldn't let go. I screamed. My dog was screaming. The model jumped on the German Shepard and I pried her jaws from Fluff Bucket's neck. We were all trembling and traumatized. So much for my relaxing evening of unwinding from trauma. He put the evil dog in the basement and I found a Scrabble board. I proceeded to kick his ass. At one point when I was about 75 points ahead of him he said, "I'm bored." and crawled around to my side of the coffee table and started pawing at me. I was like, What the hell are you doing? We're playing Scrabble here. He said, "I'm seducing you." I said, Dude. This was not my intent when I invited myself and my dog over here. I just wanted to listen to some blues music, play some Scrabble, drink some wine, watch some Ren and Stimpy and laugh like a teenager.
So much for my relaxing evening...
Fluff Bucket has a scab above her eye and is so sore and bruised, she yelps and winces if I tug on her collar. No wonder they put German Shepards in charge of drug raids and shit. Those dogs can be evil.
48 Hours
Apparently you folks are all anxious to hear how opening weekend went. (ok. Let's be honest. ONE of you. Thank you, Mr. Coward. You make me blush.)
I'm so sick of crying. I hate crying. I rarely cry in my regular life. To cry on stage in front of hundreds of people over and over. It's like having someone pull down your pants and show strangers your hemorrhoids. This play is getting to me. It's the most challenging production I've ever been a part of and I enjoy pushing myself. I think it's important to take risks in theatre. Make people think, ask questions, react. Force them to form an opinion about something. But what I have to put myself through on stage every night...it's so intense and dark and... I've never experienced (I don't think many people have) the level of grief that my character must endure. The high stakes that she is in the middle of. So, to get to that place, to make that real on stage for me, for everyone... I have to create my own grief. Imagine horrible things that have not happened. It's hard. Not that I'm a method actor, but one must create some amount of genuine pain or else it reads like a soap opera. Ugh.
This play is getting into my head. My subconscious. I had a dream after opening night that all my pets I've ever had throughout my life died, were dead, or dieing. My cat was gnarled, broken, writhing in pain. I held my dog, looked into her eyes as she endured the most intense pain, took her last breath. My little sister's horse when we were growing up got up from lying on her side. Ribs exposed, bleeding, guts spilling out. I had to tell my sister her horse was dieing. So much death. I woke up crying. I grow weary of crying.
But seriously, I'm fine. I have 48 whole hours away from it. I don't think I have any obligations to entertain anyone today. And we had great houses and people seemed to really enjoy it. As much as I've been crying, I've made a bunch of other people cry too, so misery loves company I guess. It's important, this play. A story that no one's had the balls to tell until now.
My socks smell pretty bad, but I think my costume is getting washed. During one scene, where my lover takes my shirt off, my cross necklace (important costume piece) got caught in the sweater and it broke on stage. We were both kind of like, "Oh well. That sucks." and then continued to have "sex". I'm like a freakin' race horse before every show. I have to poop and pee in order to have a good race. It's somewhat embarrassing that my bowels suddenly become everyone's business. "Places." "Wait, Plimco's taking a dump." "How long has she been in there? We need to start the show." After the play Saturday night I think it was, I ran to the toilet to piss (ahhh...nothing like that post show piss when you've been holding it in on stage for an hour and a half and finally...relief) and there was an audience member in the next stall on her cell phone. I eavesdropped. I couldn't help it. Bathrooms are echoey. "So, I'll come by your place in about half an hour? Is that cool? Oh, yeah. It was good. Really good. Gave me a lot to think about. Ok. See you soon. Bye." Good. What a word. I guess good is better than "ok" or "fine". Sometimes "good" is the best you can do, right?
I think every critic from every publication in this town came to see the show this weekend, so at least that's out of the way... I hope they were entertained and will be kind.
This is the first play I've ever done where I did not smoke a cigarette before and after. I could really use a cigarette right now...and some scotch. Really good scotch.
Thank you Martin Luther King Jr. for giving me this day to recuperate. I can't thank you enough.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Muppet Show Song
Can't get this song out of my head:
It's time to play the music.
It's time to light the lights.
It's time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight.
It's time to put on makeup. It's time to dress up right.
It's time to raise the curtain on the Muppet Show tonight.
Why do we always come here? I guess we'll never know.
It's like a kind of torture to have to watch the show.
And now let's get things started. Why don't you get things started?
It's time to get things started
On the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational
This is what we call the Muppet Show!
(Gonzo blows his trumpet - or at least attempts to.)
I know I'll still be singing it in the dressing room tonight in between muffins much to the chagrin of the other actors trying to focus and get ready. The actor who plays my grandfather always makes muffins for some reason. Parmesan/basil, cranberry, sausage/cheese, chocolate chip, squash, applesauce, peanut butter, cheesy jalapeno, cinnamon/raisin. My favorite so far has been the cheesy jalapeno... Yay muffins.
What the hell is that instrument?
On the way to work this morning, as I was watching birds instead of the road, I heard that Stevie Wonder song, "Isn't she lovely?". There's this instrumental break in the song where this certain instrument has a solo. I have this very visceral reaction to that solo. Some grand memory/emotion attached to the melody. I can't remember what connects me so much to this song. It may just be something stupid like a song that was played at the swimming pool one summer when I was little.
Anyhow. What the hell is that instrument? Do you guys know what I'm talking about? I think it must be a harmonica, but don't harmonicas play multiple notes at the same time in their harmonica-y way? This is definitely single notes...sort of. It's not a soprano saxophone. No. A clarinet? Do they make soprano clarinets? No. It has to be a harmonica. Right? AAAK! This is going to drive me crazy...
Birds
I've been noticing birds a lot more lately. Those suckers are everywhere. I guess they always have been, but... I didn't notice them so much. I still can't get used to the seagulls. I've been living here for 5 years, but they still seem so out of place. Seagulls and snow? They are beautiful. Even when they're just circling an empty Stop and Shop parking lot. I know they're just sea rats with wings, but... They command some amount of nautical awe. Flying reminders that we are near the sea. I like them.
"I'm an actress. No, that's not it. I'm a seagull."
-Anton Chekhov
Another Opening. Another Show.
It's opening night. Opening nights all very much have that opening night feeling. One wakes in the morning and it us usually the 2nd thought that occurs to you. Tonight is opening night. Different from the today-is-a-holiday feeling. Or the today-is-my-birthday feeling. Or the today-I-don't-have-to-go-to-work feeling. I can't put my finger on it, but it is certainly unique and familiar in that unique familiar way.
This play has never before been performed for public view before ever. My sister, J., was musing about how this must be a particularly nerve-wracking opening night. When you do Shakespeare, you at least know that people like the text. They know what they are getting into. There have been previous successful performances. With this, I got shit to go on. Zilch. I have no idea how the audience will respond. It very well may flop. Then I'll have to perform a flop over and over and over for the next month.
On the other hand, I know that the role, my character is completely and utterly mine. People will not see me performing and think, oh, Gwyneth Paltrow played that role so much better in the film. (This happened with the last play I was in. Stupid Gwyneth.) There's no right or wrong way to portray her. No preconceived notions. Ideas about what she should or should not be like. She's mine and I like that.
I don't really get nervous. I get explosive diarrhea. Sometimes I would rather get nervous. I realized that the only bathroom at this place is the bathroom that the audience uses as well. Great. I could have juice exploding out of my ass right next to a paying audience member in the next stall. They can have the honor to say, I heard the lead actor take a giant shit!
There is that moment on opening night...after they call places...and you're standing there back stage...about to go on... It's like... Like climbing up to the super highest diving board and standing on the edge and seeing your toes peep over and thinking, "There's no way I can just jump, is there? I could just turn around and go back down..." But you can't. Turn around. You have to. You have to begin. You must. People have tickets in their hand and programs in their laps telling them that they are about to see something. You are that something.
I'm going to go poo now...
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Is this wrong?
So, I have just pretended to be anonymous so that I could leave a comment and comment on that comment as myself. Is that completely masturbatory and wrong? Come on. Bloggers do that all the time, right? Right? Guys? Hello?
Excuse me. I'm going to go lock myself in the bathroom and tell my reflection that I'm interesting and worthwhile for the next half hour or so...
I've been naughty
I smoked half a clove cigarette last night before our second dress rehearsal. And, you know what? I don't even really feel all that guilty about it....really. It was a clove. Not a cigarette. I couldn't even finish it. I figure I'll treat myself every once in a blue moon. Ok fine. So that's how I started smoking in the first place. Sampoerna Extras. Then I switched to Sampoerna Menthols. So they make your lungs bleed and have more nicotine than regular cigarettes... So?
My best friend in high school, Forsythia (She called me Clover. I called her Forsythia. Shut up. I lived about a 20 minute drive from a hippie commune.), and I would take a clove and sneak to the little gravel road beside my house on our farm in the country. We would share the clove. Each drag lighting up our faces with that satisfying crackle. We'd lick our lips to taste the sweet clovey-ness and giggle at our sudden dizziness and naughty naughty behavior. We were in 11th grade. I'm not sure who initiated that first clove kiss, but it was sweet and soft and smoky and dangerous.
I soon began smoking whole cloves by myself. I would sit at the Waffle House for hours playing chess, drinking coffee, talking to artists and smoking. I thought I was so cool.
After the menthol cloves I switched to menthol cigarettes. Cools. Yeah. I should have been a gangstah. Then Cool Milds. Then Camel Menthols. Then Camel Lights. Then Basic Lights (I was a poor college student). Then Winston lights. Now nothing. Except half that Djarum I had last night...
You know what I realized? As much as I don't miss the guilt factor attached to smoking, I do miss the naughty factor. The danger factor. I'm being a bad, dangerous, naughty naughty girl factor. That part of smoking felt really good. I guess there are other ways I could achieve the same feeling. Bondage for instance. Or maybe I could take up rock climbing or something. Rock climbing is pretty dangerous. Or I could learn how to pick up some giant object like a truck with my nipples...
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
My Stinky Mouse
I have a mouse that lives on my desk. Now, I'm not sure if any of you have or have ever had a mouse who lives on your desk, but let me tell you, boy can stink. This has its pluses and minuses.
Pro: Some days he smells so foul that people can't stand to be near my desk. Therefore they don't bother me with small talk or ask me to do things for them. This is pleasant.
Con: Some days he smells so nasty that I go home smelling like the elephant house at the zoo. The stench hangs in my nose to the point that I can taste it. I eat my lunch and taste mouse piss. This is unpleasant.
Apparently boy mice stink more than girl mice because they have to make their musk known. Mark their area with their boy juices. If I were a girl mouse, I don't know if I would find him sexy. He does have pretty big balls... Right now he is taking mini-sips from his water bottle.* Maybe he is sexy. He's white with a little chip in his right ear making him look all tough and scrappy. Yeah, I'd go out with him...if I were a mouse...
The life expectancy of a mouse is about 9 months. I got my mouse last January. He should die here pretty soon...
*Holy smokes, I'm live blogging. How neat! I've been meaning to try this. Wait. It's not really so neat as it is superfluous. So it goes.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Q2Q
There comes a time in the life of every rehearsal process where one must endure the dreaded and vitriolic Tech Rehearsal. Whatever confidence you had in a production suddenly comes into question. Your mind begins to wander while going over the cue for cell phone ring/lights fade to morning for the 79th time:
- This set looks so chintzy.
- That cue of a plate breaking sounded like Wylie Coyote falling off a cliff.
- What is up with the "vagina" pattern painted on the floor?
- My jeans don't fit. Why won't the costume designer give me a belt? They're going to fall down they're going to fall down I just know they're going to fall down.
- Do I have plumber's crack?
- What the HELL is going on with the "refrigerator". It's just a fridge door hanging from the ceiling with yellow fabric behind it. We have to get things out of the fridge, but instead we're going behind the fabric and it looks so stupid stupid stupid!
- I can't deliver that line with a straight face. It's impossible.
- We're going to get laughed out of town.
- This looks like a high school production.
- The critics are going to be ruthless about this set.
- The sound designer broke his what? His femur? How do you break a femur days before a show opens?
- Where is the audience sitting again?
- Where am I supposed to exit?
- My blocking is completely different with these platforms.
- How are we supposed to have "sex" on a raked bed?
- That flame resistant shit they sprayed on the blankets is giving me a rash.
- No one is going to believe that we had sex because a) I keep my jeans on and b) I keep my shoes on.
- Please don't let the critics come opening weekend please don't let the critics come opening weekend please don't let the critics come opening weekend please please please.
- How the hell am I supposed to walk out with a packing dildo in my hand without the audience noticing it?
- I look way to fat to be doing this scene without a shirt on. I should do some sit ups. Lots of sit ups.
- If I go to sleep right now, I'll get 5 hours of sleep.
- I need a drink I need a drink I need a drink.
- Shit. Are my glands swollen?
- You want me to stand where so which gobo frames my face?
- Can I please have liquid in that beer bottle I'm supposed to be drinking from? I can mime eating a casserole, but drinking a beer? Plus it's the only time I get to drink anything for the hour and a half that I'm on stage.
- I'm not acting like a diva, am I? That was a valid request, right?
- My lips are so chapped from kissing and kissing and kissing that married woman over and over and over on stage. I wonder if she can smell the Doritos on my breath. I'll brush my teeth tomorrow night.
- Do I have a booger? I totally have a booger.
- We open in 4 nights we open in 4 nights we open in 4 nights.
- God, this set looks chintzy.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Tangible Grief
I went to a funeral yesterday. The grief was tangible. Heavy. Thick. Sticky. Painful. I had it under my fingernails when I drove back to the city. In my hair.
The corpse was in a simple cedar casket. I didn't even notice it at the front of the room until someone pointed it out. Jews believe that everyone is equal in death, hence the simple cedar. Easier to return to the earth that way. So much nicer than gaudy Christian caskets with airbrushed Jesuses and day-glo cherubim and strobe light handles.
His only son and one of his daughters spoke at the funeral. So brave of them. On his death bed, his wife asked, "Do you love me?" He said, "yes". She asked, "How much?" A familiar game. He replied, "To the sky..." his son and his wife finished his sentence for him in unison, "blueberry pie".
Friday, January 06, 2006
Goodbye Freedom
This is my last free weekend for the next month. Tech week is next week. My show opens next Friday. The run is Wednesday-Sunday for 4 weeks. I am going to tell this story of grief and anger and step into the skin of this character whose stakes are so high, whose place is so dark, whose emotions are so insane for the next 4 weeks. I hope I make it. Wish my legs ill harm.
What am I doing for my final Friday night of freedom? Probably going to see a play. I'm such a nerd. Oh well. Tomorrow night I'm watching a football game. That's exciting and un-nerdy, right? Ok. Maybe not.
Why you should reconsider donating your vehicle:
Yesterday I went to a hearing with the parking clerk. The parking clerk was not as clerky as I imagined. I don't know why, but I kept picturing a sharp-nosed very pale and fragile old man with one of those green bank visors and a starched shirt with one of those elastic black bands round his upper arm. My clerk was at least 5 years younger than me with a rosy complexion, female, healthy, and bright eyed. No visor.
People. I am sad. I try to be a good person. Not because I believe in heaven or hell or karma (ok. maybe karma) or mitzvahs or anything, but because being good and kind to your fellow humans is...well... Oh dear, this is more tough to articulate than I thought. I want to believe that everyone has some amount of "good" in them deep down. Serial killers have positive intentions. Albeit deadly. This is not where I wanted to go. Ok. One must give back to their community, to their humanity. To take and take and take and give nothing back? One must share beauty and kindness and words and thoughts and quirkiness and communicate with the world around them and...one simply must because if you don't give something back, why are you alive and kicking in the world?
I do have a point. I donated my car to the American Lung Association in June. I signed my title over to them. I thought I would be nice. Kind. Give back to my community. Have my car. The American Lung Association called and said they'd pick it up in 5 business days. On the 5th business day I got a ticket on my car because it was sitting in the street without plates for 5 days. I called them and said, "Yo. American Lung Associaton. What's up? I got a ticket and you still haven't picked up my car." They said, "Oh yes, we're running behind. We'll take care of your ticket and someone will be there to pick up your car tomorrow."
Two days went by...
The next day I got home from shooting a national commercial (I know! Doesn't that sound important? It's really not. I think maybe my hands made it into the final cut...) and my car was gone. Hooray, thought I. I then receive a message from the American Lung Association telling me that they came by the house to pick up the car and there was no car there.
The city of ____ had towed my car because it sat on the street so long without plates.
The American Lung Association said oh dear, but not to worry. We have the title. We'll pick it up from where it was towed. No problem. Thank you for your donation and we apologize for the inconvenience.
This was in June.
In November, two days after I quit smoking, I receive a letter in the mail from the city of ____ stating that I was to pay $443 because of an abandoned vehicle or I was to go to a hearing scheduled for January 5, 2006.
I then call the American Lung Association and say "What the fuck?! Didn't you pick up my donated vehicle? Why is this happening? Why am I being called to court, my license and registration threatened, money being requested all because I donated my car to you fuckers? Please fax me a copy of my title that I signed over to you back in June, for you are a non-profit organization and your files are public record.
Then Mike at the American Lung Association tells me everything I want to hear. "Oh, Ms. Plimco, this is simply dreadful! What an ordeal you have been through! What an unfortunate turn of events! You will no longer have to worry about any of this. I will take care of everything. You will not even have to go to court. How silly! I will be in contact with our towing company and we will change our donation policy so that no one will ever have to go through this again and I'm so so so sorry and will fix everything for you and will be in contact with you every step of the way. I will call you every day to let you know the progress I have made. This is my top priority."
I didn't hear from Mike for a couple of days. I called him. Dude? What's going on? "Oh, well the towing company manager is out of town and blah blahbity blah, but I'll be sure to get back with you. Not to worry. We'll take care of everything, Ms. Plimco."
This past Tuesday I call Mike and leave a voicemail telling him that my hearing is that Thursday and could they please fax me the title and have they figured anything out yet? Wednesday I call Mike and leave him a voicemail telling him that I am sad and angry that I have to take off work and go to court and go through spending all this time and energy and stress all because I thought I would be nice and donate my car to the American Lung Association.
Yesterday I went to the hearing. The Parking Clerk had me raise my right hand and listened to my story. I showed her what little evidence I had. She said "This is just awful! I'll see what I can do..." She left me alone in a little room with two flags and a tape recorder for a while. I sent pleas to the gods to restore my faith in America and the justice system and secretly wished horrible mouth ulcers on Mike from the USA donation center.
The Parking Clerk returns and says, "Sorry Charlie. You're screwed. You don't have enough evidence. That'll be $443." I then break down into tears against all the will in my being to never EVER cry in public.
That is the sad story of my day. I am sick of being nice and kind and wishing the best for my neighbor. I want a leather jacket and a motorcycle and a big knife.
Stupid American Lung Association. Stupid Mike. Stupid stupid stupid me for not making a copy of that title. Stupid.
I feel so taken advantage of. Walked all over. Naive idiot. People take advantage of nice people. I need to learn how to be cruel and threatening over the phone. I need to learn how to make people take me seriously. No, I'm serious! What if I get a tattoo that says: "Don't fuck with me, bitch." Maybe that would help...
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Watching people fall
One of the funniest things ever is watching people fall. I love it. I could watch people fall all day. The reason I love it is because gravity is something we all have in common whether we like it or not. And we've all fallen at some point in our lives so we can all empathize. I often feel like shouting after seeing someone fall, "Ha! Gravity gotcha again!!" Oh me...heh heh heh...
And this is prime season for falling because people are wearing big awkward booties and walking around on ice and snow and slippery sidewalks and hallways and floop! Keep your eyes open, people. The next incident could occur at any moment... Physical comedy at its best.
When I fall, I laugh. I fall rather frequently. Even if it hurts and makes me bruised or makes me bleed I still just find it so humorous. Whoops! I fell. Ha ha ha. What can you do? Honestly? It's just gravity...
What's best is when you catch someone falling who tries to pretend that it didn't happen. They just jump up and go on their way as though nothing humorous occurred. It is also best if this person is a business man in a suit or a snooty lady in a hat. Ha! No one can look important or posh when they fall. It's just plain goofy.
Monday, January 02, 2006
I want a cigarette
I haven't had a cigarette since Monday, November 28, 2005 at 10:30PM. I have wanted a cigarette many many many many many times since then.
I've wanted a cigarette because I always smoke when I go home to visit my family because they stress me out and you can smoke inside places in Tennessee.
I've wanted to smoke because I got a letter in the mail from the Transportation Department telling me that I owe them $443 or I have to go to court because of an "abandoned vehicle". I donated my car to the American Lung Association in June. Ironic, no? I hate the American Lung Association. The stress they have put me through has made me want to smoke so bad. And I'm sure I'm really going to want a cigarette before I mosey into court on Thursday. Fuck the American Lung Association. Fuck 'em.
I've wanted a cigarette because people I used to smoke with all the time were standing right next to me and smoking and saying "No. You quit? I don't believe it..." and then they'd blow the sweet smelling smoke in my direction.
I've wanted to smoke because I am rehearsing for the most emotionally and mentally draining play I have ever been involved in.
I've wanted to smoke because I got dumped before New Years.
I've wanted to smoke because that's what I do after drinking really really good scotch.
I would like to have a cigarette right now, in fact. I know! What are the chances of that? Wacky.
Grumble grumble grumble...
5 signs that you are about to break up with me:
- A major holiday that we've made plans for is coming up such as New Years or Arbor Day
- My mother meets you or speaks to you on the phone
- I give you a painting I made for you myself
- I've met at least 3 of your family members and have either been given a tour of their exotic garden, eaten an elaborate dinner of prime rib with them, dog sat for them, or watched some major film such as The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe with the 9 year old one
- I begin taking birth control
But it's ok. Other than that whole confidence plummeting "Why did he stop liking me?" thing. I won't have to tell him about the person I seduced and kissed when I was home for Christmas. I wasn't looking forward to that. And I already had a rebound with this guy that looks just like Beck, so that's nice. And when he dumped me, his hair looked really stupid. And I didn't really like him that much anyway...
This just in...
Apparently there are people that still believe in "true love" and finding "the one". Isn't that so naive and cute? I had no idea...