My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...

Friday, March 31, 2006

Let's keep talking about masturbation, shall we?

I like how my blog is basically me talking about theatre, gross things, or masturbation. yay.

Once I masturbated center stage...during a show... Seriously. I was the projectionist for A Colored Museum. I had to sit center stage back stage way up high on this shelf and make sure the projectors didn't catch fire. That was my purpose. The only thing that separated me from the audience was a thin little scrim. That was a pretty long show. I couldn't read. I couldn't have a light, it had to be dark back there. I brought a blanket and a pillow. I would show up for the show in my jammies. After the 5th or 6th show, I was like, gracious. I've got to do SOMETHING back here. Fingers began to roam...

I had to be veeeerrrrry quiet back there. Ninja masturbation. I must say, to know that there were hundreds of people on the other side of that thin little scrim...staring at the stage...me hidden behind...participating in such behavior? Yeah. It was pretty hot.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:42 AM :: (7) comments

Opening Night: Part Deux

You know what's weird? This is our second opening night together. Not that you guys came to see the last play or are coming to see this one, but... That's kind of nice. Awww... Our second opening night together. It feels like an anniversary somehow.

It's interesting, you know? Opening nights are special and sacred, but you only go through them once with a group of people. Usually. Unless you keep getting cast with the same people over and over again...which actually sort of happens... but. My point is. You're going through this twice with me and...I don't know. That's kind of cool...

So now we get to sing the muppet song together again:

It's time to play the music.
It's time to light the lights.
It's time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight.
It's time to put on makeup.
It's time to dress up right.
It's time to raise the curtain on the Muppet Show tonight.
Why do we always come here?
I guess we'll never know.
It's like a kind of torture to have to watch the show.
And now let's get things started.
Why don't you get things started?
It's time to get things started
On the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational
This is what we call the Muppet Show!
(Gonzo blows his trumpet - or at least attempts to.)

Last night was an open dress rehearsal. My Argentinean friend, the guy that wrote me that inappropriate haiku, and my vain French friend came. They usually don't bull shit me too much. I was pleasantly surprised by their positive feedback. My Argentinean friend squeeeeezed me and squealed my sentence of the day. Yay. I like that I get to run around on a stage and be stupid and rude for a month.

You know what else? Audiences are important. I was so sick of performing for the same people. We needed an audience.

You know what else? You know what my second favorite sound in the world is? Second only to the sound of an entire audience laughing while you're on stage? An entire audience collectively making a grossed out noise. A collective "Euugggghhhh!" Ha! I love it. It's fantastic. It pleases me to no end to gross people out. Once we finally got that blood concoction and panty holder contraption working? That shit is gross. Yaaaay!

"EEEEUUUUGGGGHHHHH!" I love it!

So wish my legs ill harm and send me bushels of flowers.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:36 AM :: (7) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/30

"You were so stupid and rude!"

Posted by Plimco @ 7:18 AM :: (0) comments

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Bad Dog!

Every morning when I walk out my back door onto the porch to greet the day with my dog, there's this little woman walking in circles. My house is on a dead end street. This little old Asian lady in her stocking cap walks up and down, up and down the street. Over and over and over and over. All morning. Yet again convincing me that my life is a David Lynch film. I haven't been speaking to her. I thought maybe she was an early morning illusion. Or maybe I'm just a snob. Or maybe I just don't feel like talking to people at that hour of the day.

Today, though. Today I stepped out into the sunshine and she was right at the end of my driveway and I mustered the courage to confront my illusion and gave her my best Plimco smile and a "Hi". She was taken aback by my sudden burst of neighborliness. She returned my smile and nodded. This whole neighborly exchange freaked my dog out. She immediately ran up to the little old lady in the street to jump on her and freak her out. Then Fluff Bucket runs about 11 fast circles in my yard. Round and round and round my car in the driveway. Then she shoots into the neighbor's yard and eats their cat food. She does this occasionally. I use my I-am-angry-voice with her. The little Asian woman keeps walking... Up and down...back and forth...up and down the dead end street. I stand in the middle of my yard angry. "Fluff Bucket! Fluff Bucket!!! Get over here!!!" She doesn't come. I walk into the neighbor's yard. She isn't there.

I call and call and whistle and scream. Little old lady walking up and down...up...and down...

I hear car horns in the distance. Great. She got hit by a car. Oh well. She was a good dog. I start thinking about where I'm going to bury her. How long I can keep the pictures of a dead dog up on my bulletin board at work without it seeming morbid. I start to realize the sacrifices I've made for her. How much she's changed my life. The only reason I'm living in this goofy suburb and not in the city is because I have a giant dog who needs a yard and space in a house. I think about how I'm glad that I had that moment with her in bed this morning after my alarm went off and she rolled on her back and I scratched her belly and kissed her nose while she made her roooowrrroowwrr morning sounds.

I'm walking down the street of the sleeping neighborhood save the little old lady walking up and down...up and down the dead end street. Calling...whistling...

I'm jogging now. Becoming more worried. Fluff Bucket!!!!!! There she is. In some trash. In the corner of the apartment complex courtyard. GET OVER HERE! and she runs as fast as she can across the grass in my direction. SIT! BAD GIRL! BAAAAD BAAAAD GIRL!

She has no idea what she did wrong. She just wanted to chase some squirrels. Tech week is hard on a dog. I know she gets bored and restless. If it's nice Saturday, I'll take her on a hike. Actors probably don't make the best dog owners.

I'm sorry, Fluff Bucket. Please don't run away from me again.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:06 AM :: (17) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/29

"We'll paint chickens on the side."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:31 AM :: (0) comments

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

The Piano Lesson

My mom made me take piano lessons when I was little. I didn't enjoy it. As a "reward" for doing my assignment in my Theory book or playing a song without a mistake, she would give me a jelly bean. I hate jelly beans. Hate hate hate them. Jelly beans are nasty. They give me an automatic headache. But, it was such a production to be awarded a jelly bean by Mrs. Gillham, I had to feign honor. She kept her beans in a glass jar on top of her piano. They were so ominous sitting up there...making me want to mess up so that I wouldn't have to eat them... The worst was if I got a black one. Ok. I just dry heaved. HATE them. I got to where I would say, oh thank you so much, Mrs. Gillham! But, I think I would like to save it for later. Black really is my favorite colored bean and I want to enjoy it and also I would hate to spoil my dinner. I'd sit it next to my sheet music and it would taunt me throughout the lesson. Then I'd wrap it in a Kleenex and throw it away in her bathroom trash can.

Her bathroom.

Oh dear.

Miss J had lessons before me. She was much better than I was. She could actually do one thing with one hand and another with the other. Impressive. She still plays. She has a piano in her living room. She has such a specific I'm-playing-the-piano-and-concentrating-face where she sticks her tongue in the space between your lower teeth and your inner...chin I guess? And her eyebrows crinkle and she looks like a musical monkey girl. Ha! I love her I'm-playing-piano serious face.

These other people had lessons before us. We would have to wait in her parlor quietly while the other people had their lesson. It was a parlor. It deserved the term "parlor". It had floral couches with wooden feet and swervy backs. Doilies out the wazoo. Those snow man shaped lights that have a bottom and a top that light up in different orders if you turn the switches enough. Lots of pink. Lots of flower print. Lots of breakable porcelian Brahmses and Beethovens. Not a place for children to be left unsupervised for any amount of time. We were supposed to work on our homework. Sometimes we did.

Sometimes we didn't.

One day we were the naughtiest I ever remember us being in our childhood... ever. Mrs. Gillham's bathroom was like a mini-get-some-private-business-done version of her parlor. Fuzzy ass pink toilet seat cover. Seems like her shower curtain was lace. She had all these marvelously curious jars of lavender soaps wrapped in printed paper and bottles of rose water and crystal dishes full of those squishy bath beads. Those squishy plump bath balls that you bloop! in the tub and the outside layer is hard and then it bursts and out comes the liquid soap. A whole crystal dish full of the suckers.

I was really young. I don't remember exactly how it happened. I remember laughing a lot and feeling the most naughty I'd ever felt in my life. We popped the balls. Squish! A ton of the squishy soap balls....and the soap got all over the bathroom sink and mirror and floor.... Now when such a slippery substance as soap gets all over a bathroom floor, one discovers fairly quickly that this is a nice surface to slide around on zooooom!

Mrs. Gillham had to stop her lesson because of the commotion. I don't think an adult has ever been as cross with me in my life as Mrs. Gillham was in that moment. Apparently her bath condiments were precious to her. Did she spank us? No. She couldn't have. Did she make us sit outside on her front stoop? Did she call our parents?

Hmm... Interesting that I don't remember the punishment. I remember feeling very guilty and knowing I would never do something so naughty again... That being said, I also remember having a hell of a lot of fun on that soapy slippery floor smelling of lavender and lilac and rose bud decadence.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:53 AM :: (13) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/28

"The only person that has a period that looks like that is Mrs. fucking Clause."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:22 AM :: (2) comments

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

When you find out that your mom's a coke head...

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to be social. I'm socially awkward. I freak people out or say things without censoring myself or hide under tables at parties. They're just never a good idea.

But he had called me a month before to tell me to circle the date on my calendar. His birthday party. A catfish fry. And I'd been blowing him off and not returning his phone calls for a couple months. This is the guy who everybody said was in love with me. The sad dude that I asked you guys for advice about and you told me to stop hanging out with him cause it was giving him false hope. I think that's what you said. I don't remember.

I wore my jaunty new hat. That was my first mistake. I should have heeded my warnings.

I brought him Dino Thunder blowy hooters. You know those party sticks that are paper and curly and unroll like lizard tongues when you blow on them and go "ze-DOOOOOOOOT!"? AND I brought him a Peeps coloring book. You guys have to check this out. Next time you're in the cheap book aisle at the grocery store, pick up the Peeps coloring book. Those little marshmallow chickens go on adventures! They have stories to tell! There's this great page where they help out the beavers. It's really trippy. Yes I just used the word "trippy".

I also brought some coleslaw.

So, I give the birthday boy his gifts. He shows me his new tattoo. We're catching up on what shows we've been doing and blah-bitty-blah and the whole time there's this girl flitting around the kitchen. This girl that looks remarkably similar to me. She could totally play my sister. She's harrumphing and giving him weird looks. She seems to know where everything is. Finally, I stick out my hand and say, "Hi. I'm Plimco." She introduces herself and goes about making the tarter sauce. 2 minutes later, they're both making out in front of the stove. Oh. Ok. Awkward. You must be the birthday boy's new girlfriend who he failed to introduce me to as such. Ok. That's cool. Kinda weird, but. Ok? You guys are really cute together, but I'm just going to avert my eyes over here for a minute...

And I see her. The woman who I know. I must know her. I have a sense of having experienced something intimate with her before in the past. Gracious, she's so thin. A skeleton in skin and make-up. Who the hell is sh....MY MOM! Holy shit, that woman played my mom in a play 3 years ago! She totally does not remember me. Maybe it's the hat. Oh, that's pissing me off. Why doesn't she remember me? Wait. Here she comes... "HEEEYYYYYYY!!! IT'S YOOUUUUUUU!!! (totally doesn't remember my name) OH MY GOOOOOOD!!!" Actors can be really really really loud in public. Shhhh....lady? shhhhhhh...I can hear you. So can the neighbors. Oh. Are we going to hug now? Ok. Sure. Hugging. Yeah. That's my personal space but...sure. ok. Hugging.

We had the obligatory 5 minute conversation of reminiscing. I'm noticing that this woman seems more than just drunk. She's sniffing and I don't notice a runny nose. Her arm gestures are out of control. She has to be on coke. That would explain the weight loss. That would explain her sad sad husband alone on the love seat in the corner staring blankly at his hands, occasionally looking over at her and shaking his head in his pink polo shirt she picked out for him to wear to the party.

Then she starts saying all this weird shit about my energy. How I just have this energy that DRAWS people to me and you just want to be AROUND that kind of presence and such big brown eyes you can SWIM in and...I notice...that people are closing in. She's speaking loudly and I guess these people wanted in on the conversation. I literally get pushed into a corner of the kitchen. Surrounded. One guy has body odor. One woman has a wonky eye. I feel like I'm in a David Lynch film. This is a formica table.

I PUSH through the creepy cornering folk and into the hallway. The birthday boy's brother begins to hang on the door frame, lean through his arms and talk to me. He's hitting on me. I'm like, dude. You're twenty stupid one years old and in college. I am far too much Plimco for a boy of your years to be able to handle.

I escape to the comfort of my vain French friend who is telling me for the 5th time how he's in the best shape he's been in in his life.

The DJs are spinning.

I grab a giant catfish and sit on the arm of a sofa right...in front...of a speaker. Maybe no one will talk to me anymore and I may sit here and bob my head and eat my catfish in peace. Then I see her...coming over. The birthday boy's new girlfriend. She plops herself down right next to me and puts her hand on my knee. My mouth is full. My hands are full. I am in shock. Then she runs her hand up my thigh. OK! Hello?! I remove her hand. She then tells me how she and the birthday boy are....very much interested in....adding additional partners to....their bedroom. EEEEK! I declined her generous offer and went to get another glass of wine.

Then someone spilled a beer on the amp. No more music. Fantastic.

I suggested a sing along. Eventually I convinced a corner of the room to sing an anemic version of "My Girl".

I stayed precisely long enough so that no one could say, gee. She didn't stay very long, did she?

Why couldn't we all just hang out and have good conversation and an exchange of wit? Why do I suck so bad at social situations? Why did it feel like I spent the entire party scrambling from their clutches? Were they really zombies? Did I accidentally stumble into a zombie party?

Or, wait.

Was it all because of the jaunty hat.......?

That catfish was damn good, though. It was all worth it for the catfish. Can't remember the last time I had catfish. Yum.

Posted by Plimco @ 11:30 AM :: (12) comments

The Power of the Jaunty Hat

Once upon a time, there was a jaunty hat. A girl named Plimco purchased the jaunty hat and placed it on her head. "Beware the power of the jaunty hat" she heard from the homeless man in the parking lot. Excuse me? "I said, do you have any spare change?" As she walked to her car a cloud covered the sun.

She spent the afternoon picking up poop from her garden. "Beware the power of the jaunty hat" came from inside her garbage bag. Plimco opened it and poked her head inside. Did you guys say something? The turds were silent.

She had been warned...

To be continued...

Posted by Plimco @ 11:22 AM :: (0) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/27

"As much as it pains me to say it, put your clothes on and get to the theatre."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:27 AM :: (6) comments

Monday, March 27, 2006

Ask Plimco

I received the following query via Email:

Hey Plimco,
I was out walking today and I went by our local
theatre. They do plays there regularly and I've
wanted to go several times. My problem is that the
tickets are always at least $20. I've always thought
that was too high. If they were $10, I'd be there
every friday.You being the only "theatre type" that I know, I was
wondering what your take on it was.

PS
The theatre group is going out of business soon.
They've been struggling for years because nobody ever
goes to their shows.

My take on this is that it's worth it. It should be worth it. Stop your whining and pay the extra few bucks. It's theatre for goodness sakes. It costs a hell of a lot of money to put together. People devote a hell of a lot of time and energy to make it happen. Granted, I mostly see my theatre for free, so I'm being fairly hypocritical. I remember bitching about paying $27 for going to a show that advertised some naked and did not deliver, but... But, you know what? It was worth it.

It's live. It's an experience that you'll never be able to reproduce. You cannot pause or rewind or freeze. You cannot watch the same thing over and over again at home on your TV. It's that one moment. That one shared moment. That one evening. It should be worth $20.

Even if the play stinks. Even if the acting is shitty, the set shoddy. It's sacred, somehow. It's a privilege to be allowed to sit there and watch...to listen. To be present. You're part of it. The energy. The giving and receiving. If you weren't there? The performance would be different.

It's better than TV. It's more present than film. You're supporting an art form that's been around since... since... since people were around people and decided to tell stories to each other. When you fork over your $20, you're not supporting some multi-million dollar movie star, some merchandising brain child, some Hollywood monopoly. You're buying a dress for an actor to wear in the next show. You're buying a rotary phone for a prop. You're paying for the programs in your hand. You're giving poor sods like me enough money to buy a scotch after the show. The monetary assistance is immediate and appreciated.

The theatre company that I have done the bulk of my work as a professional actor with is housed in this fantastic old building. It's a historic landmark. I love the space. It's haunted. It was a post office at one point I think? There's a bowling alley in the basement. High ceilings with tin molding and wood floors and banisters and... It's lovely. It's old though. Shit breaks. The plumbing's fucked. We don't have an elevator. Elevators are expensive. We keep getting extensions, but one can only extend so long. We're going to be shut down if we can't make the place handicap accessible by August. We also have to rewire and buy an entirely new light board by then to pass inspection and be up to fire code. I think the board costs something stupid like half a million dollars. Meanwhile they're shelling out cash so that we can eat jello every night just so we have something to consume during our dinner party act.

Theatre is expensive. It's too bad. I guess I could just perform for free on the street... But then I'd have to get a street performer's license and people would probably spit at me.

That being said, $20 is a bit steep for the south. Hell, it's a bit steep for the east coast. Sounds like the theatre could use a new marketing director. Usually you get an audience base built up and then raise ticket prices. Are they doing plays that you'd want to see? Perhaps they're not appealing to the demographic with enough money to shell out the $20. Which brings me to a whole nother set of issues.

I want to do crazy, new, bizarre, risky, experimental, ballsy wacky-ass theatre. Who goes to the theatre any more? Old people. (Don't get me wrong, I love old people.) What do old people want to see? Music fucking Man. The Sound of mother fucking Music. Lend me a fucking Tenor. sigh.

It's hard. It's a Catch 22. If I want to make a living doing what I love, I have to do these stupid ass chintzy no risk taking sugar and dancing around in foofy skirts plays. If I want to do what I love in the manner in which I want to do it? I can't live on it. I make peanuts. My Gramma doesn't want to see that crap. You do. But you're not going to shell out $20 to see it.

Ok. Now I'm sufficiently depressed.

Thank you though. Please do not hesitate with Emailing me with any more of your queries that are theatrical in nature in the future. It has been a pleasure.

Posted by Plimco @ 10:12 AM :: (5) comments

Tech Paranoia

It's that time again, kids. The dreaded and evil and thankless tech week. Ugh. I was at the theatre from 11:00-11:00 yesterday. Dress rehearsals today-Thursday. We open Friday. This is probably the most coherent I'll be all week. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Last tech I posted all my paranoias. That was cathartic. Humor me again if you will...


Posted by Plimco @ 7:28 AM :: (9) comments

Sentences of the Weekend

3/25

"I hate that fucking puppet."

3/26

"Shut up and drink your tea, pet."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:24 AM :: (2) comments

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Sentence of the Day 3/24

"Nope, there's two big labia right there. You're all set."*



*I feel as though this sentence of the day deserves a bit of explanation. My friend is the most pregnant I have ever seen a person. She was due yesterday. She's ready to pop. She's a walking pod person and freaks me out. Yesterday she and her husband accompanied me and the married men for beers after work. She had a Sprite. They were telling the story of how they asked the doctor, "are you sure it's going to be a girl? Could you just double check for any extra...parts?" The doctor responded with the above. I did a spit take with my IPA. They were like, "gee...a 'no, I'm fairly certain you're having a girl' would have sufficed..."

The conversation then steered to, now if it were a boy. And they said, nope there's a big ol penis right there, this would have been welcome news and caused the parents to beam with pride.
Big labia though? This isn't necessarily the best news to discover about your unborn child...

This then brought up a whole conversation about fathers and daughters. All of the men at the table were fathers of little girls. They mentioned constructing their chastity belts of steel. Such an interesting dynamic, to be a man, having been a boy, and to have a baby girl, knowing that boys, like you, with your intentions, are going to be stopping by... (Yes, I know I'm making heterosexual assumptions, but hear me out...I'm hoping Trista will stop by and tell us what sort of fears she has of Julia's future suitors...) Each beer consuming husband had a story to tell of the first time they met their wife's father. One was shining his guns. One's first question was, "do you like small game hunting?" The only one that wasn't life threatening was the father-to-be's who met his father-in-law at a Dairy Queen. He began asking for permission for his daughter's hand in marriage. He was interrupted by, "would you like a slurpee, son?"

My brother-in-law had to endure a similar ritual with my father. I wasn't there for it, but I imagine it in my head like so: Chet walks up to the horse barn on the hill one chilly twilight. He dodges piles of horse manure in his English professor shoes. "Mr. Plimco? Can I have a few moments of your time?" (Plimco is my last name in case you didn't know. Celia is my first. Everybody calls me Plimco though...) They're in the section of the barn where my dad kept all his power tools and the giant orange tractor. There's a bald swinging light bulb and the sounds of horses snorting, the sweet smell of hay and sweat. Chet blubbers on about love and forever and how fantastically brilliant and amazing and wonderful Miss J is and how his life has changed since she came into his world and how he cannot face his future without her permanently being a fixture in it and my dad is silent through all this. Sanding down something on his work table. The bald light bulb swinging.... He looks up from his work.... Steps toward Chet....inches from his face.... "If you ever hurt her, I'll kill you." Then he stomps out of the room in his dirty cowboy boots. Bald light bulb swinging...

True story. He said that. He meant it.

Posted by Plimco @ 9:56 AM :: (6) comments

Friday, March 24, 2006

Binge Drinking for the sake of Art

To everyone whose name begins with a letter at the beginning of the alphabet who I called last night because I saw their name at the beginning of my contact list on my phone, I'm sorry. One of the main reasons I hate cell phones is the convenience of the drunk dial factor. I'm so so sorry. I have no idea what I said to you.

The first act of my play is a dinner party. We're supposed to consume 6 bottles of wine throughout the course of the dinner party. We haven't been getting "drunk" enough in the scene. Last night we ran the first act with real wine. I've mentioned before how I don't talk much in the first act, I just grunt and listen. And eat. And drink. A lot. I remember... Let's see what I remember... I remember laughing a lot. I remember... saying my monologue and people crying. I remember... someone calling me a "champ" cause I drank so much wine... I remember getting notes and people telling me how my monologue made them cry and letting my "mom" read a poem someone wrote for me... I remember turning on my cell phone in the dressing room... Then... Yeah.

That's scary. That's only happened to me maybe twice before, blacking out and not remembering things because of drinking.

I woke up this morning to a distant beeping. I opened my eyes and was confused. My alarm seemed to be going off in another room. I was sleeping in The Bald Monkey's room. On the broken bed. Under a dirty dusty quilt. I've never slept in there before. I was an hour and a half late to work. I think I'm still drunk. Why the hell did I drive home? Who the fuck did I call and what did I say? Did I make an ass out of myself at the theatre? Fuck. I hate drunk guilt. Fuck fuck fuck.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:27 AM :: (6) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/23

"Yes, you may take a shower now please."

Posted by Plimco @ 8:27 AM :: (8) comments

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Like a virgin

Realization of the day #2:

This is the second time in a row I will be playing a virgin on stage. Why do I keep getting cast as a virgin? Does this have anything to do with the fact that I haven't gotten laid since I started playing these roles?

Carry on.

Posted by Plimco @ 12:24 PM :: (3) comments

Feet Crackers

I have discovered this new product of cracker. They certainly are tasty as their box pronounces. Yesterday though, as I was snacking, I noticed something disconcerting. I kept smelling feet. My shoes were on. Unmistakable. Foot odor. Curious.

Snack snack.

Munch munch.

Then it hit me. THE SMELL WAS COMING FROM MY CRACKERS!!! It felt like a TwilightZone episode. Thousands of corpses feet...ground up into a powder...and made into crackers.

Ooooo Weee. They stink. But they taste good. So I guess I'll still eat them. But it's kind of weird.

Ps. I love cheese. I love cheese cause it has the uncanny power of smelling bad yet tasting good. Yay cheese.

Posted by Plimco @ 12:00 PM :: (3) comments

Focus

My internet boyfriend is coming to see my play in a couple weeks. I am scared shitless. He's threatening standing in the back of the audience like a light house. He's threatening grabbing my ass as I make entrances from the back of the audience. I hate him. He is not funny.

I am reminded of one of the most challenging moments in my acting career. A time when absolute and total focus had to be gripped and held onto with white knuckles.

I was in college. The play was Five Women Wearing the Same Dress by Alan Ball. (He wrote American Beauty. This is his first play. It's pretty funny.) Since everyone's pretty much the same age in college, you get cast in roles that you won't get cast in again in the real world for another 10 or 15 or 25 years. I was always cast as the old eccentric frump, the old eccentric prude, the 30 something drunk, or the lunatic escaped from the asylum. Go figure. In 5 Women, I was the 30 something drunk. The play is about 5 bridesmaids talking shit about the bride at the wedding reception. I had a champagne bottle glued to my hand that whole show.*

We performed 5 Women in the black box space at school. Very intimate. The audience was literally about 3 feet away from the stage. If the front row stretched out, they could rest their feet on the furniture. Seriously. You could smell what they had for dinner.

My mom, my dad, Aunt B, and Miss J came to see that show, I think. Was the Big E there too?

I had a monologue in the first scene about...let's see if I can remember exactly....about how my husband and I never had sex. About how I forgot what sex was like. About how I masturbate all the time. About how good I am at masturbating and how I love it. How I'm getting old and don't know if I'm ever going to get laid again. (Whoah. That kind of sounds like my life currently. That's really depressing...)

I was directed to deliver the first couple of lines to the other actor on stage with me and then to turn....to turn...to turn and deliver the remaining page and a half of monologue into the "mirror" above the vanity I was sitting at. There was no real mirror. I was to stare at my "reflection" where the mirror would be and say these sad sad sexual embarrassing sad things to that. There's a way you can sort of focus your eyes to focus on a space in the middle of nowhere, but you still see what's behind that nowhere. I had to do that when I spoke to my grandfather's "corpse" in his "casket" at his funeral in my last play. I was talking to empty nothingness. Space.

Anyhow. So I start my monologue off with conviction enough and then I turn...I turn...I turn and there. Right smack in the middle of my vanity "mirror". Is my father. With his arms crossed across his chest. His legs sprawled out. And I swear. I swear. He waves and mouths, "Hi Plimco" at me. I have another 5 minutes that I have to talk into my "mirror" about masturbation and how I go about it and how I love it. He's sitting RIGHT THERE. Hi dad.

I somehow made it through. I somehow carried on. I somehow pulled up my boot straps and the focus of a telekinetic and made it through that monologue.

Damn. That was probably one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do on stage.




*I must say, and I don't mean to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty good at playing drunk. Lot's of people suck at it. The secret to playing drunk is trying to not act drunk. Like crying. Try not to cry and you'll cry. Toot toot. That will cost you all $39.95. Make checks payable to: Plimco the poor actor who knows her shit but needs to buy dog food.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:19 AM :: (8) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/22

"I've seen more skin in a JC Penny catalogue."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:29 AM :: (0) comments

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Time for another gross story, kids!

I remember the first day I saw it happen. The first of many many days that I would pretend not to notice. That I would avert my eyes and repress.

I was so young, I should have been in a car seat. I may have been, I'm not sure. I was in the back seat of my mom's maroon Grand Marquis with the little square pattern on the matching maroon upholstery. I remember wearing my tennis pants. My tennis outfit. Not an outfit for playing tennis in, but an outfit dedicated to the theme of tennis. Criss-crossed racquets on the shirt. Blue and orange daises on the corduroy pants with little balls and racquets intertwined. We had just gone through the drive through at the bank. The lady gave me a sucker in the little tube they shot back and forth making transactions. It was lemon. I hate lemon. It gave me a headache. The maroon was sucking up the heat from the sun and I was hot and grumpy in my corduroy tennis pants and my fingers were sticky from the stupid lemon sucker giving me a headache.

I was behind the driver's seat. I looked at my mom's reflection in the rear view mirror. She was singing to herself as we sat at the red light. Then she did it. She took the pinky finger of her right hand and dug around in her ear hole...twisting...turning.... Then she held her pinky out in front of her face and examined the captured detritus under her fingernail. Then she placed her nail on her bottom teeth, closed down, and with a lever effect pinched out the yellow chunk and ate her own ear wax.

I was horrified. Even as a sucker sucking child, I knew this was horribly horribly wrong. Ear wax is not meant for human consumption. It has to be the most bizarre and nasty of substances the human body creates. I mean, it's WAX! That's just weird. It's yellow and crusty and sticky and wrong. She ate it. Many more times after that too. Maybe she still does, I don't know.

But one day...one day, I'd had enough. I spoke up. I think I was in college and brave. MOM! Why do you DO that?! It's disgusting!!! "Do what?" She claimed it was a totally unconscious gesture and agreed that it was gross.

It is gross. Ugh. I mean, who does that? It makes me embarrassed for her...

Posted by Plimco @ 10:50 AM :: (12) comments

Smoking Update

It's just me reminded me yesterday that I originally started this blog because I quit smoking and needed something to occupy my thoughts and my time and my hands so that I wouldn't think about smoking cigarettes...beautiful tasty sexy and amazing cigarettes...oh how I miss ye...

That's what it used to say on my profile until I changed it to avenging Simon the bunny's death.

I guess it kind of worked. The whole distraction thing cause I've certainly gotten off the lack of cigarette subject long ago. That's nice. That doesn't mean I still don't want a cigarette really really bad at least 3 times a day. I just don't tell you about it anymore.

I haven't had a (whole) tobacco cigarette since 10:30PM on November 28th. I've had a few drags of my stage manager's cigarette on opening weekend of my play in January. I also bought a pack of clove cigarettes a month or so ago. I only smoked 3. I threw the pack away last night. Up until November 28th, I was smoking a pack a day for 10 years.

I had tried to quit several times. My doctor friend told me about this anti-depressant drug, buproprion (generic well butrin), that had proven effective with assisting people quit. They noticed depressed people on the drug were quitting smoking. Hey! Would you look at that. So, I've been taking that shit and I hate it. I mean, it worked, works, is working, but... I just hate shoving chemicals down my throat every day and it makes me kind of wacky. I get really hyper or really emotional and sad and I get horrible night sweats and the shakes and dry mouth. If I do get sad I'm like, what the fuck? I'm on an anti-depressant! I must be SUPER sad then if I'm feeling this sad. I'm weaning myself this week. Some people are on it for 6 months, some people are on it for a year, but... I'm done. I'm sick of it. I hope my nicotine cravings don't get out of control again, but I just can't take this shit anymore.

I'm scared I'm going to crash, you know? I'm scared that when I finally stop taking it I'm going to fall into this pit of depression and not be able to come out. Or I'm going to be so stressed with the opening of my new play that I start smoking again. Or I'm going to gain 30 pounds. Urgh. I wish smoking weren't so bad for you. I'd totally do it all the time if it were healthy. I'm good at it, the art of smoking.

My first cigarette was a Marlboro Light. I now fondly call Marlboro Lights "sorority girl cigarettes". I was on a church camping trip with my youth group. I had invited this girl I met at an OAFC gathering, another church youth event (for the love of god). Her name was Faith. She was hot. Hott. She had legs from here to Mississippi. Long long wavy blondish hair and the most gigantic bluish purpledy eyes with long ass lashes. Oh. To have her give you attention was like a kiss from the gods. Just to be in her presence was a blessing. I thought she was my new best friend. She smoked too. She was so bad ass. I sat down on a log in the forest and inhaled. I coughed a lot and got dizzy and giggledy. I didn't start smoking regularly then or anything, but it was my first one. I was 15. She later went on to take Craig's, the soccer player who gave me my first kiss on a bus to a church gathering in New Orleans with Miss J in the seat behind us, virginity. She ended up sort of being a slut. Faith and cigarettes. Let you down every time.

Can we please not talk about cigarettes again for a while now? Thanks.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:59 AM :: (0) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/21

"Ummm...the toilet seems to be overflowing...I just peed in it, I swear!"

Posted by Plimco @ 7:32 AM :: (3) comments

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

How they're finding me...

To the person in Pasadena, California who came here looking for 11-year-olds touching their privates, you make me sick.

To the British parliament who came here because they've been waking up crying and know what a bumbershoot is, I want to move to London some day. Could one of you put me up in a flat for a while until the Royal Shakespeare Company casts me? I would be happy to babysit or plantsit or housesit. I really really really really really really really wish to live in London, but work permits are hard to get and the pound to dollar ratio these days? OOOo weee. Please? Kind parliament people? Hook a girl up?

Posted by Plimco @ 1:40 PM :: (8) comments

Steve the one-handed landlord

Today I will tell you the story of Steve the one-handed landlord. Settle in and get comfy.

I got a 9 month acting contract out of college in a small New England state (aren't they all small?). After the contract was complete, I decided to stay on the east coast. I was hooked. The guy who played my big brother, the technical director with a lazy eye, and I decided to get an apartment together in a certain nearby city. We had been working as actors for 9 months, so we hadn't exactly saved much money as you can imagine. The variety of apartments in our price range was....slim.

We go to look at this shoebox of a place on the second floor of a three family. The man showing us around is this Italian (or was he Portuguese? Shit.) little man with gold chains and one hand. 1. Hand. The other was a rosy little smooth stump. He didn't give a shit. He pointed with his little stump at the wallpaper with cartoon bears on it, gestured us into the living room with it, scratched itches with it. I asked him if I could have my cat there. He said yes. I was sold and I think I remember jumping around a little to enthuse my only platonic male friend* and the guy with the lazy eye.

We took it. Steve, the one-handed landlord, told us that we were to pay him with cash every month. No checks. He said we could park on the street, but not to use the garage and driveway because he occasionally sold used cars there. Ok Steve. An inkling of suspicion arose...

We "moved" in. We had nothing. My only platonic male friend and I slept on the floor. We had no couch. We had a 4 cup coffee pot, some clothes, a folding Red Sox chair, a teeny TV, a bunch of books, and a cat. After we finally got temp jobs, we splurged and bought the heaviest couch known to man at the Salvation army which we promptly stuck in the stairwell.

Steve would come over at the first of every month and count out the rent...in cash...on our kitchen counter. Remember Steve only has one hand, right? It took him a while to count out all that cash with one hand. We were patient. He had his technique down. That little calloused thumb separating and stacking twenties. Us shifting our weight by the fridge....watching...mesmerized. We would joke how we were going to give him rent one month in all 1$ bills. Ha! That's horrible. Don't make fun of the physically handicapped. (Ha!)

Steve was totally in the mob. His "selling" of used cars? Yeah. I'm not sure he ever actually sold a car. He'd just rotate about 5 of them and that would be an excuse for all his buddies with slicked back hair and suits to stop by and have money exchange hands outside in the driveway. He sure was up to some fishy business.

Never asked him how he lost that hand....





*This is what I'll call him from now on. It's true. Every other man I've been "friends" with has tried to get in my pants at one point or another. He hasn't. We even went skinny dipping once. He has defined the intimacy of platonic friendship for me and I love him for it. I love him for being my friend with no ulterior motives...ever... Well, he's always had a beautiful girlfriend, but that's beside the point...

Posted by Plimco @ 9:26 AM :: (5) comments

Define Art

I woke up laughing and completely disoriented and dizzy this morning. I kept tripping over my dog and having to sit down I was so out of it. I woke up laughing from this dream:

I was teaching what seemed to be an acting class. My students were all these kids I know, but also random people from my past like my gay black friend from high school who I had sex with (another post) only he had braces. We were sitting around this circle in folding chairs (in the art room at school now that I think about it. Ha!) and I asked them all, "What is art?"* They were pretty shy. I think it was the first day of class. I asked them if they'd seen the T-shirt that is just black with white letters that says, "Art is Life". (Is there a T-shirt like this? I've no idea...probably. I know Miss J is always telling me that your life is like a piece of art...) That opened up a bit of discussion. What kinds of art are there? Visual, painting, photography, performance...we started making a list. Then I look over and this little girl is writing a check. She has her check book out and is writing a check in the middle of class. I was livid. I remember feeling anger stronger than I've ever felt before. I went over to her and began telling her about respect and how DARE you not be paying attention in MY class and...man. I wish I could remember what all I said to her. It was awesome. I wasn't yelling, I was speaking to her in very serious and angry quiet tones though which had a greater effect. The rest of the class was in complete shock. No one had seen me this angry before. I then picked up her check book and ripped it in half. I remember noticing that it was her last check. Her face was flushed and there were tears in her eyes and she ran out of the class room. I turned back to my class...they started to all get up and leave! I was like, wait! I'm not done! NO! I'm not really that mean all the time! You guys? Hey! We haven't even started yet! This one girl looked at me like I was an idiot. She pointed at the clock. "Class is over." Oh. You guys aren't leaving because I scared you, you're leaving because class is over. Whewf. What a relief. I started laughing. I woke myself up laughing.

Then I stumbled around my house dizzy and disoriented.

Weird.




*This came from the fact that my family went to the Museum of Modern Art in St. Louis on Saturday and there was this exhibit that asked, "What is art?" and there was a stack of post-it notes available for museum goers to write answers on and stick on the wall under the question. Some of the answers were hilarious like, "Not this." or "My butt." or "Art schmart."

Posted by Plimco @ 8:29 AM :: (4) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/20

"Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got into a fight with this gigantic bouncer named Tiny?"

Posted by Plimco @ 7:38 AM :: (0) comments

Monday, March 20, 2006

Plimco Blues

BaDWAda dat dah

Well it's the first day of spring

BaDWAda dat dah

And I'm feelin' blue

BaDWAda dat dah

It's 27 degrees baby

BaDWAda dat dah

And I'm sittin' here without you

BaDWAda dat dah

I got a hole in my stockings

BaDWAda dat dah

Got a hair in my eye

BaDWAda dat dah

Gonna go home alone again tonight

BaDWAda dat dah

OH Please don't ask me why I got the

boomp boomp

Neeeeeeeed some arms around meeeeee bluuuuuuuues...

oh yeeeah

Posted by Plimco @ 2:15 PM :: (1) comments

Pre-heat oven to 375

This place is called a casserole for a reason. Here's a bunch of junk piled in a dish in no particular order:

1. The door to the cupboard in my kitchen fell down and hit me on the head last night.

B. I should have a total of 6 costume changes for my show. Ask me how many I had for the costume parade yesterday. Go on. Don't be shy. 2. 2 fucking costumes.

C. One of the costumes the designer thought I should wear was a leeetle skirt that went up to my ass crack. She wanted me to wear this for the scene in which I roll around on the floor. Oh hell no. That was my reply when I put it on and bent over. Oh hell no.

IV. Our set is not built yet. Our "set" consists of various pieces of lumber and furniture thrown willy nilly on a stage.

5. We open a week from Friday.

f. Fuck.

g. Fuck fuck fuck.

8. My dog ate my Argentinean friend's 4-year-old's pancakes off the table while I was on vacation.

i. The 4-year-old cried.

X. My dog also ate the 9-year-old's bouncy ball and then threw it up on their carpet.

xi. Thank goodness I brought the entire family Cardinals socks from St. Louis.

Q. I didn't even owe them to them from past bets, I just brought them out of the goodness of my heart.

&. My cat has destroyed an entire side of the couch in the living room. Scratched it to shreds. The woman who owns my house pointed this out to me yesterday.

21. Shit.

63. Shit shit shit.

XXXI. Why must my pets destroy things and cause much conflict in my life and others?

4. The lady who pisses on the seat just asked me if she could borrow a tampon.

44. Now I have a horrid image in my head of what she's doing in there...

!~. Blogger hasn't been working for shit for me all day.

v. I have the blues.

vi. It's the first day of spring and I should be happy, but instead I have the blues.

viii. I thought I saw that blog cheerleader girl, ~Manda in the Chicago airport yesterday.

viiii. I don't think she likes me so I didn't say hi.

viiiii. Maybe I'll compose a blues song for everyone to make me feel better.

viiiii. I have a plastic horse, Sponge Bob, 2 plastic dinosaurs, a lego man, 2 rhinoceroses, 3 tropical frogs, a cheese rocket, a clicky bug, and 2 fish in a parade under my computer monitor.

viiiiii. My mom cried when she heard that Mendel died.

Z. Haikus must include a seasonal reference in order to be called a haiku.

Posted by Plimco @ 1:24 PM :: (6) comments

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Sentences of the Weekend

3/18

(sung) "Head for the mountains........"

3/19

"The pope's picking me up at the airport."

Posted by Plimco @ 5:36 PM :: (0) comments

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Vacation from vacation

Why does vacation seem stressful? I hate that. I have that feeling that there is so much I should be doing...and there is. I fly back to a 1:00-11:00 tech rehearsal at which I need to be off book. No scripts on stage. I'm not sure that the set is even built yet. I have a whole act I haven't figured out my intentions for and I haven't composed as detailed a character history as I would like to have and...SHIT...I think our bios were due to the stage manager on Friday. shit shit shit.

I have about 3 zits on my face that won't go away. I am a beauty to behold along with all my bloat and gas and 12 pounds I've gained. Why do I still get zits? I thought that stopped when you weren't a teenager any more. I hate them.

This doesn't feel like vacation. I mean, it's only a few days. It's not a real vacation. Now that I mention it, whenever I do get real vacations, I tend to spend them with my family. Hmm... Why is that I wonder. My family stresses me out...some...not all the time, but... I wonder what it would be like to go on a vacation by myself and far away for truly a relaxing affair. Maybe some day...

Speaking of by myself. I really miss being by myself. These people are always around me. And I like them. I love them. But... But I'm so used to being by myself and not having to deal with people or talk to anyone and there's this sense of entertaining... This sense of others expecting to be entertained when around me and... they live in a loft. It's one freaking room. I can't get away from them! And there are two dogs constantly churning the ground and bonking me on the head with their bony tails. A mom, a dad, a sister, a brother-in-law, 2 dogs, and a plimco... all in a little loft.... all weekend... yeah.

Shit. I should really be going over my lines instead of giving you a vacation update.... shit.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:14 PM :: (5) comments

Bloated

I've been eating so much here. So so much. You want a list? Let's see if I can remember... Oof.

Good gracious. I think I've gained 10 pounds. My system isn't used to eating this much. Especially this much red meat. My poops are giganto manly events that hurt my little delicate anus. Tonight we're supposed to go out to this frou frou Italian joint. I hope I can make it...

Now the question is to make a pot of coffee....or drink some more beer... Decisions decisions.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:03 PM :: (1) comments

How she killed herself

My cousin's husband's mother killed herself right before Christmas. We weren't given many details. He was sad and despondant over Christmas with good reason.

I found out last night how she killed herself.

A plastic bag.

She put a plastic bag over her head.

Can you imagine?

Like the warnings when you get your shirts back from the dry cleaner in their plastic sheaths. Keep away from children. No way I would do it that way.

Gracious.

Can you imagine?

Posted by Plimco @ 11:10 AM :: (0) comments

Sentence(s) of the Day 3/17

"The plural of sense."

"Scents!"

"NO, the PLURAL of sense."

"Scents!"

"NO NO NO, you have hearing, seeing, smelling, touching. Those are your_____?"

"Scents!"

Posted by Plimco @ 11:03 AM :: (0) comments

Friday, March 17, 2006

Another thing I want to do before I die:

Drive from one coast to the next.

Posted by Plimco @ 3:48 PM :: (0) comments

Louie Louie...oh baby...we gotta go...yeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah

So far so... ok. They're sleeping now. Shhhhh....

Let's see... Maybe I shouldn't have brought up politics over dinner and Mom and Dad's stance on abortion and how that translates to both their political and religious parties...

Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking...

Maybe I should never have mentioned the...the person that...the boy I seem to have...oh never mind.

Maybe I shouldn't have had that glass of scotch with dinner.

Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut when mom said, "Should I have taken a more active role in your middle school friendships? I never trusted that Cindy Harris or her parents. We only let you hang out with her because we thought you might be a good influence, a positive influence on their family." Really mom? Is that why. Geez. Ok. No, I'm fine mom. Really. I'm great. I would just come home from spending the night at her house with bruises all over me. What happened? Oh, you know Cindy has a pool. I slipped and fell. Verbal abuse. Physical abuse. You remember when I stopped eating and became a skeleton? Yeah. That was cause she kept calling me "fatty" over and over and over and over. But you know what? Living through that? I realized that real friends, true friends are bullshit. Or at least rare. Or at least not people that hit me. No mom. I'm fine. Really. You were a great parent. Seriously. I'm fine. You're not going to beat yourself up over this are you? I'm fine. See?

So, everything seems to be going along swimmingly so far...

Posted by Plimco @ 12:32 AM :: (3) comments

Sentence(s) of the Day 3/16

"Mullen's poems about her poetics demonstrate that the body and language are inextricably linked in the act of poetic creation and ultimately in the emergence of human identity itself."

"You are a huckleberry beyond my persimmon."

"Each phrase begins with the back-close vowel sound of the 'You' and moves to the open vowel sound of 'are' to the lip-smacking labial stop opening 'beyond' that ends with the tongue humming on the teeth for "n" followed by a quick flick for the 'd'."

"I also can't help but think of the winding appearance of the brain's cerebral cortex."

"Not only are poetry's sounds felt in the mouth, throat, chest, and head, but its rhythms resonate throughout the body. Poetry can thus be not only figuratively 'moving,' but also literally, as the body responds and echoes its rhythms, swaying to its music."

"Though this, dare I say, 'dictionary porn' is quite humorous..."

"Language may let us down when we try to make sense of our feelings of selfness, or we may even tell contradictory stories about ourselves, but this linguistic play does not and cannot negate or destroy the centered, if shifting, embodied foundation and phenomenological feeling of an individual identity."

All of the above chestnuts are extrapolated from Miss J's dissertation...which I finally finished reading...today. In case you didn't know, my sister's brilliant. She may leave goofy-ass comments here all the time, but...damn. I'm just so...proud...in awe of.... I love her.

Posted by Plimco @ 12:05 AM :: (5) comments

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Airport Blogging

Hi. I'm in the airport. How cool is that? I'm at one of those public internet access dork pagodas. People are walking by and reading over my shoulder. I'm here way too early. I hate that. Sometimes it takes forever to get through security. Sometimes it takes 2 minutes. I wore exciting socks for the occasion. They're toe socks. They have toes of the following colors:

Green
Yellow
Purple
Pink
Orange

This guy said that I had the best socks ever. Yay. It's true. I do. I better. I've won enough bets...

Once I performed this story as a Scottish nanny. The story of Babushka wandering around Russia. Whenever little Babushka left any place, they would always say to her as she went on her way, "Safe journey to you, my friend." I hope my plane doesn't plummet from the sky in flames. That would suck.

Whenever I fly, I experience this moment of total glee when we take off and we go up up....up where I shake my fist in the air and scream (in my head) "I DEFY YOU GRAVITY!!!!" Yay. I love that part.

Posted by Plimco @ 9:41 AM :: (3) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/15

"I still think you guys should write up Dykes of Hazard."

Posted by Plimco @ 9:38 AM :: (1) comments

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Out of Pocket

(I really enjoy that expression.)

I'm going to be out of pocket for the next few days. This may either mean that I am

a) posting more than usual
or
b) not posting at all

I'm thinking it will be a. I'm going to visit my parents at their "new" home in...I guess I can tell you. Who cares? St. Louis. They've lived there for over a year and this is the first time I'm going to see their loft. I cannot imagine my parents living in a hip loft like a couple of metropolitans. Family gatherings tend to still be in Tennessee, so I haven't had the chance to get to the gateway to the west. Until now...

AND it's St. Patrick's day which means we'll be getting wasted much of the time. I love that my parents enjoy their fair share of healthy libation. So, most likely I'll be posting drunk from their computer after they go to sleep.

They better not have sex. I hear that their loft doesn't have any doors. They better not have sex while I'm there.

Miss J and her husband, Chet (I've decided I'm going to call him Chet because it is funny and appropriate in its inappropriateness), will be joining the party on Friday. Thank goodness they will be there to protect, I mean distract me. They better not have sex either. I think I'll be on the next inflate-a-mattress over from them. NO SEX FOR ANYONE!

No. I love my parents. I really do. I enjoy spending time with them and I miss them. They are funny and quirky and weird and thoughtful and loving and nice. There are just a few subjects that I must avoid when I'm around them and that can become...tedious. And my father and I tend to....grate on each other's....sometimes he says things that make me want to....I hate the way he.... But, I'm smart this time. I'm only going for 3 1/2 days. That should be the perfect amount of time for them to not drive me up a tree. Let's hope so anyway...

And I really really really really need to get out of this god forsaken town. I've been stuck here since... ugh. A while. It will feel good to fly away. I made a deal with my director that if I were to accept the role, she would have to give me a weekend off. 1 weekend of freedom. That's what I'm about to embark on. No commitments. No responsibility. Well...except for memorizing my lines, but let's forget about that... Embarking on a weekend of freedom....woof woof.

woof.

Posted by Plimco @ 2:34 PM :: (10) comments

If you sprinkle when you tinkle...

My grandma has that cross stitched and framed at eye level when you sit on her toilet. You know what else she has for your reading pleasure if you take a poop in her bathroom?

Do not walk in front of me
I may not follow

Do not walk behind me
I may not lead

Just walk beside me
and be my friend

Man oh man I love that little poem. I quote it all the time when I'm walking around town with people and they aren't keeping up or are walking in front of me when they want to pretend like they don't know me. I hate that.

Tangent.

Point:

This woman. This woman pees on the seat all the damn time. There are maybe a handfull of women that use this restroom. A cleaning crew comes in every night to clean. Now don't get me wrong. I understand hovering. I've been known to hover. Throw me in a port-o-potty, a sketchy gas station restroom? I'll hover till the cows come home, but here? No. I know all the people that pee here. I see them every day. They seem clean enough.

I am sick of wiping up her nasty piss. All over the seat. All over the floor. You need to aim just a little bit, honey. Gross. Oh, and we know it's you. We know cause it's a one seater and we find the seat in such a state every time we walk in after you, princess. What, do you have a gilded toilet at home and a fuckin' bidet? Is this set up not good enough for you? Priss. Miss Priss Piss. That's your new name. I hate you. And I hate your nasty nasty tinkle drips too.

Posted by Plimco @ 11:20 AM :: (17) comments

A few things I want to do before I die:

1. Go to a casino
2. Shoot a gun
3. Have sex again

Posted by Plimco @ 11:18 AM :: (9) comments

Waiting for the Naked

I meant to tell you guys that I went to see the bald model ex-boyfriend's play on Saturday. This is the one where there was a warning attached that said "Caution: This play contains scenes of adult nudity." I was so looking forward to sitting there in the dark and watching his scrawny ass prance around naked and laughing the laugh of one who enjoys public humiliation.

So I spend the 27 fucking dollars for a ticket and sit there....and wait....and wait....and wait for the naked. Never happens. That is some bullshit. You do NOT advertise that there will be nudity in a show and then not deliver. It was hard to concentrate on the story cause I was waiting for the naked. At one point, the two female characters (a cast of 3) changed from their night gowns into clothes. They put their pants on under the night gown and then took it off and put a shirt on. They were both wearing full coverage old lady bras. Apparently that was enough to include the nudity disclaimer. Didn't even throw me a nipple. I mean, come ON!

I was so pissed off. That was the only reason I went. I mean, the show was entertaining. It was done by this Russian theatre company that I love, so it's all performance arty and interpretive dancy and Stanislavski-esque and there's no where else in town that's doing a show even remotely similar to this, but... I was really looking forward to seeing some skin. $27.00?! Grumble grumble grumble.

So after the show I had this grand plan to get the hell out of there and send the balding model a brief Email on Monday saying, Hey. Saw your show. Nice work. and that being that. I had to pee. It was a long show and I had a glass of wine prior. I'm coming out of the bathroom and he's standing there. Shit. Hi. "I saw you in the audience." Why the hell didn't anyone get naked? Then he and a girl from the show and the lighting designer made me go out for a drink with them so that they could ask me questions about the production. I was reminded how fucking vain and obnoxious this guy is. Never date an actor. What an ass hole. He and the girl from the show kept pumping me for my opinion. After a couple drinks I was like, fine. You want my uncensored critique? Here ya go, folks. And I let them have it. Then I spilt the entire contents of a gin and tonic all over the lighting designer. OOps. I must be in my spilling-things-on-other-people phase. Then I went home. Balding model called me 3 times. By the third time I basically had to draw him a pie chart explaining that I had absolutely no desire to have sex with him ever ever again...ever. Stop calling me. Go home. Go to bed. Booty calls don't work for you. Buh-bye.

Not even a nipple. Man. That still pisses me off.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:12 AM :: (5) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/14

"It's not even 10:00 and I miss you already."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:30 AM :: (3) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/13

"Yeah, perhaps that's as much of a vampirical moment as we need."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:29 AM :: (0) comments

Monday, March 13, 2006

To the man behind me in line at customer service:

Dear man behind me in line at customer service at the grocery store,

I appreciate that you're waiting patiently back there and are not trying to chat me up. I really really hate small talk and I respect you for not trying to engage me.

I have to tell you something though. You know how sometimes there are cameras and monitors for security purposes around places that contain money? Yeah. There's one right up there. Right....up....there. I can see me. I can make faces at myself while I'm waiting for the woman behind the desk to service me. I can check out my butt from behind cause you never really get to see what your butt looks like from behind unless you have a camera and monitor positioned just....so.

You see it?

No. You don't see it. How do I know you don't see it? Cause you're scratching your balls. Over and over and over and really getting into it. Man. You sure had an itch there, didn't you Buddy? I bet they got something to take care of that for ya in aisle 9.

Gross.

I don't enjoy watching strangers touch their privates in public. Maybe it's just me, but....gross. He was maybe 2 feet away from me. Behind me. Doing that to his balls. Gross.

Posted by Plimco @ 11:29 AM :: (12) comments

Vagina Cookies

Have you guys ever had hamantaschens? They're these little pastries, these little triangle cookies with the dough folded over in the shape of a triangle and inside is goo. Fruit goo. Usually the goo is yellow (lemon), but sometimes it is red or pink (raspberry or strawberry or cherry). The red or pink ones look so much like little edible vaginas, it makes me giggle to gobble them down. Yum.

They're supposed to be Haman's ears, that's why they're traditionally yellow (ear wax). I'll give you all a minute to read the book of Esther....

I just had two poppy seed hamantaschens. They're kind of weird. What are all those little black blobs doing in that vagina? That can't be good. I ate em up anyway. MMMmmmmm.... love me some vagina cookies...

Posted by Plimco @ 9:47 AM :: (6) comments

Hey Plimco! What'd you make for dinner last night?

Chicken Pad fuckin' Thai. BOO-yah!

Posted by Plimco @ 8:29 AM :: (0) comments

Sentences of the Weekend

3/11

Scene: A diner

Plimco sits at the window with what appears to be a script in a bright red binder. She is furiously coding the script with a pencil. She's wearing jeans, an orange t-shirt, a blue hoody. Her hair is in a messy blob on top of her head. Green sneakers. No make-up. She occasionally looks out the window into the parking lot and smiles about something.

Waitress: You doin' your homework?

Plimco: No, I'm memorizing lines for a play.

Waitress: What grade are you in?

Plimco: I graduated.

Waitress: What college are you going to?

Plimco: What? No. I graduated college too.

Waitress: Riight...

Plimco: No, seriously.

Waitress: Ummm....if you say so. Can I get you some more coffee, baby?

Plimco: Did you just call me "baby"?

Waitress: Yeah, I guess I did. I meant to say "sweetie", but "baby" came out instead. You just look like a baby, I guess.

Plimco: Don't call me "baby" and yes, I'd like some more coffee.

3/12

Ok. Fine. You can wear my pants.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:39 AM :: (4) comments

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Mate

My Argentinean friends always have this curious object lying about their house. It is a shiny and smooth blackish blue bowl of a thing with golden feet and trim and a metal straw coming out. Inside is the most mysterious of organic stuffs. For a while I thought it may be drugs. But they have kids and it was always out in the open, on their entertainment center, the coffee table. Then, when my friend's mother was visiting, she carried around with her in her pijamas as though it was precious. Then I thought maybe it was some sort of face care system. Herbal beauty care perhaps. Curiouser and curiouser. I'd peek inside when they left the room and sometimes sniff. It smelled like an outside I'd never been in before. It looked like...granulated minerals and mud and crushed crystal. I never asked them straight out, though. What the hell is that shit in your little pot? The whole affair seemed sacred somehow. Ancient ritual. It seemed special and seemed as though I should not touch.

Last night I was brave enough to ask the 9-year-old. "OH! It's mate (pronounced MET-eh). Haven't you ever heard of mate? Here, try it." What what what?! She poured in a bit of hot water from a thermos and said, "drink". Through this (the metal stick-em-out straw)? "Yes. Go on."

OH...it was so...interesting. Such a unique blend of the smell of the outside I've never been in turned into taste. Earth and herbs and bitter dirt and health. It tasted like it had to be good for you. She then took a sip out of the same straw. We shared.

I found out later, when her parents got home, that mate is this ritual in Argentina. It's been around for centuries. Apparently it has tons of caffeine in it. People have these mate bars and they sit around and pass the bowl of herb mush and everyone partakes...through the same straw... And there's this whole set of rules and a secret language attached. You never say, "thank you" unless you're done and you want no more mate. If it is passed to you with the straw one way it means one thing, the other means another. The temperature of the water means something, you can sweeten it or put milk in it. In the summer you chill it and add sugar and mint and lemon. Argentinean iced tea!

So the curious sacred bowl mystery is solved. Mate. To drink it with someone, to share it with someone is a ritual of friendship. My best friend tonight is a 9-year-old girl who likes to dress up like a zombie and jump out of closets and scare me. My mate.

Posted by Plimco @ 6:29 PM :: (4) comments

Beers with Married Men

When you go out for beers after work with 3 married men, what do you talk about? Last time they talked about that stupid Dancing with the Stars TV show the whole time and who was hot and who would win. After that experience, I wasn't sure I wanted to repeat the whole scenario.

Yesterday this is what I talked about with the 3 married men:

Yay. I'm so glad that the only TV reference was an educational one this time. I had nothing to add to that dancing with the stars discussion a couple weeks ago. It's funny cause I don't think they ever go out socially anymore. They have kids (except for Z) and wives and live that life, so to go out with the guys and drink on a Friday afternoon? It's like the greatest social event for them ever. I swear I have a dick sometimes. I was meant to be a guy. The dorky ass guy that never gets married that the other guys pick on and make fun of and give wedgies to. I'm him.

Posted by Plimco @ 11:05 AM :: (7) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/10

"You're the wackiest babysitter we've ever had."

Posted by Plimco @ 10:57 AM :: (0) comments

Friday, March 10, 2006

Sitting on Babies

I'm a Red Cross certified babysitter. Ok, I used to be. I do know CPR and basic first aid. I'm actually, as coincidence would have it, babysitting right at this very moment. I know! What are the chances of that? Crazy. They're both tucked in and snoozing away...I hope.

This is what we did tonight:

The whole evening I've been drinking their scotch. ummmm...

They just called and said that they locked their keys in the van at the concert. Ha! They're waiting for triple A. How were the kids? Perfect. What? Perfect? MY kids?

I'm fairly certain I got most of the green food coloring stains off her kitchen counter... and their little boy's face only has minimal green dye staining... I'll wait and let their 9-year-old tell them in the morning that they have to buy me another pair of socks. They had just made good on our Super Bowl bet last week...

Everybody. Everybody. Everybody wants to be a Plimco. Everybody. Everybody.

Posted by Plimco @ 10:49 PM :: (10) comments

BANANAS!

I feel like I've written about this before for some reason. Blog je vous. Does anyone else get that?

My sisters and I are all 4 years apart in age. My older sister and I began a secret society when my little sister was born. Ok. It wasn't secret, but she was very much the baby and it felt like we had to wait around forever for her to get old enough to be cool enough to play with. She's certainly cool enough now. In fact, I think she's way cooler than either Miss J or I could ever hope to be.

The Big E would try to include herself in our games. Sometimes we'd give her a character as a walk-on. Sometimes Miss J would make us both be her "dogs" and we'd have to walk around on all fours for hours and drink water out of dishes on the floor and hang out in the cushions from the sofa built into "dog houses" and not allowed to say anything but "woof" until our parents got home from going out to dinner.

One night on the way home in the maroon Grand Marquis from some church event I'm fairly certain, someone told a joke. The three of us were in the back seat as always. We'd fight for the middle. We'd fight for the right to sit in the middle. We'd call out "I'm in the middle!" on the way to the car. That's bizarre. That's the worst place to want to sit. I guess we loved each other that much.

Anyhow, someone told a joke and the car laughed at the punch line to reinforce the funny.

The Big E liked hearing the sound of the laughter, the reinforcement. She wanted to try this whole "joke" thing. She then proceeded to go on a joke telling rampage for about 3 months. She made up her own jokes. They would be these long and complicated diatribes involving all manner of characters in all sorts of situations. She'd be stalling. She'd start one of her famous "jokes" and not quite know how to end it, how to make the punchline. She couldn't....quite...figure out how to get the funny. Her punch line was usually something that made absolutely no sense and had nothing to do with the 10 minute story she had just told, but she would deliver it with such conviction. A verbal rim shot. It was usually something like, "BANANAS!" .... then silence ... Then we'd bust out laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.

I like to randomly scream that at her these days. It's fun.

Hey, E, BANANAS! then we both burst out laughing.

Posted by Plimco @ 12:20 PM :: (0) comments

When you find out they're a racist

It's always disconcerting when, having been someone's acquaintance for a bit, you find out they're a racist.

That happened to me yesterday. I've been going to the same mechanic for about 4 years now. His name's Mike. He gives my dog biscuits when I come in with her. He doesn't charge me for labor cause he knows I'm poor. He stays after hours and waits for me to come pick up my car cause he knows I can't get there by 5:00 after work. He asks me what plays I'm working on. I ask how his daughters are doing. He gives me advice on how to get my car through the winter. He fixes just what needs to be fixed so that I can get back on the road. He tells me, "yeah. This pipe is completely rusted through. It will cost $359 to fix, but Dave rigged it so that you will be able to get around for the next couple months, no problem. You don't really have to fix it. Although no way you'd pass your next emissions test with it that way, but you'll have a new car by then, right?"

Yesterday he was putting my new address in the computer. I told him the street name. He said, "That's in Smithville, not Rochester, right?" Yeah. He said, "Good, cause that street in Rochester is (and he lowers his voice so the other mechanics can't hear) the darkest black people neighborhood in all of _____. A nice Jewish girl like you wouldn't last long out there."

First of all, I'm not Jewish. I just play a Jew on TV. Secondly, I have no idea how to respond to that shit. I just stood there gaping and unbelieving. What?! Did he really just say that? Am I expected to laugh at his little joke? What the fuck? I had no idea you were a racist, dude. I'm caught off guard and by surprise and the lowering his voice and leaning in and sharing a little secret between white folks just pisses me off to no end.

I eventually responded something to the effect of, I don't know about that, Mike. I'm pretty scrappy. Besides, I lived in THIS neighborhood for 3 1/2 years. He just chuckled and sent me on my way.

I was still pissed off at the manner in which I chose to respond. He still thought I was participating in his little joke.

This city is so fucking segregated, it's bizarre. I don' t know why I thought hip east coast cities would be so liberal and accepting and open and diverse and a big melting pot living happily all together. You got the Irish side of town, the Vietnamese side of town, the South American side of town, the Italian side of town, the black side of town, Chinatown, Jewtown, etc. etc.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I guess my point is that I wish I could be more bold in the face of racist comments. Often my answer is to ignore it and walk away. That's a pretty pansy ass approach.

I guess I also wish that I were more exciting than a white girl. White girls are boring. So it goes...

Posted by Plimco @ 8:37 AM :: (12) comments

I was talking to some friends the other day and...

This is how I refer to you. I don't know how else to do it. Because I have to be anonymous and because I don't want people in my walking around life to know that I have a blog in which I talk shit about them, or analyze their rehearsal process, or critique their acting technique, or reveal dark secrets from my past and they would probably be scared of me and think I was weird and not want to hang out with me if they read all this stuff about pet death and whatnot, this is what I say:

I was talking to my friends the other day about bizarre places we'd had sex and this one guy said he had sex in a planetarium. How cool would that be?

or...

I have a friend who knows someone who was in the stall next to Carol Channing in the bathroom and she voiced her surprise on the corn in her poop.

or...

Interesting that you bring that up, my friends and I were just discussing today how many hamsters we've "accidentally" forgotten to feed.

So, there you have it. You're "some friends". Whether you like it or not.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:16 AM :: (7) comments

Sentence(s) of the Day 3/9

"Like how hairdressers always have the worst hair."

"Yeah and psychiatrists always have the weirdest kids."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:45 AM :: (3) comments

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Sometimes when they die, it's not my fault

Lately we've been talking about the pets we've murdered here at Bumbershoot Casserole.

To shake things up a bit I'd like to tell you a story about a pet death that was not my fault. In fact, there were many that were not my fault.

We lived off of highway 31 south. This highway runs from Florida to Michigan or something stupid like that. We were in the country, but the highway could be busy. We lost many pets on that highway. Let me see if I can list them:

Duke (black lab)
Corey (golden retriever)
Fuzz E. Dog (mutt)
Bert (cat)
Ernie, most likely (cat)
Merlin (cat)
Pumpkin (cat)
Tux (cat)

I think there were more, but I'm drawing a blank. The most vivid for me, Miss J can tell you about Corey's horrible death, was Bert.

First, let me give you a little back story. Miss J and I were given Bert and Ernie for... Was there an occasion? I don't think so. We needed farm cats so we got a couple. They were beautiful fat tabbys. Grey and black and white and orange. We got them as kittens. They were frisky as hell and constantly pestering one another. Ernie was mine, Bert was Miss J's. One day we couldn't find Ernie. I went out on the porch and called and called and called until I got hoarse. My parents said, "He'll turn up". The next day I called and called and called for him. ERNIE! EEEEEEERRRRRRRNNNIEEEEEEEEEE! Miss J came out on the porch and put her hand on my shoulder. I think I was crying. Then she gave me the nicest gift anyone's ever given me. She gave me Bert. She said he was mine. I could have him.

Bert got fat and lazy. He was so patient. I remember him letting The Big E put bonnets on him and put him in doll strollers and roll him around the kitchen. He was great.

One Saturday morning in late spring I got up to watch cartoons. No one else was up yet. I wanted to see the Smurfs. I made myself a bowl of cereal and dripped milk on my jammies. Then I realized I wanted company. I went outside to call for Bert. Then I saw it. A mound of grey and black fuzz on the side of the highway. I began walking toward it. Through the grass in my bare feet. The dew dampening the hem of my nightgown. Faster and faster toward the unmoving mound on the side of the highway. I crouched. Cars speeding by. I looked into the face of... The face of death. His skull was smashed in. His brains were oozing out. I saw his intestines, his guts. He was unrecognizable. I tried to touch him, to pet him, to hold him, but... He was too horrible looking. I walked in a daze through the wet grass back to the house.

I sat for a while in the den not watching cartoons.

I woke up my Dad. I went down to the road with him and a black garbage bag. He had on his work gloves. I remember the noises he made when he picked up the carcass. The gags coming from my father's throat. It was hideous, the carnage of my dead Bert.

We buried him on a special mound in the horse's field. I made a little ring of stones around his grave and tied two sticks together to make a cross. I would go out to the field and visit him after school. I would kneel on the dirt and sing him songs.

Later we would bury Mork, Mindy, and my hamster, Barney on the mound with him so that he wouldn't get lonely.

Posted by Plimco @ 2:17 PM :: (5) comments

My car exploded

I apologize for the delay in today's programming. My car exploded. I hate my stupid fucking car. It is a piece of shit. It is a 93 stupid Toyota stupid Camry and it is the most offensive and hateful shade of purple I've ever seen in my life. I hate the color purple. I have something personal against the color purple. I've spoken of this before...

So there's billowing smoke and heat and drama in the middle of morning rush hour traffic in downtown _____. I use my AAA membership for the first time. They say they'll be there in an hour. 2 hours later they show up.

My car was free. Well, it was $500 but my friend gave that back to me after all my windshields got broken by a brick the second day I had it. I've already put so much money into it, it's stupid.

I can't afford a new car.

I can't not have a car. If I don't, there's no way I will have time to be a decent dog owner and make it to rehearsal on time. I'd have to take a bus, three trains, and a 5 block walk to get to and from work every day. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I hate car stress. It is the worst kind of stress ever. Because there's not shit you can do about it...unless you're a mechanic...

My mechanic just had me on hold for 15 minutes. He doesn't know where the mechanic is who was working on my car. He said he can't find my car either. He said maybe he took it for a test drive? What?! It exploded this morning! I don't think it's in the best shape to be driving around. Maybe it burst into flames on the test drive.

If it's going to cost more than $300 to fix, I can't do it. I just can't. It doesn't make any sense. It's a piece of shit. urrrrrgggghhh...

This fellow I work with says he can get good cars for cheap at auctions. Maybe I'll do that. But you have to pay all the money upfront and no way I could do that and no way I want to ask my parents for a loan and...

Hey. Do any of you guys have a fairly new and reliable car you want to give me for free? I'll umm...hmmm...not quite sure what I could give you in exchange... I'll perform a comedic monologue for you? Do an interpretive dance? Sing you a song? I'll fly to you and drive it home. I'm not picky. I know how to drive a stick...




Edited to add: A hose clamp broke. Retail price? $47.60. That I can swing. My mechanic, Mike, said, "She'll live to see another day, Plimco." I replied with, Thanks, Doc. I'll pick her up this afternoon. Now if you'll excuse me while I do a little vehicular victory dance... (oop! oop! oop! oop!)

Posted by Plimco @ 11:21 AM :: (9) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/8

"Then we'll be able to do whatever we want."

Posted by Plimco @ 10:33 AM :: (1) comments

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

The Demise of Mork and Mindy the Parakeets

Ok. People have been making fun of me with regard to my history of sketchy pet care. That's fine. I don't care. To prove it I will tell the story of my two dead parakeets, Mork and Mindy.

My father used to do all his shopping on Christmas eve. This is what he'd do. He'd get up in the morning knowing that he had to buy gifts for his entire immediate family. He'd drink a pot of coffee, putz around on the farm and then decide to go into town. "Town" consisted of 2 McDonalds, a "mall" (that was basically an arcade, a Claire's and a Goodys), a bowling alley, a Waffle House, a pet store, a Wal-Mart, a liquor store, Tennessee Tractor Supply Co., the Bypass Deli, Food Lion, a crappy movie theater, and a Kwik Sak. I suspect he started at the mall and poked around Goodys for a bit before he decided that he wanted a beer. Then he'd go to the Bypass Deli. Then he'd go to the Wal-Mart and buy one of us a walkman or some other such gadget. Then he'd decide he wanted another beer. Back to the deli. This carried on all day that fateful Christmas eve and the clock was ticking down to time for the candle light service at church. He hadn't gotten anything for my mother yet. He went to the pet store. That was his first mistake. Drunk people should never be allowed in pet stores on Christmas eve. He bought two parakeets in a pink cage. One was blue and one was green. A male and a female.

Christmas morning my mother was puzzled. We were puzzled. What the hell? What do we want with a couple of parakeets? Dad shrugged his shoulders. Thanks, Dad.

So, I eventually volunteered my room. I already had Barney the hamster (another story) in there, what's a couple more mouths to feed? They were sort of nice, I guess. I tried to get them to talk, but they didn't. They chirpled at me when I got ready in the morning. I put a sheet over their cage at night. Their powdery poop and seeds kept falling all over the carpet. I plugged in the dust buster right under their cage for convenience sake.

The next Christmas rolls around. We always had two trees. One in the den, one in the piano room. We always hosted the adult church Christmas party. My sisters and I were supposed to remain hidden upstairs for this event. At one point in the evening, I noticed that Mork was alone in the cage and the door was open. Mindy's escaped! AAAK! I think I ran downstairs and tugged on my Mom's party dress and made a big ol scene about the escaped parakeet. "She's probably just roosting in a tree, honey. She'll turn up."

She didn't. We shook and shook the trees and no feathers flew out.

Time passes...

Without Mindy, Mork was just boring. They each were the other's comic foil. I...umm...forgot to give Mork fresh water for a little while because you forget that birds need water sometimes and he was boring and quiet without his birdee lover and... Well, he died. I found him in a pile of his own poop on the floor of his cage. Cause of death? Dehydration. I filled up his water dish before I told my parents that he was dead. They were confused. Huh. How mysterious. Perhaps it was just old age... I'm a horrible person.

Time passes...

That summer, Miss J had a friend spend the night. They were talking about important things in Miss J's bed that night. I was not intended to hear these important items up for discussion...but I wanted to hear them... really really badly. So, I snuck, army man style on my stomach into the doorway of her bedroom and started eavesdropping. Her friend had a lot to say. I turned and rested my right cheek on the blue carpet. I screamed. For under Miss J's dresser was the rotting carcass of my beloved Mindy. She must have gotten stuck under there back in December.

And that is the sad sad tale of the demise of Mork and Mindy the parakeets.

Posted by Plimco @ 11:49 AM :: (15) comments

Halloween in March

Hey. What should I be for Purim this year? It's next week and I don't have a costume ready. Last year I was Little Red Riding Hood. The year before that I was a cow girl. The year before that I was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What should I be this year?

I've always wanted to rent one of those big foam hot dog suits. I would love to be a hot dog for a day. Who wouldn't? Prancing happy weener with mustard.

Most likely I'm going to have to create my costume from my own wardrobe though. I guess I could be Hermione, but that's kind of boring. I have a wand and a wizard's robe... Hmmm...

What should I be?

Posted by Plimco @ 8:42 AM :: (2) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/7

"Hmmm....I didn't realize macrame was so fun and easy!"

Posted by Plimco @ 7:32 AM :: (0) comments

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Googleshoot Searcharole

You guys! Get this! People have been directed to me by searching for the following:

Ha! This is the best day ever. I would love to see how disappointed those people are when they click on my stupid blog. Especially the people looking for good Christian men and the folks looking for gay albinos to date. Oh me! I love it I love it I love it. I wish there were a way to somehow peep around their computer screens and scream, "Gotcha!" when that happens...

Posted by Plimco @ 2:28 PM :: (2) comments

How seriously should we take expiration dates, really?

My soup says "Best by February 2006". I'm hungry. I'm eating it. Am I going to die? I'll keep you posted.

Posted by Plimco @ 12:37 PM :: (12) comments

Playing Dumb

You know what's tricky? Playing a character that is more stupid than you, that is intellectually inferior. Damn, it's difficult as hell.

Playing smarter? No problem. I can convince people I'm smarter than I really am all day long. I played a freaking Mathematician Mensa genius a few months ago. No one was the wiser. I convinced hundreds that I was wicked smart, that I knew what the hell I was talking about when I rattled off formulas and probabilities and jibbery joo. The Plimco that is me? Can't do math for shit. Nope. I count on my fingers folks. Seriously. It's sad. But I had audiences convinced that I wrote a proof that would change the world of math as we know it.

My current characters? Not so smart. In fact, they're thick. One dropped out of school even after being moved to remedial classes. She's slow. She's referred to as lazy, frightened, and stupid. This is difficult to pull off in a believable manner. You can't really turn your brain off, you know? How do you forget? You can't make yourself forget. Oof. It hurts my head just thinking about it. I hope I figure it out. So far the feedback my director has given me is that I look kind of creepy. This doe eyed look of wonder like I'm looking at animals in a zoo when I'm talking to people. She says I look just so...amazed and confused by...how they are in the world. I have my mouth partially open a lot. My character from the painting grunts quite a bit and I'm trying to get better at burping on cue.

Why is it that seeing someone with their mouth half open seems to signify intellectual inferiority? Because they seem to not have control over their jaw muscles? Because it appears that they are not aware that it is open? Awareness.

I have this problem with finding a very little quirk about someone and allowing it to grate and grate and GRATE on my nerves until I simply cannot handle it anymore and must have them out of my sight forever. I had this boyfriend who, I swear, never had his mouth completely closed. Drove me up a tree. I eventually broke up with him for this very reason. That may sound awful, but I don't care. He had no idea how stupid he looked. Gaping dumb ass. I have no time for that shit.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:16 AM :: (6) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/6

"I'm working on it right now."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:33 AM :: (1) comments

Monday, March 06, 2006

The Grant Gene

Let's say my mother's maiden name is Grant. Whenever things go horribly awry in my life, the lives of my sisters, my mother, aunts and uncles, we all blame it on the Grant gene.

We cannot wear white in my family. Cans of tomato sauce explode on us if we wear white. We slip, fall, break things, bruise things, spill things, ruin things all thanks to the Grant gene. Let me expound on this so that you have a bit firmer grasp of the seriousness of the situation.

I have phases I go through.

The rotation is never the same. It's always a surprise. This is how I live my life. Currently? I'm in the spilling things on myself (and my script) phase. This is sort of the default position. I'm always spilling things all over myself. The other day it was split pea soup. Friday night it was guacamole. What's up with the creamy green substances?

I really really really hate the locking my keys inside places that I need to be phase. That's probably my least favorite. Last year I locked myself out of my house and car about 11 times in total. It's become a familiar sensation to me. It's always very dramatic too. Like I have to make it to a performance in less than an hour dramatic. Or I lock my phone and dog in the car and there's a lightening storm outside. Or (hangs head in shame) I lock my keys in the car with the car running blocking the exit to a major parking lot.

Spilling things? Oh, I'm so used to it at this point. We KNOW not to wear the color white in my family. We're just asking for it. What's really horrible about this phase though is when it morphs into the spilling things on other people phase. That's embarrassing.

Once, when I was a waiter at Pizza Hut, I was working Easter Sunday and this lovely family in their Easter finest came and sat in a booth. There was this little girl, she had to be about 9, wearing this gorgeous white floofy dress with pink trim. I commented on how pretty she looked. She thanked me. They ordered 2 family sized orders of breadsticks with extra sauce and they all wanted Pepsi and you might as well bring a pitcher while your at it. The sauce holder for breadsticks was this evil crusty and bubbling cauldron of doom containing sauce the temperature and consistency of molten lava. I placed everything on my balancing and mighty tray and tromped carefully caaarefully over to the nice family decked out in their Easter finest. I guess you know what happened. The extra helpings of scalding sauce catapulted all over the 9-year-old and her pristine white dress. She screamed. I screamed. She had 2nd degree burns. I had to pay for the dry cleaning. At least the pitcher of Pepsi kind of cooled her off...

Posted by Plimco @ 1:44 PM :: (3) comments

Mariachi Men

I love mariachi men. They are like little musical toys that I want to put in my pocket. I love the confidence they have. To be confident enough to stand in the middle of a restaurant and just belt out a song without the aid of a microphone? To just sing your little heart out? AND to be comfortable enough in your masculinity to wear your little mariachi outfit with your giant red bow round your neck and tassels and buttons on your tight black mariachi pants? Damn.

They're almost always sharp. Better sharp than flat. But, for some reason, I don't mind. I don't mind that they're out of tune. They sing with such conviction, you know? I am the mariachi man. All must listen to me and my song. Oh yes, all must listen.

Oh, and you know what else, little mariachi men? I know what the word "gringa" means. I don't know much Spanish, but when you're standing at the table next to me and grinning with your friends and saying "gringa" and looking in my direction? Yeah. I know what that means.

Every script I have must also receive the obligatory coffee stain at some point throughout the rehearsal process. This script now also has guacamole crust smeared in Act 3. It's pretty nasty, but I like it. It reminds me of the confident mariachi men that I would like to put in my pocket and pull out whenever I feel like it. Standing in line at the super market, stuck in traffic, in the shower. How awesome would that be to have a little mariachi band in your pocket?

Posted by Plimco @ 9:06 AM :: (5) comments

Because I'm an actor and an American, I suppose I must mention this...

I saw the last third of the Oscars last night. I had rehearsal during the first 2/3. I had not seen a single film nominated for anything important. I'm a failure. I spend money on going to see plays instead of movies.

Watching the Oscars is painful for me. Perhaps it is because I am empathetic to a fault. I get sooooo embarrassed for other people. Especially when they are making asses of themselves. People make asses of themselves all night long during the Oscars. I sit on my couch with my hands covering my face and shaking my head. It is so painful. I mean, I realize that it is perhaps one of the most important moments of their life, to receive this award and everything is very emotionally charged, but... I just wish they appeared a bit more in control throughout the whole charade. I guess I just like imagining that the actors are as cool as the characters they play, but when it comes down to it, when you take the script away, they have no personality and that is disappointing...and embarrassing. I feel sorry for them. Poor personality-less actors. Poor rich little idiots.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:15 AM :: (7) comments

Sentences of the Weekend

3/3

"Your imagination is going to get you in trouble one day, Plimco. It is both your best and worst quality."

3/4

"That's the most relaxed position of anyone in this laundromat. I take yoga, so I know relaxed positions."

3/5

"As interesting as the topic of the viscosity of your snot is, we really need to get back to rehearsal."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:33 AM :: (2) comments

Friday, March 03, 2006

Photo Shoots

The past couple nights, this is what I've been doing:

I've been dressing up like this lady and going to various high rise hoighty toighty business establishments down town after hours to have my picture taken in various iconic office moments along with people dressed as a Japanese courtesan, a pope, a Victorian traveler, Chaucer's obedient wife from The Clerk's Tale, and a business woman. This has been highly entertaining.

Last night I had to show up already in costume at this law office. Parking was difficult. I ended up having to park by the police station next to the courthouse. I'm walking by all these cops carrying my little metal helmet that looks like a weapon. They looked at me funny. The nice lawyer ladies in the polished wooden and marble lobby also looked at me funny for I had to put crap on my face so that I looked like... You know in cartoons when something unexpectedly explodes? And after the dust settles the person is left looking confused with a charred face and disheveled blown back hair? Yeah. That's what my face looked like. Like Jokey Smurf had handed me a present.

To make the whole scenario more interesting, I ate fast food last night for the first time in...I don't know when and the grease reacted with my system in a fairly unpleasant manner. I went to this KFC/Long John Silvers joint. There were all these warnings for people with shell fish allergies that some of the food in the restaurant may have come into contact with shell fish. What the hell? I got chicken, but my french fries tasted like fish. This was disconcerting. Anyhow, I had horrible gas dressed in my armor as the dirty lady in the Brueghel painting while I had my picture taken in the law office.

Posted by Plimco @ 8:26 AM :: (9) comments

A nice way to start the day

Your alarm goes off. You hit snooze. You reshape your body around the furry warm lumps of cat and dog and sleep for another 7 minutes. Your alarm goes off again. You stretch. Bid good morning to the furry lumps. Immediately pop in Al Green as you get dressed. You turn it up just loud enough so that you can hear it downstairs, but no so loud as to wake the neighbors at 5:49AM .

You walk out into the brisk cold world with your dog. This part is not so nice as it is so cold that your upper thighs become numb.

You return from the walk with your dog. You open the back door to Al's lament:

"I'm so tired of bein' alone! I'm so tired of on-my-own! Won't you help me, girl just as soon as you can?"

And you smile. Because as sorry as you feel for yourself, Al feels sorry-er.

Posted by Plimco @ 7:39 AM :: (3) comments

Sentence(s) of the Day 3/2

"Men are gross. Women aren't. It's just the nature of the beast."

Posted by Plimco @ 7:38 AM :: (2) comments

Thursday, March 02, 2006

My Cadaver

The imminent death on my desk is reminding me that I've been meaning to tell you what I would like to happen to my body when I die.

I wish to donate my body to science. It's such a waste to just stick it in the ground, you know? Graveyards are kind of stupid. I mean, I enjoy spending time in graveyards and from a historical and creepy perspective, I find them incredibly curious and important, but... Do we really need to keep doing this? In 2006? I mean, it's kind of a waste of space is it not? Giant tombstones taking up perfectly good land. And it's not like it's going to get better. People are still dying. If we keep burying everyone and giving them a nice hunky gravestone then it is only logical to imagine a future earth that is all cemetery. I think it's stupid.

I used to think cremation was a nice idea. A nice consolidation of the elements, the chemicals that make a body. Some words are said on a boat on the sea and Foof! away I blow, Plimco dust sinking to the fishes. That is a selfish and dramatic ending as well.

But to be a cadaver! Oh, a cadaver! That morph into a neuter "thing". A body. A priceless body full of information for people. I read the book, Stiff, and it only confirmed my belief in how selfish it is to bury people. I mean, think about it. You're dead. The whole pomp and circumstance and gaudy coffin and what not are for the living, to give them "closure". It's so selfish to put such an invaluable body in the ground.

Scientists need to experiment. Up and coming surgeons need to practice when the stakes aren't so high. When they won't kill people if they fuck up. Homicide units need to see the stages of decomposition if someone is thrown in the woods after being murdered so that they can tell how long they've been there. Plastic surgeons need to figure out how to make people more beautiful without screwing up their face or their tits for the rest of their life.

I'm excited. I like to think about my body getting hacked up, and chances are it will. Chances are that I'll get hacked up and not be just one lovely and perfect cadaver. My head and face will probably go off to California for the plastic surgeons while maybe my foot is put in a jar for podiatry school and my eyeballs shipped to Germany to perfect the latest laser removal of cataract techniques. Maybe my torso will have that crazy shellac insert plastic process done to it so that it is preserved and put in front of Cardiology 101. Little bits of Plimco shipped all over the place. But doing something useful! Continuing a purpose. My body is valuable. Mysterious. There's lots of information there. Much much more to learn. Use me! My body's all yours.

Posted by Plimco @ 10:28 AM :: (18) comments

Mortal Mouse

People, my mouse is dying. The mouse that lives on my desk. This sucks. I know that I have been waiting for his death for a while, but now that it's actually approaching? It's not so pleasant watching him die. He seems like he's in pain. I guess I could knock him over his mouse head and put him out of his misery. Or if I just squeeeeezed him really hard...

He won't even eat his walnut. He used to love walnuts. I really don't want to sit here all day and watch him die. This sucks. He's buried himself under his bedding so that you can just barely see his little albino ear with the chip in it poking out. He's breathing...barely. His breath is labored. Quick inhale/exhale...and then no movement...then quick inhale/exhale...

Poor guy. He's been a good mouse.

***Edited to add: He died 1:11PM EST Thursday, March 2. Cause of death? Old age? He stopped breathing. I just poked him with a ball point pen. Definitely dead.

You guys, I'm shaking. I feel so bad for saying that I was waiting for him to die. He didn't really smell THAT bad. Ok. He did. I can't tell you too much about the location of my desk, but this is a really really really bad day for him to choose to die. We're going to have a funeral for him. We have to. I moved his little cage to the floor beside me and everyone's asking me where he went. This is not easy news to tell to them all. He's been with us for a while. Even if people made fun of him all the time and he smelled awful and he was a pain in the ass to figure out how to take care of over weekends and holidays, but. He had a good life. A full life. He was probably fairly spoiled compared to most mice. He's in a better place...or no place at all which is fine too.

I feel so stupid for feeling so sad! I thought I would be celebrating. This sucks. And the ground is frozen, so it's going to be hard to dig his grave...

Posted by Plimco @ 8:16 AM :: (11) comments

Sentence of the Day 3/1

"I don't think Jesus cares if I eat chocolate or not."

Posted by Plimco @ 8:13 AM :: (4) comments

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Albinos!

I'm fascinated by albinos. I may even go so far to say they're an obsession of mine. I've created my own superstition surrounding albinos. When I see an albino, I consider it good luck. Sometimes, if I don't need to be anywhere by a certain time, I'll follow them. I'll watch them carefully and see how they move about in the world and be in their presence as long as I can be.

If you are an albino, you are one of the coolest people I know and if you Email me, we can set up a time to meet and have coffee and it would be nice if you'd let me ask you questions about what it's like to be a blessed and magical albino in the world.

I wish I were an albino. If I had three wishes, that would probably be one of them.

I was going to write a young adult novel, a nice coming of age tale with a young albino girl as the protagonist. I did all sorts of research. Albino history is fascinating. There are periods in British history where albinos are revered, considered royalty. Fair skin, fair hair being signs of nobel birth. They were spoiled and treated as princes and princesses. Then, of course, there's the American history where albinos were put on display in freak shows. They've been through a lot.

It's so curious.

There are all these misconceptions surrounding albinos as well. Everyone thinks they have red eyes, but really, their eyes are super ice blue or purpledy because of a lack of pigment.

Some people are scared of albinos. I'm not. I love them.

There's this cool albino Rastafarian reggae singer that I would give anything to meet. He has the coolest straw colored dread locks.

Maybe I should work on my albino young adult novel again. There should be more literature involving the albino youth of the world. Depicting them as real kids with usual problems and fears and joys and desires. So often albinos are the brunt of jokes and I'll admit to chuckling over some albino humor on occasion. Seems like The Simpsons had a pretty funny albino bit not too long ago, but... Albinos are people too. They're not freaks to be shunned by society. They're fantastic.

I wish I had an albino for a friend...

Posted by Plimco @ 8:07 AM :: (27) comments

Sentence of the Day 2/28

"If he's a cyclops, that makes me a biclops!"

Posted by Plimco @ 7:29 AM :: (0) comments