My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Public Nudity
This just in:
My model/actor ex-boyfriend? You may remember him from such Plimco hits as "My dog got beat up" back in January. Anyhow. He's in a new play. I just saw a press release. Potential audience goers are warned that there are "scenes containing adult nudity" in the play. HA! This is a 3 person play. I'd bet 5 pairs of socks that he's taking his clothes off. I'm tempted to Email him and ask him, but he keeps sending me these forwards of inappropriate pictures of vaginas in the shape of Homer Simpson and shit. I really don't want to encourage that. Maybe I'll just go see it and sit in the audience and try not to bust out laughing at his scrawny naked body.
You know the best part? In the pictures for the press release? He has his head sort of resting on this girl's chest and you can totally see his bald spot. Oh me. I love it.
Just so you know, this doesn't make me a bad person...finding glee in his public humiliation. Actually, you know what? It kind of does. Oh well. I don't care. I'm a horrible person, what can I say? That shit's funny though.
Act like you're listening
One of the challenges my latest play presents is a very lengthy dinner party, an entire act of a dinner party. My character, the character from the Brueghel painting, arrives at the beginning of dinner and remains until the end. But, I don't speak. Well, I throw in a few grunts and single word exclamations like, "Balls!" and "Cake!" and "Keep you warm." At the end of the party I have a monologue, but for the hour and what not preceding? I'm just there. A very real and active participant and presence, but unspeaking. This is challenging.
Why? Because the conversation is splattered all over the place. All these women from various points in history are talking about the shit they've been through, comparing war stories, comparing pain and suffering, how many babies they lost, how they were beaten, how they were killed. It's intense, but all over the place. The way it's written is such that a line will have a / in it and that signifies when the next character starts talking, so there's all this overlap. It's very realistic, but hard to pay attention to.
I must listen. I must react. 90% of acting is reacting. Whatever. It's tough. I mean, I'm a good listener in normal Plimco life, I think. Yes. I have to be. I hang out with actors. They like to talk about themselves a lot. (Yes I've heard about the pot calling the kettle names. Shut up.) But, when you're in a scene, such a long scene and you must listen... You will hear that scene over and over and over and over again throughout rehearsals and performance. You will probably become so familiar with the content that you memorize large chunks. And you still must listen. Like it's new every time. Like you're hearing it for the first time. That, to me, is more challenging than performing a 3 page eulogy or a fight scene or a sex scene or 5 pages of back and forth banter.
Try it. Try listening and making the listening interesting. Try actively listening for an extended period of time. (I doubt you can find people to talk around you and include you, but you be quiet for over an hour, but maybe something close.) It's important, to be able to listen, you know? To be able to listen well. To show respect and interest for the speaker even if you're not completely invested in what they have to say. It's a good skill to have. I think Americans as a whole are really bad at it. Listening. We're very quick to turn the conversation round to ourselves. I am just as guilty of this as the next guy. Wait.
shhhhh....
You guys.
Listen.
Sentence of the Day 2/27
"We haven't heard a report on the plastic food front."
Monday, February 27, 2006
I'm not sure if this is true, but I think it might be
Actors who get work in film are conventionally more beautiful than actors that get work on stage.
Actors that get work on stage are generally more talented than actors that get work on camera.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I was just thinking... It sort of makes sense. Being ugly is more forgivable in the theatre. You are still given a chance. There's still that distance. Your ugliness is that much further away, so it's ok. On camera? "Ugly" people in films are not really ugly. They just put sketchy make-up and prosthetics on them.
I'm not saying I'm ugly. I'm just saying that I get work on stage, not on camera. Not that I would want to work with film. Not that I audition for film, but... I run into/work with fairly conventionally ugly folks who are extraordinarily talented and are getting work in the theatre. There's something really cool about that, you know? Am I making any sense?
The message to be gleaned from this post? Hooray for working with talented ugly people! I guess.
The Suffolk Dialect
Just so you know, this is how all of you sound to me lately. You sound as though you're speaking with a Suffolk/East Anglia accent. This is the accent of my character in my play, so I've had to immerse myself in it. Do you ever read things with an accent? I'm not talking out loud, but in your head. The voice in your head when you're reading? Gracious, that sounds much more loony than I meant. I've written about this before. The voice you prescribe for one when reading their blog or a book or the newspaper is unique to the subject and tone. At least for me. But we've already established that I'm weird.
Anyhow. I can't get Suffolk out of my head. I was reading David Sedaris last night and realized that I was giving him a British accent.
Let me give you an example.
Suffolk is like Cockney, with these distinct differences:
The long I (as in nice) is pronounced like the diphthong in choice
The long A (as in hate) is pronounced like the diphthong in light
The long E (as in see) is pronounced like the diphthong in say
That's the basic rough sketch of it. It's very diphthongy and very much in the front of your mouth. It makes your mouth and tongue do all sorts of interesting things. Mostly head resonators are used, not so much chest. I feel it in my nose and sinuses.
This is how I'm reading/thinking things these days. Let's go with the familiar tune, "You are my Sunshine" to illustrate. This is how I think it:
You ah moi sunshoine
moi onlay sunshoine
you maighke may hapay
when skois ah graigh
you'll nevah know deah
how much oi love you
playze don't taighk moi sunshoine awaigh
If you say it out loud, it makes a little more sense.
Even though I grew up in the south, I've been told that I don't have an accent. I have the actor standard absence of accent. You learn this after a few voice classes. Because of this, my voice becomes this blank canvas that may easily have sounds impressed upon it. If I'm with you and you sound funny, I'll start talking like you. Unconsciously sometimes. Like when I talk on the phone to my Gramma. She's the most southern woman of them all. It's contagious. When I've had a bit to drink my southern comes out too.
You know what my latest vocal accent mystery is? Colorado. I think that's what it is. It's bizarre. I can't quite wrap my head around it. When I first heard it, I thought dude was from Texas. It's definitely unique, but... I don't know. Maybe this Colorado-ite has a speech impediment or something, cause it sure is weird. I mean, I like it. I think.
Roight. Have a noice daigh.
3 Sources of Pain
- When your alarm clock goes off at 5:30AM after being on vacation and you think to yourself, Good god. Did I really used to get up this early every day?
- When you cook yourself a chewy steak and accidentally bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. And for the next two days you keep poking at it with your tongue to cause yourself shooting pain and taste the metallic inner cheek taste.
- When you wear high heeled boots and walk out onto your porch where you have shoveled a path through the snow, but there's still just that little bit of enough snow on the porch so that when you step on it in your boots it makes this dreadful creeek scrape-ah sound that's worse than biting ice sound or fingers on a chalk board sound because it goes up your heel into your leg and makes your bones ache.
Sentence of the Day 2/26
"She's a lump."
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Shit. What if I'm a loser?
You guys. I think I might be a loser.
I used to make fun of people with blogs. Oh ha ha, look at Little Miss Molly Blog-a-lot. She has no friends and no life and writes about her lack of life all the time on her little on-line journal. I sure feel sorry for her. Oh well, at least she can feel loved by her internet "friends". They will keep her company on a long and lonely night.
I think I may have become Little Miss Molly Blog-a-lot.
Shit. That is so lame.
Let's look at the evidence that I might be a loser:
I've been on vacation since Tuesday and all I've done is talk to you guys. Well, maybe three other people...oh and my cast and director, but they don't really count.
I've turned into a recluse. I've listened to every CD I own. Loudly. I've taught myself how to cook. I've watched various black and white films. I've read...Oh I don't think there's a need to list all the crap I've been reading, but let's just say that my knowledge of cases of cannibalism in Melanesia is now much more detailed than it used to be. And David Sedaris makes me want to be a gay man when I grow up. I can now go for hours at a time talking to myself in a fairly believable and accurate Suffolk accent.
Last night was Saturday night and I was blogging and commenting all night when I wasn't lying on my couch and watching PBS in my steak coma. Oh, and I wrote an ode to my steak.
Shit. You guys. I think I might be a Loser.
But it's ok because I've been thinking... I've been thinking that the chances of you all being losers too is...fairly good. Statistically. Right?
Shit.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Sentence of the Day 2/25
"It's me."
Live from New England! It's Satuhday Night!
I have a hot date.
Date with the marinating steak
in my refrigerator
I'm going to prepare it according to the recipe inside the book. I'm just cooking it for myself because I'm selfish. I'd probably share it if you happened to be in the neighborhood. I'd offer you a glass of wine too and let you listen to my music.
I even shaved my legs and various other areas of interest in honor of the date.
The date with the marinating steak
in my refrigerator
There's a layer of muffled snow out. Clean and white and lovely dating conditions.
I have a couple videos I rented.
I wonder if he'll try to kiss me. I wonder if he brushed his teeth. I wonder if he'll wear a tie. I wonder if he'll sweat. I wonder if he says how nice I look. I wonder what we'll talk about. I wonder if I'll bore him.
After all.
Anything's possible on a Satuhday night when you've got a date.
With the marinating steak.
In my refrigerator.
Gypsy Curse
I hope you get what you want.
I hope you want what you get.
See? I don't think I want to get what I think I want. You know? I really don't think I know I don't want to actually get it. I'd be miserable. If I actually got it. I think.
Liar!
I used to have a real problem with lying to people. I remember looking out the window of the school bus in the mornings and telling myself, actually I think I would pray, praying that I would/could make it through the day without lying. If I was lucky I'd make it to second period.
Probably the most out of hand it got was when I went to the National Youth Leadership Conference in Washington DC. Details are sort of vague in my memory as to how the hell I got nominated for the NYLC. Seems like my slightly senile government teacher who was also a coach nominated me. He wore bow ties and shouted a lot. I had to get all these sponsors and raise thousands of dollars to go. It took forever to get all the sponsors and crap.
Anyhow. So, I get there and, I think on the plane ride over I decided. I decided that I would pretend to have a prosthetic knee. I practiced walking around in the airport without using a knee joint. I really enjoyed the idea of being with virtual strangers for a week and then never seeing them again. You could be whoever you wanted to be. What did they care? Sometimes I wish the arts program in my small town had a bit more funding so that I could have put all this energy into creating characters on stage, but the arts weren't exactly a high priority in Mule Town in the 90s.
I also decided that I would speak with a British accent. I told people I was from Wales, walked around with a prosthetic knee, and had hot tea every day at 3:00. People would join me for tea. Friends would walk slowly with me behind the group when we were hiking around to the various monuments.
That was such an odd thing to do looking back. I invested so much into this character. I think I actually fucked up my knee walking around like that all day. And I had spent so much time raising all that money only to pretend like I was someone else when I got there?
There's this condition, oh I forget what it's called, Histrionic Disorder or something? Where you have to be the center of attention all the time. I don't think that's what it was. I wasn't the center of attention. I sat quietly for the first few days and had tea by myself at 3:00 before anyone joined me. People thought I was weird. I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it. Challenge myself. See if I could get away with it. Invest so much in a character to the point that they become real to the world.
Whatever. Yeah. It's fucked up. That's the farthest it went. I had standard lies I'd tell for a while. I'd tell people my name was Burnadette. I had this whole story about how my Mom wanted to name me Burnadette and my Dad wanted to name me Plimco when my mom pushed me out in the delivery room she was like, "Burnadette! Her name is Burnadette!" My Dad kept forgetting they'd named me Burnadette and would be holding me and say, "Sweet little Plimco." and my mom would say, "Her name is Burnadette, damn it!" until she just gave up and started calling me Plimco too.
I'm not quite sure why I told that lie, but it has all the details of a truth, you know? I got good at telling that story. Especially the part where my mom says, "Her name is Burnadette, damn it!"
My point is, I don't trust people. Is that my point? I guess. Maybe it's that I'm not surprised when people lie to me. I expect it. I question truths and secretly wonder if they've spent as much time as I used to constructing this colorful fictional tale. People tell me they're going to do something and they don't? Fine. I'm disappointed, but it's expected. I don't trust you anyhow.
Sentence of the Day 2/24
"You look like a pilgrim!"
Friday, February 24, 2006
Space Muffins
I just wanted to let you know that my second batch of space muffins is in the oven. Oh yes. I'm making muffins. Just call me Donna Fucking Reed. Or Lucy...Lucy Lawless? No, that can't be right. Lucille Ball? Whatever. I'm a muffin baker.
They're space muffins cause the little cups I placed them in are silver like astronauts would eat. They are chocolate chip and the batter tastes ok even though the two eggs I used said to sell by February 5th.
I plan on bringing them to my cast this evening and thereby making automatic friends of them. People tend to think I'm stuck up or intimidating or something upon first meeting me because I maybe think too much and don't talk as much as other actors. But when I show up with muffins? Aw yeah. How can you not love someone who brings you muffins...even if they are made with old eggs. What's the worst that could happen? What do you get from off eggs? Syphilis? Typhoid? Anemia? What's that disease that pirates are always talking about? SCURVY! Damn. That'd be cool if I gave everyone scurvy. Aaarrrrggggg.
Location Location Location
Because I haven't gotten laid since 1982, I've been thinking of the times I actually DID have sex. I was trying to think of the strangest place. This is what I've got so far:
- The median of a highway
- In a hospital bed with a guy with a shattered pelvis while his mother was in the next room (I had to be verry verrry gentle)
- A grave yard
- The middle of a football field at night in downtown _____
- The middle of a ballroom floor in a Victorian mansion
- The drawing room in a Victorian mansion
- The receiving room in a Victorian mansion (Ha! "receiving")
- The violet suite in a Victorian mansion
- The gentleman's suite in a Victorian mansion
- The bridal suite in a Victorian mansion
- The peach suite in a Victorian mansion
- The croquet lawn by a Victorian mansion
- Under the kitchen table (original 1891) in a Victorian mansion
- The dining room in a Victorian mansion
- In the servant's bathroom in the servant's quarters of a Victorian mansion dressed as a housemaid with someone dressed as a footman while a tour was being given to about 40 senior citizens just on the other side of the door
- On top of dog vomit in the back seat of my car on a Sunday afternoon in a Stop and Shop parking lot
- On the stage on the set of Les Liasons Dangereus
That's all I can think of for now. I'm not sure which location is the most interesting. What do you think?
Where's the wierdest place you've ever had sex?
Surprise Again!
Due to an unforeseen and unexpected turn of events, I now have internet access for the remainder of my vacation.
And a jubilant "Huzzah!" rang through the throng of passers by.
So now I get to sit here without a bra on drinking perhaps one too many cups of coffee and listening to perhaps two decibels too loud of music and write all day about whatever I feel like telling you about as I feel like telling you about it.
The dog I'm dog sitting for, Gringo, took a giant shit on my nice rug in the hallway. I kept wondering when he was going to poo. Kept waiting for it. Wait for it....waaait for it. Maybe I missed it. Maybe he pooped last night in the dark. Nope. Just now on the rug. Giant pile of poo. Warm and stinky in my house. Stupid dog. I've got really good incense though. I can sent in my cloud of frankincense and forget any of this ever happened.
I'm only telling you this because I'm drunk
I've had a few glasses of wine. Shut up. I'm on vacation and you'll miss me until Monday.
So, I'm only telling you this because I'm drunk.
I love the stage. I cannot be around a stage without getting on it. Unless I'd get arrested or something if I tried to get on it. There were these amphitheatres in Woodland Park in my home town. I would stand there and be happy. It feels like home standing in the middle of a stage. I love it.
This evening I got to rehearsal and there was a production meeting going on. There was this controversy going on regarding our access to costumes for the photo shoot on Sunday. I helped out as much I could, but eventually excused myself and wandered upstairs to the theatre. I know where the light switches are. I turned them on. The stage is bare. The floor re-painted freshly black. The seats empty. Something is holy about an empty theatre. Quiet and big and blank. I stood there and soaked it in. Drank it up. It makes me giddy and dizzy just to stand there. Alone. On stage. My home. I turned about 23 cartwheels and then went back down stairs before people began looking for me.
I had sex on stage once. In college. I was the house manager for Les Liasons Dangerous. That show is hott in case you haven't seen it. I had keys to the theatre. The main stage. It was a raked set. Raked means slanty, inclined plane. I had sex with the guy who played the lover of the lead in the show. There's this sword fight at the end of the show. He got to fight. He was sort of cute, I guess. We had a pack of oreo cookies, a flashlight, and an alarm clock. We had sex on that raked stage. We were drunk as hell. His penis was really small if I remember correctly. He didn't last long. I didn't have an orgasm. He did. He passed out soon after. I ate some oreos and then ran through the seats in the audience and looked at his naked sleeping self on the stage with the oreos and the alarm clock. We had a show in the black box the next day. We were in the same play actually. He gave me a hickey. Everyone kept asking me where I got it after the performance. I didn't tell. He didn't tell. We never had sex again.
That was the first time I had sex on an empty stage in an empty theatre.
The second time? Oh. I need a few more glasses of wine before that story...
Ahem.
What I Rented Instead of DVDs
The Three Faces of Eve
Mean Creek
The Cocoanuts
The Plimco who Belonged to Herself
You know, as much as I whine about it, I'm happy to be alone. Independent. I enjoy having a whole house to myself. No one I have to wake up in the morning and see. No one I have to tell I'm going to do something when. I just do what I do when I want to do it. No one cares. No one's worried when I don't come home. No one's waiting or concerned.
And it's been so long at this point, I really can't imagine being comfortable enough around a man to get naked in front of him. And have sex? Right. I'd be far too shy. Did I really used to do that? I mean, I dance around naked by myself all the time, but in front of another human? And to achieve that level of intimacy? Penetration? God, did I actually ALLOW that once? In MY bed? I remember taking showers with some. That was nice. But it seems like a different person...taking the showers...allowing the intimacy.
I think that's why I get myself into these fantastical "relationships". They don't really get to know me. Not really. I still have myself to myself. My identity. I'm still very much defined sans Them. I am my own Plimco. The Plimco that belongs to herself. That's why I like them married or on the other side of the country or mythical or whatever. Because I'm shy. Because if they were actually here? In my room? In my bed? They'd have no idea what to do with me. And if they DID actually figure it out? I'd be far too shy to allow such intimacy....I think.... Yeah. I'm pretty sure...I couldn't actually go through with it... but... But if it DID happen... If I were to allow it to happen... and if it was good...and if he didn't let me go... then...
What?
Culinary Experiments
Once for February vacation, I decided I would learn French. Bonjour. Yeah. Didn't work out so well. Tres mal.
THIS year, I decided I would teach myself to cook. I can't normally cook. I know how to brown ground beef and I made an egg and sausage casserole once that people ate.
You guys, last night...you will not believe what I made for myself. Get this. I made braised fish and artichoke hearts and roasted red peppers in a white wine and dill and paprika sauce all over a lovely mound of cous cous. Seriously. I made that shit myself. And you know what? It was good! I'm not kidding! I probably should have chosen a fish other than salmon because salmon is thick and it took a while to cook through and I sort of over cooked the vegetables, but still. It was good. I ate most of it at my giant dining room table by candle light by myself listening to sad music, but then I got too sad and started crying and I'd had some of the white wine that went into the sauce, and it sort of turned into a scene from a vampire movie, but... I just ate the left overs and they were really tasty.
You know what else I made?
Pistachio pudding pie. I know! It is green and gelatinous and tasty. I also made raspberry oatmeal and popcorn. Not together. Separately. AND I bought a steak and blue cheese and mushrooms and spinach which I'm going to make for myself on Saturday I think.
Three cheers for my culinary genius!
HIP HIP....!
HIP HIP....!
HIP HIP...!
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Surprise!
Hi. I have unexpected internet access for the evening. Aren't you excited? Aren't your lives fuller somehow? Didn't you miss me?
Riiight.
So. Where to begin?
Firstly, I need a new vet. My vet sucks. I'm sure people become veterinarians because they dislike dealing with humans, but you need to have the semblance of bedside manner. She stinks. My dog is healthy. My vet stinks. It's like when I was healthy and went to my doctor for stop smoking drugs and birth control. It's as though they are disappointed that nothing else is wrong with me, with my dog. Can't we celebrate our health?
Second of all, my banker screwed my shit up. I go in to set up a savings account and he is all, hey. Let's switch your checking account over to this state instead of RI and yippidy doo, but you still have outstanding checks so we have to keep this one open and blibbity blah and I leave there with my head swimming and two more accounts than when I left and my money spread so thin that I seem way poorer than I was when I went in and AND I can't touch any money for 3-5 business days because they have to mail me a new ATM card. The worst part of this? I can't afford to do my laundry. I have the time on my hands to devote to doing my fucking laundry and I can't afford it. The only clean underwear I have are these boy shorts with stupid cherries or red stripes on them that I haven't worn since 1999 and I hate because they ride up my crack.
Third of all, I'm dog sitting for the most annoying dog evah. This dog doesn't speak English. Doesn't know English commands. He's pissing me off. His parents are Argentinean. How the fuck do you say "sit" in Spanish? How about "shut the fuck up you whining sack of shit?" He won't go up the stairs unless I put the leash around him and drag him up. He barks and whines if he's not in the same room with me. I must live with this for 3 days. And he stinks. I got Fluff Bucket groomed so she smells like fragrant and beautiful plum conditioner, but I can't appreciate it cause Gringo smells like ass.
I've turned into a recluse. I've forgotten all social skills.
3 complete strangers have called me "Sweet Heart".
Other, more exciting women have professed their love for the boy while I've been gone, so I'm essentially swept under the hypothetical rug. The boy said he'd call me every day and I haven't heard from him since January. I hate him.
I don't own a DVD player, so I can't rent anything that I want to see at the video store.
So, yeah. My vacation has been FANTASTIC so far. Yours?
Sentences of the Days
2/21
"If you keep feeding her like that, she'll continue to gain 8 pounds a year."
2/22
"When you come to pick her up, just stay at the door. I have Molly in the tub who got sprayed by a skunk."
2/23
"I found these truffles in the fridge upstairs. Will they do?"
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Vacation
People. I'm going on vacation. I won't have internet access until Monday probably. I asked Miss J if she would bumbersit my bumbershoots, but I haven't heard back yet.
In any case, don't forget about me. Also, don't write about anything too exciting while I'm gone please.
I'll miss you my quietly verbal associates.
In case you're getting jealous, I just don't have to work. I'm not going anywhere exciting for vacation. I'll be sitting around my house in my jammies listening to loud music and reading my new book on mythology and rehearsing and doing character bio homework and dialect work and intermittently masturbating and talking to myself. Exciting stuff.
Ecclesiastes 7
I keep meaning to write about this. The last play I was in, I played a junior minister. During the play, I had to write my grandfather's eulogy. All four actors were constantly on stage, so when I wasn't in a scene, I was "writing" my eulogy. I had a bible on stage with me. Every night I opened it randomly. Every night I opened it to Ecclesiastes 7:
1 A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one’s birth.
2 It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.
3 Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.
4 The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.
8 Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof: and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.
9 Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.
This has to be the most depressing chapter ever. I always wanted to believe that laughter was so powerful. That providing entertainment and joy was one of the biggest and most noble things one could do, but... There does seem to be some truth in it, you know? Gracious, think about it. The day of death is more important than the day of birth. Wow. Sorrow is better than laughter. Really?
I should have something more poignant to say about this, but I'm stuck. I pondered it every night on stage for over a month. And I still can't put into words what makes me so sad about it. Because it's true? Because my parents, Christians that I love believe this? They're working toward, looking toward eternal life with their savior. The end. Meanwhile I'm enjoying the beginning. Laughing my head off. Wanting them to be here with me now in this moment. Now. And... I guess that makes me a fool.
I don't know what I'm saying, but these verses would make me sob. Just thinking about these verses and the weight and importance of the end. Death. These words would make me sob. Night after night. Even now they have a similar effect.
Sentence of the Day 2-20
"I hate to interrupt, but I just have to point out that throughout our intense discussion about the definition of feminism, there is a man in the apartment across the street walking naked back and forth in front of his window."
Monday, February 20, 2006
First Read Thru
I had my first read thru last night for my next play.
I enjoy the beginnings of things. That first read thru where everyone's not quite sure what to make of the others and everyone's a bit shy or trying to assert their personality on people. And then there's the text. Just the text. The words. The play in its most raw form. God, I love it.
My director is super punctilious as well which is kind of how I work. I like to know every inner brain working of my character. What they're thinking, what they're feeling, what they had for breakfast, what they're afraid of, what they smell like, why they say what they say when they say it. Anyhow, my director kept handing out all these study guides and dialect guides and dialect CDs and Yay! I'm excited. I love homework.
You can usually tell too, at the beginning of things, who is going to get on your nerves. This time it's going to be the girl who plays my best friend. She has to be 19. Cute as a button, but dear lord. She is in that teenage actor stage of wanting to be as big a person as possible and look at me and everything I've accomplished and I'm just 19 and oh yes, I've done a standard English dialect before and I have connections to the costume department at MIT and someone there owes me a favor and isn't my hair so great and don't I have a perfect figure and the roundest little tight ass you've ever seen and oh you guys! This is just going to be so much fun! Yammer yammer yammer.
Yeah. She's going to piss me off. I just know it. So it goes. You can't really be in the theatre without having to deal with theatre folk I suppose. Stupid actors.
Why I'm maybe not the best slumber party thrower ever:
I made an attempt at a slumber party Saturday night. I'm sort of embarrassed to admit how lame of a person I am. Ok. So, if I invite you to a slumber party at my house, you must also decide what you want for dinner and bring that stuff and cook it because I only know how to cook two things. I can maybe be put in charge of getting the ground beef. I'm also good at browning ground beef. It's a gift. If you want to eat junk food and drink soda, you must also bring that too because I don't have that stuff. Oh and other than beer and gin, you should probably bring the alcoholic contents of fancy martinis you want to drink. I have glasses and a shaker. And cherries.
I have loud music we can listen too, but it's probably kind of weird or depressing or in a different language and you probably won't like it. I don't get cable and won't think to suggest watching TV cause I don't watch it. If you figure out how to turn it on, it will be all fuzzy and you'll have to struggle with the antennae.
After we get drunk I will make you read my books of poetry. I will make you read the poems that are hardest to read out loud. I will find this incredibly humorous. You will shake your head and wonder why you are my friend while I'm cackling at your delivery of a selection from Runny Babbit or Sleeping with the Dictionary.
I DID rent a movie, though. Ok, it's in black and white and 3 hours long, but come ON. Humphrey Bogart? Lauren Bacall? The Big Sleep? It's classic. You will fall asleep 5 minutes into it at all of 11:00 and begin to snore. I will laugh at you because you are a big person and you are sleeping and the film is called The Big Sleep and that is funny.
Sorry about your nice black shirt that is covered in dog hair, but wasn't it nice to spoon with a large warm furry animal all night? She slobbered on your slippers? Sorry about that.
I WILL make you cookies, though. Or put the pre-made dough on a tray and stick it in the oven and only half burn them for you.
And I DID read your tarot cards. I even bought your lunch on Sunday that you didn't like because they put too much french dressing on your panini and it made you sick.
But come on, we had fun, didn't we? Huh? Will you come over again soon? Please? I like having company.
Sentence of the Day 2/19
"I have two black silk kimonos at home we could use."
Sentence of the Day 2/18
"Medium rare."
Saturday, February 18, 2006
The Horrible Coffee Story Part II
My family came to Memphis for my college graduation. Big Grandpa had died only a few weeks before, so only my immediate family was in the mood to celebrate me graduating.
I lived in this gigantic purple house full of artists and 2 chefs with a turret in the ghetto in Memphis. We lived next to a housing project full of crack heads. I'm being serious. Some hot Memphis nights, when the crack heads would be really rowdy and breaking their bottles of Colt 45, I'd pull out my saxophone and play for them. My window open, the improvisational "jazz" would float from my upstairs window down to their crack induced brawl and pacify them.
My sisters stayed with me the night before my graduation. The next morning we had to get up at the crack of dawn and head to the pyramid. Yes I graduated in the pyramid. I have the picture with my face on the jumbotron to prove it.
We needed coffee. We went down to the kitchen and I made a pot. Miss J put heaping teaspoons of sugar in hers from a bowl on the counter. We went back up to my room with the steaming cups. Miss J took a sip of her coffee. The look on her face. The look was one of absolute sheer horror and disgust and surprise.
The chefs I lived with kept bowls of salt at the ready in the kitchen for pinching into various chef like experiments. She had dumped teaspoonfuls of salt into her coffee. Can you imagine?
I live in fear of the day that it is my turn to pay for the coffee ground torture from my childhood.
But the look on their faces...
The Horrible Coffee Story Part I
The Big E says that I've been telling so many stories from my childhood that she hasn't been a part of that she feels left out, like she wasn't a part of our childhood at all. Not true. Here is a Big E story that I am not proud of:
My mother was the organist at church. This meant that we three girls spent many a Saturday at the church while she practiced. We had the run of the place with "A Mighty Fortress is our God" as our soundtrack. We would hide-n-seek around the pews, sneak into the acolyte closet and eat the communion wafers, deliver fake sermons from the pulpit. We were bad.
I remember those days being very dim. I don't think we turned on very many lights so as not to up the electricity bill for the church or something. But the lighting from those Saturdays seems very gray and blue in my mind. The only light coming through the yellowy stained glass or the few narrow windows in the fellowship hall.
One particular Saturday we got into the kitchen. There wasn't much to get into except for damp paper towels and coffee condiments and those little straw stir sticks. We started making potions. Potions out of sugar cubes and hot water and dried creamer. We made a mess. At one point either me or Miss J, I don't remember who, got out the economy size of Maxwell House coffee. We got out a heaping spoonful. The Big E must have been 4. She was so happy that we were playing with her. We often played much too mature games for 4-year-olds. One of us, I don't remember who, sniffed the heaping spoonful of coffee grounds and said, "mmmmm...it smells soooo good! Big E, you want to taste the yummy coffee grounds?"
She said yes and into her mouth we dumped the spoonful of coffee grounds.
The look on her face.
I think this may have been the first time in my childhood that I felt truly evil.
She pretended to like it. "MMMmm" came blubbering from her little mouth as brown foam and drool dripped down.
I think we made her spit it out. She still insisted that she liked it because she wanted us to play with her. Like when we would play Uno and she would pretend to like having to draw more and more and more and more cards. I think we made her promise not to tell Mom what happened. "We shall never speak of this again."
A mighty fortress is our God.
I am not proud of that story.
Sentence(s) of the Day 2/17
"That's a phrase I never thought I'd hear come out of your mouth, Plimco. 'I'm trying to find a doily.'"
Written on the back of a paper placemat:
The first time I went to this bar, it smelled of vomit. Vomit on a dirty mop. Today it's not so bad. I'm in a one-seater. The hostess snuck me in. No, it's just me. "Come on, hon. I got a spot for you in back."
Carded for my Sam Adams. Must be the ribbons in my hair. The sty in my eye. The Olympics are on. Watching athletes be deft on slippery surfaces is hypnotic.
"Can I get you something to drink while you wait for your friend?"
No, it's just me. Just me.
Why are all the ice skating men wearing tuxedos this evening? Is it ballroom skating night? That reminds me. I've been meaning to ask him if he knows how to polka.
Him.
I love to polka. It's one of my favorite things to do.
Those ice skating women have the faces of opera singers and the bodies of sculpture. Marble muscle. Hard.
It's so hard.
That cheeseburger was delicious.
I think that couple is out on their first date. They have to be in high school. Matching sodas. She will not shut up. I wonder if she knows how she sounds. Yap yap yappa yap.
My waitress must think I'm a loony for writing columns of text on the back of my placemat like this. I brought a book, but my mind started to wander. Wander to him. The familiar place of him and his lap.
Him.
He's driving me crazy. Him. I hate him. I hate him for reducing me to this doe eyed, shit eating grin wearing, by myself drinking, no sex having, cheeseburger eating, moist vagina having, torn up, wrecked apart, distracted mess of a girl on a Friday night.
There's a table of men over there. Six of them. I bet one of them would have sex with me. I think they're in college though. Damn.
Damn damn damn.
Ok. This creepy looking man with a porn star mustache and greasy hair who was sitting in the booth across from me just paid his bill. As he's walking past he says to me, "Have a good night, Smiley." Smiley?! Do I really look that stupid that strangers are calling me Smiley?!
"How ya doin', Sweetie?"
Can I get the check when you get a chance?
I've got a birthday party to go to...
Friday, February 17, 2006
Waiting for them to die
The mouse who lives on my desk. He smells so bad. The average life span of a mouse is 9 months. He's been living on my desk for over a year. I'm waiting for him to die.
The Bald Monkey. My cat. My cat licks himself bald. He has obsessive/compulsive disorder. He's been diagnosed. Some spots on himself he cannot reach with his tongue. Those spots are not bald. Sometimes he licks himself so much that he gets scabs. I put him on kitty OCD meds for a while, but felt so bad shoving these things down his throat to make him catatonic (pun!) all day. I figured, it's not harming his health. Let the boy lick. He's not much to look at. But there are ugly people that have good hearts.
The Bald Monkey is the most vocal cat I know. He won't shut up. Constantly yapping. ROURW? ROURW? ROURW? Incessantly. Granted the dog does her fair share of cat pestering, but still...
I got the Bald Monkey when I was a junior in college. We've been through a lot together. I'm waiting for him to die.
Does that make me a bad person?
While we're on the subject...
What is that phase in child development? The fecal stage? Sometimes I swear I'm stuck there. I really am a child, but apparently so are you so...back to poop.
Blood, poop, theatre, what more could one ask for in a casserole?
A word of advice:
Never NEVER NEVER eat a giant meal of the spiciest of spicys Chicken Tikka Masala and then go on a 10 mile hike the next day in the mountains with your dog.
Why?
Because you will get on top of the mountain and you will get a message from your bowels that says now NOW! We must expel NOW! And then you must jump off the path and hope no one else will hike by and shoot the spiciest of spicys Chicken Tikka Masala paste poop out of your ass and fend off your dog who is trying to eat it. You will fail. Your dog will have your own shit smeared on her face as you hike back down the mountain.
You have been warned.
Little Family
This morning, I had to poop. Shut up. It's a completely natural occurrence. I went into the littlest bathroom downstairs. When I say the littlest bathroom, I mean teeny. As in postage stamp. As in it's tucked under the stairs, has enough room for a toilet, your feet in front of the toilet and the teeniest little doll sink that can maybe fit one and a half hands. So I'm sitting there thinking thoughts and pooping and in comes my cat, the Bald Monkey. I live by myself so I don't have to shut doors. He squeezes to the other side of the bowl and sits there. I say, "Hi, Bald Monkey. How nice of you to join me." Then in comes the dog, Fluff Bucket. Or as much "in" as she can muster. She can fit maybe 1/3 of herself into the littlest bathroom. So Fluff Bucket is trying to sniff out the Bald Monkey and I'm between the two pooping in the littlest bathroom under the stairs. Then it hit me. We are a little family. A little disfunctional family, but a little family none the less.
Sentence of the Day 2/16
"I'm not H-O double T anything."
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Sty in my Eye
Hi. I have a sty in my eye. Yes, I know I look like a freak, but that's no reason to stare, little boy. No, I can't open it all the way and it's swollen and there's puss coming out of it, still. That's no reason to stare. Yes, I realize there's crust around my nose, but you see, I can't keep up with the blowing and the wiping, so I gave up. What? Yes, I'm shaking uncontrollably. I have a fucking fever. Why am I here at work? Because I'm irreplaceable. Because this place can't run without me, that's why. Because no one knows how to fix your stupid mistakes. Because 503 things have to get done before vacation next week and I'm the one who has to do them.
Please don't stare at me. I look like hell, I know I know, you don't have to tell me, I know. It's just snot. Get over it.
Sentence of the Day 2/15
"Oh, a rhinoceros!"
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Depressing Daisy
I think I'm sick. I think I have a fever. I think I got the sickness from the little fuckers that sneeze on my phone all the time. I think I should go home, but I can't.
My friend asked me yesterday, "Why don't you go out with your girlfriends and get drunk tonight?" My response was, Girlfriends? Oh, you mean the married women that I hang out with all the time? Yeah, they'll probably be fucking their husbands this evening, but nice try. Thank you for playing.
A ton of daisys just got delivered to me at work. Daisys are my favorite. (I know the plural of daisy doesn't have a "y" in it, but I like the y there.) They are so bright and happy and simple. I thought, who in the hell would be sending me flowers? The boy I'm obsessed with doesn't know where I work...or does he?
Yeah. They are from my married friends, Henry and Sally. The card reads thusly:
Happy UnValentine's Day! We just wanted to let you know that you are loved!
Love, Sally and Henry
It's the "just" that kills me. They really are very sweet and I love them and they are like family to me but... BUT! How depressing is it that the only people that send me flowers are my married friends?! How depressing is it that my closest friends are married people? How depressing is it that my only long term relationship is with married people?
They're beautiful though. The daisys. They know they're my favorite. They know me well. I love them too. Humph.
Free Cheese
Tonight I get to read one of my favorite plays of all time out loud with other actors in front of the artistic director to see if they like that translation. To see if she wants to produce it this summer. I enjoy being on board for the beginnings of things. The very very beginnings of plays. The questioning: Why this play instead of another? What do we want people to think about when they see it? Does it make any sort of political statement to produce this play at this time? Do we have an experienced enough acting pool which could pull this off? Can we afford to build this set? Do you have a choreographer, dramaturg, dialect coach? When is the last time this play was produced around town? Will people pay money to come see this? How will we market it?
I like it. The brainstorming. The analysis.
Personally, I have HUGE issues with producing this play this summer. It does not translate well to the outdoors and they're wanting to do it as their play in the park. So many of the themes are about claustrophobia and being stuck and cramped and trapped. I have no idea how this could come across al fresco. I may be met with opposition this evening as I think their minds are pretty set on doing this play in the park this year. Oh well. I don't have to audition for it.
I'm also told that there will be cheese and wine at the reading. You offer a Plimco free cheese and wine? She's there.
BLOOD! Story IV
I know BLOOD! day is technically over, but I want to tell more BLOOD! stories, so you'll have to get over it. House rules.
One of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me
My big sister, Miss J, and I went on a bike ride when we were little girls. I must have been 6? Do 6-year-olds know how to ride bikes? Maybe I was on my trike? Anyhow. We were little. We drove pretty far, or it felt pretty far. I remember there being pine trees around and we were alone in a forest. No, we were on the side of the road next to a forest. It's funny how memory works, isn't it?
Anyhow, I flew off of my bike into some gravel and tore up my knee something awful. There was blood everywhere. It wouldn't stop bleeding. I was crying and scared. Miss J took off her new tube sock. Remember tube socks in the 80s? You could pull them up to your knees and they had two bands of pastel color on them OR you could roll them down to make a giant ring around your ankle like you had planets on your feet. Miss J took of her brand new tube sock with lavender stripes and wrapped it around my knee tight to help stop the bleeding. I remember sitting on the soft pine needles as she dressed my wound and watching her hands which seemed to know what they were doing. She sacrificed her sock, her cool new tube sock. We walked our bikes home as the blood bled through.
She loved those socks.
Sentence of the Day 2/14
"I want to know you for the rest of my life, if we can."
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
BLOOD! Story III
Toy Casket
My friend Sally's sister-in-law, we'll call her Karla, was pregnant about a year ago. She was in her 8th month. She would be having a little boy. They had picked out a name and painted the nursery blue. In her 8th month she got into a car accident. Drunk driver. The baby died inside her. The doctors knew the baby was dead. The impact from the accident had caused Karla to go into labor. Karla knew her baby was dead. She was in labor for 7 hours giving birth to her dead child. Can you even imagine that? To work so hard, to go through so much pain and energy to bring a dead child into the world? They named him and had a funeral for him anyway.
Sally said the casket was so small, it looked like a toy.
BLOOD! Story II
One of the grossest stories I know
The cute boy at church, the one everybody had a crush on, Bill Taco, worked as a bag boy at the local Food Lion in my home town in Tennessee. I would try to play footsie with Bill under the table in confirmation class, but that is not what this story is about.
One Saturday morning, Bill was busy bagging groceries. This very large and distraught woman came in and asked him in panicked tones, "Where's the restroom?" Bill pointed to the back corner of the store and she shuffled over.
Bill forgot about her.
About an hour and a half, yes an hour and a half later, the woman emerges from the bathroom and hurriedly exits the store without purchasing groceries. Bill thinks, huh. She sure was in there a while. About 10 minutes later a lady comes up to him white as a sheet and says, "You may want to get a janitor in the women's restroom. There's a mess in there." Bag boy also doubled as janitor, so Bill went to investigate.
First off, he said the smell was that of a rotting carcass. He immediately gagged upon entry. He kicked open the first stall with his foot. Nothing. He moved to the second stall. Kicked it open. Retched. On the toilet seat was smeared human feces. Hundreds of little white maggots were moving in and out of the feces. There was brown splatter on the floor. The walls of the stall were smeared with gelatinous blood and shit and soggy toilet paper. In the unflushed bowl was feces, maggots, blood, chunks of...chunks of god knows what. No way it was flushing.
Poor Bill.
BLOOD! Story I
The Gruesome Dream
Last night I had a gruesome dream. I was doing a performance art piece for an audience. There were all sorts of animals around me that I was to de-bone. I ripped the bones out of bass. Rabbits were lying with their sides split open. I had a giant pregnant snake and a long sharp knife. I sliced the snake open and millions of babies slithered out. I sliced the babies open and more slithered out and more and more and more. The blood dripped from my knife. My hands were sticky with it. I remember thinking, they're dying for art, I'm killing them for the sake of art, it's ok. Death for the sake of art.
I woke up sweating.
My first thought was, wow, I'd really like to see a performance art piece like that. My second thought was, what's with the Indiana Jones references?
BLOOD!
I have about a %2 chance that I'm going to get laid today. Rather than wallow in self pity and sexual frustration in my cold and empty bed, I have decided to declare BLOOD! day here at Bumbershoot Casserole.
Today will be dedicated to telling stories involving BLOOD! Why BLOOD!? What better way to show our appreciation for massacres, Catholicism, and the circulatory system? Blood is red. It's festive.
Everyone is encouraged to participate. I'll start.
Sentence of the Day 2/13
"Vacuum cleaners never get to exhale."
Monday, February 13, 2006
Inappropriate poetry from old married men:
I wouldn't say he's a stalker. He just bought a t-shirt with my picture on it. I know him. He played my biological father in a play last summer. We smoked cigars together. But enough with the inappropriate poetry, Mr. old married man. Enough. Here is a taste:
(Valentine) Plimco,
i can take a hint.
But one last haiku:
canape nipples,
(pale lettuce green t-shirt off)
me, summer sucking.
I must say, he does have a knack with the haiku though...
Tu-B'Shvat
Happy Tu-B'Shvat! It's like Israel's version of Arbor Day. Come on, get in the spirit, people! Happy birthday, trees!
Last night while I was waiting for my phone to ring, I decided to look through my old journals from high school. I noticed some repeating themes:
- Use of the phrase, "well that sure was profound, wasn't it?"
- References to being a "good Christian girl"
- References to prayer
- I would write at night on my roof with a flash light, so I was always mentioning things rolling off my roof or my flash light dying
- I persistently made references to fairies and demons and midgets and ear wax and poop and rain
- Use of the word and definition of the terms normal, unique, and weird
- References to waiting around for a boy who lived far far away to call
- Trees
I spent a lot of time in trees. Climbing trees, falling from trees, eating under trees, lying under trees, our "tree house" on our farm which was really only a platform built around a tree. I spent a lot of time thinking about, writing about, being in and around trees. I had this grand plan to move to Ireland with the boy who lived far far away and find a nice tree and live there until we got old.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this except to say that the rediscovery of this information is comforting some how as well as appropriate and timely as today is Tu-B'Shvat.
Happy birthday, trees. Thanks for everything.
Sizing Panties
Who the hell is in charge of deciding what size panties are? Because it's grossly out of whack. I bought a 3 pack of panties this weekend. You know the kind. One a solid color. One with stripes. One with flowers. Cotton. Sexy. Yeah.
The stupid fuckers don't even fit. They're huge and baggy. Why are panty sizes 3 times as large as regular sizes?! I don't get it. And it's not like I can take them back. I'm stuck with the giant bloomers.
Let's say that I wear a size 8 normally. Size 6 if it's A line. One would think that if one picked up a variety pack of Jockeys that said they were size 7, one would think that they would fit, right? Right? I don't understand it. I hardly ever fit into a size 5, but if I want panties that fit, that's the way I must go.
The strange thing is, if things are sized small, medium, large? Medium seems to be medium. I don't get it.
Why does the booty get such different treatment?
The Snow Bird Report
I have emerged victorious from the blizzard! This town amazes me how prepared they are for winter weather. Everything's back up and running. Business as usual. It was just a blizzard. Big deal.
I am still kind of a wuss when it comes to snow. It's the Tennessean in me. We'd have snow days for frost in Tennessee. It would snow one inch and people would be crammed into the grocery store stocking up on supplies, ramming into each other on the roads. It was just silly. But at least you knew. You knew if you got up and looked out the window and you could see white? You knew there would be no school No question. Here? You dig your car out of a foot and a half of snow and head to work the next day.
The Nashville news station had this meteorologist personality, Bill Hall. I wonder if he's still around... Anyhow, Bill Hall had this penguin puppet friend, the snow bird. When there was snow, there'd be the Snow Bird Report and that stupid puppet would tell you which schools were closed. I still remember the jingle to the Snow Bird Report...
I have gotten better at sliding around on the road here. After the first couple of times, you get used to it. The secret is to not panic. I'm sliding around! I'm sliding around! Holy shit, I'm sliding around! Of course you are, the road is covered in snow, doofus. Don't panic. Go with the direction of the slide...take your time...and move forward with caution.
Ok folks. I'm done talking about the weather. I promise. To prove it, I will close this with a lyric from Tom Waits:
And all over the world....strangers....talk only about the weather.
All over the world
It's the same
It's the same
Sunday, February 12, 2006
More Blizzard Fun
All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. all work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES PLIMCO A DULL GIRL. All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl...All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl, all work, and no play makes Plimco a dull girll. All Work And No Play Makes Plimco A Dull Girl. all work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. All work & no play makes Plimco a dull girl. All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. all work and no play makes plimco a dull girl. All work and no play...makes plimco a dull girl. ALL work AND no PLAY makes PLIMCO a DULL girl. all WORK and NO play MAKES plimco A dull GIRL. All work, and no play, makes plimco a dull girl. All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl.
all work and no play makes plimco a dull girl.
All work and no play makes plimco a dull girl, all work and no play...makes Plimco a dull girl.
redruM redruM REDRUM
The secret to successful snow shoveling:
I was going to share my secrets on this after going out there, but something happened that changed my theory. It's still snowing. Buckets and buckets. There are drifts that have to be at least 3 feet high.
My revised secret to successful snow shoveling?
Wait for the nice Vietnamese boy from next door to stop by and do it for you.
Bless his cotton socks.
The term "cute"
I hate the word "cute". Hate it. Loathe it.
Someone referred to me as a "cutie pie" in my comments on Friday and I've been pissed off about it all weekend. I'm sure the commenter had the best of intentions and meant the statement as a compliment, but it still pisses me off.
First of all, I hate it when people who don't know me call me cute. Waiters and waitresses for example. They are always calling me "cutie" and "honey" and can I get you another drink, sweetie? Most of them are at least 5 years younger than me. What the fuck? Why do people, complete strangers think they can do that? A couple months ago my Dad and I went out for breakfast. I got carded for a cup of coffee. I shit you not. The woman came up to us and was like, "Coffee sir? And for you sweetie? Oh I'm sure you don't want coffee, how bout some chocolate milk?" My eyes filled with rage and my father put a steady hand on my shoulder and said, "She'll have a cup of coffee. Black. Thank you." Fine. Sometimes when I don't wear make up and put my hair in pigtails, I can look about twelve. What is my point here?
Cute. Ok. Think of the ugliest animal you know. Imagine it sitting on your coffee table. If you think about it long enough, you could say it was cute. So ugly it's cute. Bulldogs? So ugly they're cute. I find the term insulting.
I want to be sexy or exotic or mysterious or beautiful or weird or stunning. Anything but fucking cute. Cute is what you call a little piglet. Cute is what you call a pink cardigan sweater. Cute is what you call a girl who is plain. I find it condescending and rude to be referred to in this manner.
I am not cute. People that know me? They don't call me cute. I am dark and gross and manipulative and evil and decapitate fleas heads on purpose and pick my scabs off and mail them to people. I pop the heads off of Barbies and chew on their legs. I've broken many hearts. I'm selfish and mean and used to bite people until I drew blood once. This is my favorite joke:
"What do you get when you stab a 6-year-old in the throat? A REALLY big hard on!"
See? Not cute. I'm not a fucking cutie pie. I'm your worst nightmare.
The Graphic Novel
Miss J's husband (I guess I could call him my brother-in-law, but for some reason, I dislike that label) gave me a graphic novel for Happy Birthday Jesus Day. He gave me The Watchmen by Alan Moore (writer) and Dave Gibbons (illustrator). It won the Hugo Award. I just finished it.
I had no idea there was such good writing in this medium. I mean, I got into comic books kind of late. I started reading junk like Optic Nerve and Johnny the Homicidal Maniac in college, but I'd never read anything like The Watchmen.
Graphic novels are like crack. They feel so bad for you, so decadent, so childish, but... What they can accomplish when written/drawn well? The way they make your eye move, the dialogue, the high high stakes, the characters with fantastic abilities and lives, the ability to create environment and tone and change that so quickly? Wow. I have been in public reading The Watchmen and I've gotten so into it that I've gasped out loud. Said things like "No!" and "This can't be happening!" to the book. The sex scenes are so intense. The ability to do two things at once. Have silent action going on and dialogue in the background. It's so unique. For instance, there's this sex scene between two super heros where they're having coffee and watching the news and then they start having sex. The news is still on. You still "hear" the commercials, see the steam coming up off their coffee, while they have sex.
Gracious, it's addictive. I want to read another one, but I fear that this may be the best graphic novel ever and all others will pale in comparison.
This morning's pancake fiasco
I tried to make pancakes this morning. I love pancakes. They're so nice and circular and soft and tasty and warm. I was given some pancake mix as a gift. All it called for was a cup of water and you just mix it up and you're ready to go.
I fucked up. I can't cook. I mean, I can sometimes cook, but it is a crap shoot. The bag said to cook the cakes until golden brown. I did that, but when I started to eat my stack, they were still raw in the middle. I recognized that this was probably not right, but the butter and syrup disguised the not quite right factor and I kept eating them. I ate them all.
I feel sick. I feel like I might throw up. I have officially made myself sick with my own cooking.
Blogging her way through the blizzard
People. There's a blizzard going on out there. We're talking feet of snow. I'm going to be in here for a while. I was awoken around 3:00 this morning to some cop on a bull horn saying that it was a snow emergency and if your car was parked on the street you needed to move it pronto. That is such a surreal way to wake up, let me tell you.
These are the things I wish to talk about to pass your blizzard time and mine:
- This morning's pancake fiasco
- My new found appreciation for the graphic novel
- My disdain for the term "cute"
- The secret behind successful snow shoveling
Let's get started, shall we?
My Ex Boyfriend's Play
I saw it. In the same space in the same theatre that I'd been performing in for the past month. He performs there now. It didn't look like my previous home. Their set was all different and the audience was in a different place and... Yeah. It was pretty weird and didn't do much for my PSD.
I saw him. For the first time since I walked out of his apartment before New Years after he dumped me. He did an ok job, I guess. No. He was fine. I was not attracted to him in the least. What the hell was I thinking those two months? His chin is so...weak. He played a bunch of different characters. One was supposed to be this coke head pimp bad ass with tattoos. Ha! He did not pull this off well. The play was entertaining though. A little fruity and stagey at times, but overall, I was entertained. I'm happy for them. They have a solid show.
Before the guy I didn't really like all that much in the first place dumped me, he called me one morning because he had this nightmare. In the nightmare he went to his own funeral. He kept walking around and talking to all the mourners in his suit and trying to convince them not to cry, that he was still alive. He came up to me in the dream and I said, "I never got to see you in a suit until now." And he was wearing the suit he was buried in. Anyhow. I never saw him in a suit. Until Friday night. He wore one in his play. He didn't look that great in it, but it was still sort of eerie.
I'm fairly certain he saw me there. I'm fairly certain he made eye contact with me during curtain call. I got the hell out of there as soon as I could after it was over, though. I have nothing to say to him.
My New CDs
- The Best of Al Green
- PJ Harvey Rid of Me
- Stereolab The Emperor of Tomato Ketchup
What is that called when you like lots of different shit? Oh yeah. Schizophrenia. What's really kooky is when you put them on random...
PSD continued...
So Post Show Depression doesn't really sink in until the first free weekend. One would think one would be happy to have a free weekend again. To have so much time to do with as one pleases. To not have to be somewhere at a certain time sober. To not have any obligations to entertain anyone.
Instead one is reminded how much of a recluse they really are. One's automatic social life is automatically turned off. One dines alone. One goes to the theatre alone. One goes home alone. One goes to bed alone. One wakes up alone and faces a day to themselves.
I bought three CDs today and the twerp behind the counter said, "Have a better one." Thanks, twerp. I guess PSD is sort of obvious on one's countenance. One puts on their jammies at 7:15 PM, curls up with the dog and From Here to Eternity and Office Space and tries to ignore the fact that it's Saturday stupid night and your twenty stupid something years old and sort of an interesting person and could go out somewhere and be social, but instead pour yourself another glass of wine and ask yourself for the umpteenth time why in the hell you stopped smoking cigarettes.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Sentences of the Weekend 2/10-2/12
"I've never been so miserable in my life as I have since I met you."
"Neither have I."
"I wouldn't trade a minute of it."
"Neither would I."
From Here to Eternity
Friday, February 10, 2006
Quantum Leap
I didn't have imaginary friends growing up. I had Al.
This is how weird of a child I was, people. In 7th grade I would be at school and I would pretend that Dr. Sam Beckett leapt into my body. If you don't remember Quantum Leap, you are too young to be reading my blog. He would usually leap in around 1st period. I'd spend first period trying to "act normal". Figure out what year it was, what country I was in. Okaaaayy...I seem to be in a school of some sort... If the teacher calls on me, I'll answer, but I don't need to let on that I know so much because it looks like this must be....Middle School? Let me just inconspicuously look through my bag and find out what my name is... Plimco? Celia Plimco? Ok, so I'm a girl. Al? Al?! AL! Where are you? What am I doing here? Oh, this person next to me seems to be making fun of me to her friends.... I wonder if I can find a class schedule in this backpack so I know where I'm going when the bell rings to change classes. I'll probably have time to go to the bathroom then to see what I look like...
Then I'd accidentally walk into the boys bathroom "forgetting" I was a girl. When I got to the girl's room after many comments loud and whispered of "Plimco's crazy", I would look in the mirror as though seeing myself for the first time. Touch my face. My zits. Then Dr. Sam Beckett would say something witty like, "Huh. Looks like I'm a fat ugly 13-year-old. Great."
I'd spend my entire school day like that. As Dr. Sam Beckett. Talking through my teeth to Al at lunch and during quizzes.
Why am I telling you guys this? It has to be the most embarrassing chapter of my childhood. Wait. There was the time I got stuck in the dryer... There's that.
The plays I'm seeing and have seen
I went to see my arch nemesis's play with the woman who played my grandma in my last play last night. Tonight I'm going to see my ex boyfriend's and Saturday I'm going to see the woman who played my mom once, a play she wrote.
Let's review last night's play:
My arch nemesis is dubbed such because we always get called back for the same part. Either she gets cast or I get cast. I had auditioned for last night's play. She got cast. This was the first time I had ever seen her perform. I was so damn curious to see what she would do on stage. What was so similar between our styles and energy that we keep vying for the same parts.
She has the freakiest eyes and I'm not being snarky. She does. They're gorgeous. They're big and greenish purpleish brown if that's possible. They are constantly moving. Darting back and forth and up and down and around like a...lizard? She's acts with her eyes. It is so distracting. It freaks me out. Then I started thinking, am I an eye actor? I don't think so. My eyes are just brown and stupid. But they're so dark brown that you can't even tell where the pupil stops, so the effect is that I look like a Peanut's character. She has great legs, mine are ok, but not that fantastic. I don't know. The play last night sucked. I'm not the only one who thought so. The woman who played my grandma thought so and the man in line for the bathroom thought so. I've been easily distracted lately, so I wanted to make sure. My mind started wandering in the first 5 minutes and I started looking to see what other audience members did with their coats. There was also this whisper conversation going on in the booth. Hello?! People? Miss light board operator, we can hear you.
Seeing bad theatre takes something from your soul that you can never get back. It makes me feel dirty and grouchy and antisocial.
Tonight I'm going to see the guy I didn't like that much in the first place, the guy that dumped me before New Years. His play. We actually met at the audition for this play. We were put together to read this scene that begins with the end of a blow job. There was a kiss in the scene. Usually you don't kiss at auditions, but this kiss was referred to in the script and it just would have looked stupid if we didn't do it so I said, "Do you want to do the kiss?" He said, "I don't care". I said, "Yeah, I don't give a shit". Later in the scene the guy proposes to the girl.
He got cast. I didn't. I haven't talked to him since he dumped me with the exception of a text message he sent me on opening night. I am so curious. I want to see if he sucks. I want to see him do that scene. I've never seen him perform.
So, it looks like I'm being a spy, I guess. That's kind of weird, but I don't care. I'm curious. And the tickets were free.
Sentence(s) of the Day 2/9
"I like your coat. It's much better than my Mom's."
This is my 100th post! Wacky...
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Narrative Dreams
I've been having narrative dreams lately. Do you guys have this? I think I've been reading too many blogs and that's why. Too many little narrations of people's lives. So, I'll be in the dream and then this voice over, I guess it's my voice, starts narrating the scene. "Plimco walks down the sidewalk shuffling her feet and avoiding the puddles. Her mind is preoccupied. Her expression despondent." Weird. Sometimes it's another voice. When I read your blogs, I prescribe you with a voice. Oftentimes it's mine by default. The way I would tell your story. But sometimes what you're saying, your opinions, the way you match words together is so completely foreign to me that I have to create a voice for you. This whole affair is so curious. I'm going to have to think about it some more...
That was quick
I accidentally got cast in another play. I got the role I wanted. The lead. Yay.
Just so you know, and I'm not tooting my horn, but just so you know, this never happens. Usually there's a process. You go to an audition, do a monologue, maybe get put with another auditioner and do some readings from the script. Then you go home and you wait. You wait for a call or an Email telling you that you got called back and that call back auditions are on such and such a date. Then you go to call backs and read in all sorts of combinations with all sorts of people for a few hours. Then you go home and you wait. You wait for the call or the Email that says you either got cast or you didn't. There's a lot of waiting.
But this time? I went to the theatre. They didn't have me do my monologue. (Although I had prepared a new one that I wanted to try on them. My Jenny Craig monologue.) They had seen my last show, so I guess they had seen enough of me on stage recently and didn't need a monologue. I write down on my sheet the role that I really really really want. They start putting me with people to read scenes. I'm out of there by 9:00. My phone rings at 9:30 and they offer me the role. I'm like, what?! Without even me going to call backs?! They said, nah. We're not kidding ourselves. We're casting you.
This whole series of events makes me feel so good, I cannot tell you.
I love this role. I am so excited. AND it's a comedy! I get to make people laugh again instead of making them cry! Ok, so I still have to talk about my two dead children and mentally abuse a kid and deal with a dead cat and one of my characters wants to murder her mom, but other than that... It's still a comedy. I swear. AND I get to play a woman from a painting! How cool is that? I've never played a woman in a painting before. She's going down to hell to avenge her children's deaths apparently and to beat up some devils and she's so angry and brave and dirty and strong. I'll see if I can find a picture of the painting and stick it in here for you... I've really been playing such weak women lately. Women that need to be saved from something. I guess literature is full of them. But these characters? These characters are scrappy.
So every actor plays a couple roles. One of mine is the angry hell lady. The other is this 14-year-old British retarded kid. I'm not going to be able to convincingly play 14-year-olds on stage for much longer. I'm being honest with myself about this. I'll get old. So, this is probably one of the last times that I'll get to be a kid on stage. I love having permission to be a child. I intend to relish it.
What stinks is that I have vacation from my day job for 2 weeks in April and I'm going to be stuck here because that's when the production runs. I was planning on going to see my family then. I hope they don't think I'm being selfish. I hate that. I really wanted to get out of town. I'm going to go stir crazy...
Edited to add: This is the painting of the lady I'm playing.
Sentence of the Day 2/8
"We'd like to offer you the role."
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
It's Just Sex: The Remix
Mr. Coward got me thinking about sex today. I was going to wait and post this sad story as a special Valentines Day addition, but fuck it. I'll tell it to you today. While we're on the subject...
I lost my virginity on the blue carpet of my bedroom on my mom's birthday. We went out for Mexican food after. He was an artist. The second time I had sex was in a graveyard (see Banshee story for location). The third time I had sex, I was at the artist's house. Lying on his bed. He was taking a life drawing class and started sketching me. I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was fucking me. He finished. Put his pants on. Said, "You're just a female figure lying on a bed. That's it." That's it?! Wow. And I've been holding off on doing this for so long, why? If I'm just a female figure lying on a bed then bring it on! Less than a month later, the artist dumped me while sitting in our corner booth at the Waffle House. He dumped me on Valentines Day.
I wouldn't use the term "nympho" when referring to my late teens/early twenties... Ok. Maybe. But hey, I'm just a female figure lying on a bed. It's just sex, right?
The Banshee Story
Aunt B's discussion on ghosts yesterday got me thinking about the time we saw a Banshee.
According to Irish mythology, if you hear the cry of a Banshee, you or someone in your family or someone you love will die within the year.
It was this overcast windy grey March day. I must have been 7, making Miss J 11. We had just moved into our new house on a farm in the middle of the country in Tennessee. Miss J and I and our black lab puppy, Duke, wanted to go exploring. There was this little dirt road next to our house that led back to an old white church. Next to the old white church was a cemetery. Beside the cemetery was this big field with millions of little yellow flowers perfect for girls and dog to tromp around in and get dirty. We had to cross to the back corner of the cemetery and climb over the fence to trespass into the field. We got back there and were trying to pass the very heavy puppy over the fence when we heard her. Low on the breeze this moaning. This weeping. We looked over and bent over what looked like a confederate soldier's grave, not 75 feet away from us, was an old old woman with long grey hair blowing in the wind. Her hair was whipping all around her. She had a scarf on her head and her face in her hands. God, the sound of that weeping, her pain, her wailing. We felt like we were interrupting a very private moment. We had been giggling and loud and quickly hopped the fence to continue our tromp.
Then we thought about it. There were no vehicles in the driveway of the church. No bicycle. We had never seen the woman before. Our dad was the president of the community club. We knew everybody. Then we remembered the story of the Banshee.
When we crossed back through the grave yard, the woman was gone.
Our grandmother died of cancer later that same year.
Back in the saddle again
I was telling myself I would take a break. I've been going from production to production to production consistently since last April.
Monday I picked up a script to read for an audition today. Yesterday I read it and worked on a new monologue. Today I audition. Tomorrow I'm going to see a play. Friday I'm going to see a play. Sunday I'm doing a staged reading to see if a theatre company likes a translation of Rhinoceros enough to produce it this summer. Rhinoceros is probably my favorite play of all time ever. Ionesco is my playwright boyfriend. I couldn't turn down a chance to read it again. I have pending auditions next week. So much for my break.
I just can't NOT do it. There's nothing good on TV anymore anyway...
Sentence of the Day 2/7
"You can't be too prissy about wearing somebody else's slippers."
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Big Grandpa
The last time I saw my Big Grandpa, I was blowing him a kiss across the dance floor at a wedding reception. He blew one back to me and then twirled his girl around.
We called him Big Grandpa because, surprise, he was big. Tall. I remember him being a giant, but that's probably just my little girl memory. He was probably only 6'2". He had big feet. Size 16? I remember he had to order his shoes and suits special from the big people stores.
He taught me and my sister to play chess. When my mom was little, they used to play chess on Sunday afternoons after church. The only time she ever beat him was the day he quit smoking. He quit smoking the day the Surgeon General came out with his warnings. If the Surgeon General says it's bad for you... When I got older, I would beat him in chess. I was the only person in the family, other than my mother on the day he quit smoking, that ever beat him in chess. Repeatedly.
He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his parked car in the parking lot of the American Legion. He was there setting up for a country ham breakfast the next day.
Big Grandpa kept a little spiral notebook in his breast pocket and a pen. Whenever he met anyone new, he would record their name and some defining characteristic in his little spiral notebook. He wanted to make certain to remember you. That was important to him.
He was so large and had such a large laugh. A large presence. Everything about him was large. Once, the family was at Pizza Hut. Big Grandpa sneezed. The entire restaurant went quiet. Silent. He turned in his chair. "Excuse me." Everyone went back to their pizza.
Big Grandpa suffered from depression in the late 50s/early 60s. He was prescribed with electro-shock treatment. Mom says she remembers seeing him sit in a rocking chair in the dark living room for hours reading a book. The book would be upside down. He ran away once. Depressed. Sad. So scared that he couldn't take care of his family. Be the husband, the dad they needed. My Grandma piled the babies in the strollers and told my mom to run ahead down the street and "Catch Daddy". She made it a game. My mom caught up with him and slipped her hand in his and lead him back home.
My Big Grandpa had no taste buds. He put hot sauce on his Grape Nuts.
My Big Grandpa was a geologist. A car trip that would normally only take an hour would take us 2 and a half because he would have to pull over every 5 miles or so and tell us all about the rocks on the side of the road.
My Big Grandpa sang with a deep bass voice.
He used to ask me what kind of wine I wanted with dinner when I was 14. He treated me like an adult.
The last time I saw my Big Grandpa, I was blowing him a kiss across the dance floor at a wedding reception. He blew one back to me and then twirled his girl around.
Something Important
I realized something very important about 5 years ago. A secret. A key to...I don't know what. Not happiness. Humanity? I'm about to share it with you. Are you ready? This really changed my life, my world view. It's important.
Be kind to old people.
That's it. It's so simple, but it's so important to me. I feel like more and more in America, old people are brushed under the rug. Overlooked. Pushed past. Made fun of. Ignored. It's sad.
In some cultures, the older you get, the more respect you get. I think that's the way it should be. You can be young and intelligent, but wisdom? Wisdom from experience? One cannot be young and wise. I just, I don't know, I feel like immediate respect should be granted to those that have spun around on this planet for so long. Those who have seen the sun come up and down. Up and down. Those who have lived through wars and presidents and fear and celebrations and births and deaths and erosion and inflation and building up and tearing down and becoming tired and wrinkled and bent and grumpy. They have so many stories to tell. Even if they are crotchety, even if they are slow and driving not so well, even if they have some sort of crust in the corner of their mouths and smell like beef stew, even if they are yelling at the check out girl in the supermarket. Even so. Be kind to them. We're all mortal. That will be you. Us. We will all get old, if we're lucky.
I'm looking forward to it frankly. I hope I get silver hair. Shiny silver. I was looking at my hands last night and trying to imagine what they would look like when I'm 70. They'll have much more character. You can get away with so much when you're old. You can sit on a park bench for hours and talk to yourself and feed squirrels rice cakes. You can get away with screaming nonsense in public. You can wear bizarre outfits that are bright and don't match. You can wear silly hats. You learn to take your time. You learn to listen. You learn to remember. You learn loneliness. You learn...you've learned so much. You've earned respect.
Sentence(s) of the Day 2/6
"You may be 75, but you're still an interesting person! It's not like you're a social outcast or anything, Edna."
Monday, February 06, 2006
The Best Commercial
My favorite commercial last night, the one that brought me the most glee, the one that brought me up off the couch clapping my hands, the one that I reenacted 5 times after I saw it was the Hummer commercial. Man, that's some fine writing. The robot and the giant dinosaur/monster lady? The unexpected romance? The proud parents and the little Hummer? Gracious, that is funny shit.
I must say I enjoyed the pretty ladies dressed up as condiments and flinging themselves on each other to make a burger. That was pretty funny too. Oh! And the guy in the hamster suit made me shoot beer out my nose.
Betting Socks
I don't gamble much. I've never been gambling or to Vegas. I don't see the appeal. I don't like thinking about money or dealing with money in my regular life, so to play around with it for pleasure? For sport? Yuck. And the greed and the vice and the glint in people's eyes at the black jack table wanting more and more and more. Gross.
That being said, I do enjoy a nice night of poker with the boys. Omaha is my favorite. We play with nickel chips, though. High stakes.
I make bets. But, I don't bet money. I bet socks. I would much rather get a nifty new pair of socks than 5 bucks.
Yesterday I made two bets.
The first was that the Seahawks would win the Super Bowl 21:3. I lost a pair of socks.
The second was that the Seahawks would be the first to score. I won a pair of socks.
Even Steven.
Sentence(s) of the Day 2/6
Question: "I mean, who lives in Ohio?"
Response: "I don't know, lonely white guys?"
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Bumbershoot Casserole Defined
Our friend, Miriam Webster (yes, I know this isn't 1 person, but I have such a lovely mental image of this nice old woman with a large vocabulary and I don't want to give it up), defines things as follows:
bum·ber·shoot Pronunciation: 'b&m-b&r-"shütFunction: nounEtymology: bumber- (alter. of umbr- in umbrella) + -shoot (alteration of -chute in parachute): UMBRELLA
cas·se·role Pronunciation: 'ka-s&-"rOl also 'ka-z&-Function: nounEtymology: French, saucepan, from Middle French, diminutive of casse ladle, dripping pan, from Old Provençal cassa, probably ultimately from Greek kyathos ladle1 : a dish in which food may be baked and served2 : food cooked and served in a casserole3 : a deep round usually porcelain dish with a handle used for heating substances in the laboratory
So, a dish of umbrellas. An umbrella dish. I don't know. I really like the way the word bumbershoot sounds and if you wake up and look outside and it's raining, you can turn to your dog and say, "looks like I'll need my bumbershoot today". And casseroles are comfortable and cheesy and tasty and made out of all sorts of strange things and if you think about a bunch of little brightly colored umbrellas in a dish and being served to you? I just figured that I was going to be talking a bunch of nonsense here and what could be more ridiculous than an umbrella casserole? Absurdist. Dadaist. Whatever. Make of it what you will. I basically just like the way it makes my mouth move when you say it.
I really should come up with a theme song.
Blowing her mind every time
I meant to talk about this last night when I was drunk blogging, but I forgot.
It blows my mind when someone hands me a check for acting. Every time. I can actually get paid to do this? Are you fucking kidding me?! How awesome is that? But, I love to do it.
Granted, it's not enough for me to run out and buy a miata or anything, but still... Wow. And, ok. I guess it really doesn't even come close to compensating in a monetary fashion the number of hours and hours and hours spent rehearsing, memorizing, performing and when you look at the number of parking tickets I got, but. Still. Still. It's. Ok, it's not enough to pay for my old car getting towed and crushed because the American Lung Association didn't come pick it up, but it IS enough to pay for the fee I got for not going to that first randomly picked dentist, so... It's something and it was way more than I thought it would be and is actually more than my current balance in my bank account. Yay.
Hey everybody! Look. I'm a "professional" actor. I got the check to prove it.
PSD
Post Show Depression
Closing night. I'm drunk. Too much gin. Always wanted to post whilst drunk. Good show. Great audience. I sobbed. No more sobbing in public for a while. Thank god. I'm sick of sobbing in public. Never was my style.
You know what? I'm so used to saying goodbye. So used to getting so close to people so fast and then saying goodbye. People. People that you see every day for months and months and months. They ask you how your day was. You spend so much time with them. Learn. Adapt as a cast. Go through the process. The Process. Change clothes together. Learn everything you can learn about the other. Act ridiculous together. Get snitty together. Go out to drink together. For months and months and months and then.... It's over. Done. No more. Closing night and I'll probably not hang out with some of them ever again in my life.
But...
But, you get so used to it, this saying goodbye. This getting so close, but not really. It hardens you, but makes it easier. To say goodbye. You create something amazing, beautiful. A piece of art. You make people think. Cry. Be. Together. And then... No more.
The oldest friend I have that isn't family is only 5 years old. (Except Aunt B, but she's pretty much family.) You just learn not to get so close. Or you learn to get close with the knowledge that it won't last. Maybe that's why I'm this old and have never been in a long term relationship.
The drag show was fantastic. I got pulled on stage by a cowboy. A 6 foot tall silver penis danced with a drag king in a fedora. I sang Journey at the top of my lungs on stage in my red dress in front of the playwright's parents and I didn't care. My lover, the woman who played my lover, and I realized that we can't get away with flirting any more. Her wife reminded us.
This sucks.
As much as I hate when things end, it is such a familiar feeling at this point. Another closing night. Another end.
Everyone ate my casserole. They devoured it. I was so proud.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
I love my new dentist
Can I just tell you how much I love my new dentist?
Ok. I recently moved to a new part of town and figured I needed to find a new local dentist. I randomly picked this dentist and made an appointment for Martin Luther King Day. I flaked out and forgot about it. I think I was sick or depressed or still crying or something. Anyhow. I called the next day and they were like, hey. You owe us $50 because you missed your appointment. What?! I didn't know you could do this. I told them I was a flake and I was sorry. They didn't care. I was so angry, I randomly picked another dentist.
My appointment was today. Yesterday. Whatever, it's after 2:00 in the morning, what do I care? So, I travel to this mysterious dentist's address and lo! There's this two story white house and you go in a downstairs door and up the stairs and...nice marble counters. Friendly receptionist. Music! Jack Johnson playing on the sound system. A GIANT fish tank in the corner. Triangular, but with smoothed angles and the fish! Gracious. They had blow fish in there. Actual blow fish, I kid you not. And big ol wooden chairs that you can sit Indian style in while you fill out your paper work on the provided clip board.
It gets better.
I go in and sit in my clean chair. Still listening to Jack Johnson. This sweet Asian man comes in and shakes my hand. My new dentist. He then proceeds to give me the most thorough cleaning I have ever had in my life. The attention to detail! And...get this...we have a conversation while he's doing it. I did not think this was possible. Normally you have to be quiet, right? I mean, your mouth is kind of occupied. But this guy? This guy made it possible. Before we began he told me about his 11 year old who was interested in theatre, so I told him about some local programs. Then he starts in on my tartar. But he takes his hands out long enough for me to ask a leading question such as, "So, what was that dentist conference like that you mentioned?" He then proceeds to tell me about this recent convention of thousands of dentists and Jerry Seinfeld spoke at it and he tells me about his routine. I'm able to fit in a "huh. erungh? uh. uh?" with his metal objects in my mouth which is enough to encourage him. He told me about the time he and his wife went to London and there were these riots going on, but they managed to get through them to see the actress who plays Professor McGonegall in a play and then he tells me about his rich brother in law who owns all sorts of real estate and whos Cadillac is going to be in this new film, Stiffs, which is being filmed around here and whitening and which techniques work best and I should watch the upper left side of my mouth but I don't have any cavities and thank you for coming, there's your mouth wash.
Wow, said I. This is the most pleasant experience I have ever had at the dentist. He stands up. The man has to be at least 2 feet shorter than me. He takes me out to the receptionist and we make an appointment for August and I glance at the crazy blow fish one more time and make my way out onto the street with my mouth full of thoroughly cleaned teeth.
I love my new dentist.
Sentence of the Day 2/4
"My rabbit has been on TV."
Ok. Seriously. This strange man came up to me in the grocery store and looked in my cart. He said, "You got a cat?" I was like, yeah. Why are you looking in my cart and doing inventory of my pet products, crazy man? He then proceeds to tell me about his rabbit. His special rabbit. His rabbit that can do tricks. His rabbit that has been on TV because he is so talented.
Simon's death continues to haunt me to this day in the shape of creepy men at the grocery store.
Sentence of the Day 2/3
"Not so much Hecuba as Loreley of the Rhine."
Friday, February 03, 2006
Drag Numbers
Closing night is Saturday. We're having a party as actors tend to do. Cast party. At the theatre. This theatre company has a bit of a healthy obsession with Drag King/Queen culture. Just to clarify, a Drag King is a person who is biologically female and identifies with the female sex who dresses up as a male and most likely lip sings to a catchy and up beat musical number. Drag King is vice versa. We are all to prepare a drag number for the party.
Apparently there's a form of drag that's still called drag if a female OVER feminizes herself. Puts on fake eyelashes, a big poofy pink dress, high heels, barrettes, a bow pink mouth and ringlets. I'm told that this is the only type of drag I can ever hope to be successful at. There goes my career as a cowboy.
I was singing Amy Grant the other night in the dressing room (don't ask) and my director said, "Oh, Plimco! That is totally what you should sing on Saturday!" I don't know if I'm up for this. I'm already making a stinking casserole for everybody. Now I have to perform an Amy Grant number in ruffles and lace? This cast party doesn't sound like so much fun suddenly. Maybe I'll just do my lizard impression for them. That should suffice.
The Difference Between my Sisters
I spoke to both Miss J and the Big E yesterday.
Miss J and I discussed the following:
- How our parents have no idea who we are as adults
- The infantilization by my father when communicating with us
- What it must have been like as a man living in a house with three little girls and a wife and finding a way to relate to that household
- How we're worried about his weight gain and enlarged prostate
- The definition and misuse of the word "humility"
The Big E called and the first thing out of her mouth was, "I just got my eyebrows waxed! Woo Hoo!"
They could not be more different. Gracious I love them so much. I was telling a friend yesterday that I would peel off all my skin for them and then pour acid all over it. That's true. I would.
Language!
You know what has occurred to me? I write like a sailor. Honest to Pete, I'm not sure why this is happening. I don't talk like a sailor. In fact I rarely cuss in real life. I mean, speaking life. I guess I want people to take me seriously and get my point across. That's weird. I don't know why I've been using so much profanity. As an experiment, I am going to try not to cuss all day. Wish me luck, dag nab it.
Sentence of the Day 2/2
"You know and I know that the automatic flush sometimes flushes just a little too soon."
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Color Addiction
Is it possible to become addicted to a color? I think so. I think I am.
Green. I love me some green. Green green. Not hunter green, but grass green, or olive green, or springish green, but not that fluorescent yellowy spring green. True, proud to be green, green.
But it has gotten out of hand I've noticed. The other day I opened a drawer and all I saw was green. People. I counted. I own 15 green sweaters. 15?! That can't be good. I have green (and yellow) sneakers. I wear this bright super green coat (that sounds tacky, but it's all tailored and 50s style. Not the one I wear while walking the dog. That's another green coat. It's more olive. This one is the color of Kermit.) I write with a green pen. I choose the green pie piece when playing Trivia Pursuit. Friends associate green with me and automatically give me the green straw, the green sucker, the green paper clip. It has gotten out of hand.
Let's look at the literary references we have to the color green. We've got green with envy, jealousy the green-eyed monster. If someone IS green, they are a novice. I've heard green used as slang when referring to money or marijuana. The grass is always greener. Green light means go. I could go on and on.
It used to be yellow. I painted my room growing up this obscene shade of the brightest lemon yellow you could imagine. Yellow is supposed to make you anxious or sickly or something. I've heard people paint restaurants and dining rooms red because it makes them hungry.
So what does this mean, this color addiction? Is it common? Should I be worried? Are YOU addicted to a color?
The Sad Super Bowl Story
Two years ago I spent my Super Bowl Sunday thusly:
First, let me give you some history. The longest relationship I've ever had was with an Irish construction worker for a year and a half. His wife was still in Ireland. It was a pub relationship. We'd meet at my local pub (stumbling distance from my house) for drinks and go home and fuck. I'd walk by the pub and check to see if his big white construction worker van was in the parking lot. Ask myself, do I want to get laid tonight? If the answer was yes, and it often was, I'd stop in the pub for drinks. Highly convenient. He never took me out on a date. He took me out for breakfast once. Once. That was the best I got.
During that well spent year and a half, he cheated on me with this girl, not his wife, that was visiting from Ireland. I went to the pub one night and she had her hand on his ass. Fantastic.
Time passes...
Super Bowl Sunday rolls around. Marty, the man who runs the pub, asks me if I have plans for watching the game. I didn't. He said, if you come down to the pub and help me with collecting empty bottles, I'll pay you and you can still watch the game. We're having a Super Bowl party as well as a christening party, so I could use the extra help. Sure, Marty. What time should I get there?
I begin my evening as a bottle bitch. I'm good at collecting empties. It seems like I can carry something stupid like 12 at a time. I'm scooting around, one eye on the screen, picking up empties and then the christening party begins. In walks my ex Irish beau. In a suit. Looking handsome. With his girlfriend. The proud parents of a little girl. Yes. I was the bottle bitch for my ex-boyfriend and the girl he cheated on me with baby girl's christening party.
That was such a long and sad night. His parents were there. They flew over from Donegal. I had met them before. They had a flash of recognition cross their faces as I "can I get this out of your way"ed them.
I sat next to the juke box in the dark completely sober while I waited for the bottles to empty and the Patriots to hurry up and win.
That was a dark night in the life of the Plimco. I still cringe to this day whenever anyone mentions Super Bowl parties.
ASL Show Debrief
That was weird. Really weird. It wasn't bad, necessarily. It was neat. I think. You don't realize how much you gel as a cast. Especially a cast of 4. You get used to each other, you trust one another. You know what you can get away with, what they're like in the dressing room. You can tell when they're having an off night and leaning on you to get them through the show. You trust that they'll do the same for you. Their energy is familiar. The way they move, the way they sound. Then to introduce these two silent but extremely active characters? Quiet busy mirrors of us? Moving around on stage next to us saying what we're saying, feeling what we're feeling, channeling our characters? It messes with your head.
You know what really threw me off? This sounds so stupid. But, one of the terps (ha! That's the lingo for interpreter. Don't I sound so cool and in the know?) had this perfume on. It wasn't unpleasant, but it permeated the entire space, the entire stage. I've gotten used to the way we smell, the way our home smells. Two of the characters have to put on this age make-up that smells like crayons. I've gotten used to it. It's familiar to me. It smells like the story. But, this interpreter comes in with her hyacinth Bath and Body Works spray and I'm like, where the fuck am I?
Odd how the olfactory sense is so attached to creating space, mood, memory. It's so powerful, it's creepy. We all had an off night, but the deaf people seemed to enjoy the show which was the point I suppose.
Sentence of the day 2/1
"We'll have to take my car (big ass Republican SUV) that way I don't have to wear pants."
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
ASL Show
So, I've been looking over my new blocking for the American Sign Language show we're doing tonight. Holy shit. I just know I'm going to knock one of those interpreters off the stage. I just know it. I barrel around on all those platforms so quickly and when you've been doing a show for this long a run, it's in your body. You don't even need to think about where you're going next or how quickly you get there, you just go. I just know I'm going to knock one of those sweet ladies off the stage. AND they're wearing all black which is extremely helpful. Shit.
I'm back
Thank god, I'm back.
The more I work in this medium, the more fascinating I find it. Bumbershoot Casserole feels comfortable. My room. My space. My tea and tea cups. My mess. When posting on someone else's blog? It feels...inappropriate. Like I walked into a conversation that has been going on for months and decide to make a speech.
What continues to fascinate me is the manner in which blogs can create a tone. It's just words on a screen. How can such a specific tone be established? But it is. I have the most boring template ever and no pictures or flashes or pops or oos and aahhhs, but there is still a distinct tone to my casserole, to everyone's.
I was criticized yesterday by Mr. Coward for not taking enough risks. Not being provocative. Taking the easy route. And maybe I should push myself. Talk about the things that are hard to talk about, but wait. You know what? That's bullshit. That's what I DO. I talk about the things that are hard as hell for me to talk about over and over and over. I just present it in such a way that it appears...its TONE is such that... It's as though I'm holding a mirror up to myself. My life. See? Look at how fucked up my childhood was, but let's make fun of it. Laugh about it. I've created this tone of self mockery and it seems to be working. Gracious, how stupid that I have this aura of grief hanging around me because of a stupid play to the point that I am shunned socially. Isn't that hilarious? How sad that I'm so fucking lonely and desire pleasure to such an extent that I masturbate every day repeatedly, but hey. Let's bask in masturbation. Glorify it. I talk about the difficult stuff, damn it. I just present it in such a lovely casserole with a golden Ritz cracker crust and bubbling cheese that it looks safe and happy.
The written word. That's all it is, you know? I'm just words on a screen and so are you. I've only been at this a couple months and I am still struck by how unique the whole blogosphere is. I feel like I'm walking around this really big house and I get to just walk in to whatever room I feel like and sit...and listen. I can throw in my 2 cents whenever I feel like it. And you'll respect that. Usually. Here they're discussing politics, here they're telling dog stories. And if I just want to be silent and walk in and read about how she is slowly dying of cancer. How it's eating her from the inside and today her body feels like it's decaying around her and she stinks of imminent death and I can just sit in a corner and be silent, but present. She's allowing me to be there with her. That just...stuns me. Humbles me. To be allowed in on these strangers' victories and defeats and hilarities and very private moments. To listen to their voice. I never imagined such intimacy could be attained through words on a screen. Such intimacy. It's very theatrical...but it's honest.
I have read many many literary works over the years. As I've mentioned before, I enjoy a good story. I've gotten so involved with a novel before that I've screamed at the action going on because it felt like it was going on right then. But this? All of this? These are thoughts and experiences we're all having now. Real time. It's so fucking neat, I love it. And you're real. At least your personas are real, I mean I'm sure people lie on their blogs, but. You are you and you're lying. I'm talking in circles. What am I trying to say?
Ok. You could be Asian, Australian, British, African, you could have a horrible deformity on your face, you could have really awful personal hygiene, you could beat your kids, you could have a baby oil fetish, you could be a heroine junkie, you could be dying, you could be famous, you could have a closet full of guns, you could be homophobic or a Christian or a Buddhist or an Agnostic. You know what? I don't care.
What I DO care about is what you have to say. I care a lot.