Roman Numeral One: MySpace makes me feel like a teenager
Capital Letter A: Not in a comfortable, nastolgic sort of way but in a way that I never felt like one when I was one.
Arabic Numeral One: Evidence (see "sending MySpace messages to cute boys")
Capital Letter B: The whole site looks/feels like a poorly organized, hipster Xanga
Arabic Numeral One: That is just not okay
Roman Numeral Two: I'm minorly convinced of my own cleverness
Arabic Numeral One: Fight me on this. I dare you.
Roman Numeral Three: I shall transfer all of my old MySpace posts to blogger, post haste (see Roman Numeral Two)
26 October 2005
19 October 2005
One For Our Side
"who in his plays uncovers the precipice under everyday prattle and forces entry into oppression's closed rooms"
high speed taper shanked spiral flute reemer
bronze draw off cock with hand wheel
bronze draw off cock without hand wheel
hemi unibal spherical rodend
there are rodends and rodends
"There are things I remember which may never have happened but as I recall them so they take place."
All of my best to you, Harold. You deserve this. Thank you for teaching us how to look at life.
Post Script: Scholars are now categorizing Pinter's plays as "Comedy of Menace," as opposed to a variation of absurdism. This is also the category (if the title of her collected works says anything about it) in which Joan Schenkar is placed. According to the biography of Pinter on the Nobel site, comedy of menace is "a genre where the writer allows us to eavesdrop on the play of domination and submission hidden in the most mundane of conversations." The similarities between these two playwrights, each writing in their own very particular style, can be seen in looking at the description above, and how it is exemplified in, let's say, Pinter's "The Applicant" and Schenkar's Burning Desires.
Post Post Script: Pinter is retiring from writing to focus on the fight for human rights.
Post Post Post Script: Thanks for the heads up, Dawn. (I should stop only listening to NPR when I'm waking up.)
17 October 2005
L'Etoile du Nord, or Escape from Mount Oread
Wednesday, October 12, 5:00PM: All essential items packed in to back pack. Two t-shirts, two pairs of underwear, toothbrush. Collection of burned CDs, in accordance with the rules of PirateAudio. Pepperidge Farm Milanos, aka "Official Happiness Cookies" and a pair of shoes with sequins added at last minute.
Wednesday, October 12, 5:30PM: Retrieved from apartment, aka "Stewing Post," and whisked away to purchase obligatory cups of coffee. Car has been cleaned and belts have been adjusted. Things are good and getting better.
Wednesday, October 12, 6PM to Thursday, October 13, 2AM: I-70 to I-29 to I-35N to I-35WN (Minneapolis) to E. Hennepin to 15th Ave. Pit stops at "Modern Rest Area," favorite Wendy's in Des Moines, some blip on the Minnesota border. No mishaps, barring a brief ordeal involving menstrual blood and a long sleeve western shirt. Upon arrival, adorable boys apologize for lack of clean cups and two give up beds for exhausted girls to sleep in.
What? What's that? You just want to know about the best bits? Alright, that's understandable. That tactic may have turned a bit tedious. The best bits are these:
1. FOOD: Seward Cafe (cute dirty hippypunks serving delicious breakfast), Campus Pizza (even if it is in Stadium Village), Al's Breakfast (in line for 45 minutes while Ari literally almost passed out for possibly the best hashbrowns and definitely the best toast of my entire life), Devanni's (the chicken was good, the tuna was better), and Duffy's (the six of us got the last six slices they could sell before they ran out of dough. Seriously.)
2. THE BOOT: parked in lot adjacent to actual Campus Pizza parking lot long enough to eat pizza and purchase 2 cases of Grain Belt (tasty!) from the sauce shop and suffered the consequences. $120 immediately due for small man in zippy car to remove boot from front tire. In the end, bizarrely worth it.
3. THE DANCE PARTY: mixed tape made lovingly, painstakingly by boys who know music. Quarters played at 6PM in preparation. Collection jar with note explaining The Boot displayed prominantly throughout party. 1/6 cost of boot made from sweet, generous Minnesotans. Lots of dancing, until 2 noise complaints. I ♥ Dance Parties. Who would have guessed.
4. LYNLAKE: Bill's Imported Foods=dried pear halves. Vera's=good coffee/friendly barista/lotsa gays. Heavenly Soles=tiny ninjas and an employee's pug dog running around in a Yoda costume. No shit. It was awesome.
5. THOSE BOYS: adorable, adorable, adorable.
All in all, a great success. I think I may have been cured of my surliness. Thank you, Star of the North!
(Note: to those friends living in Minneapolis/St.Paul that I did not visit, please love me anyway.)
"Remember When" Mix includes Wraith Pinned to the Mist (and other games) (Of Montreal) and Chicago (Sufjan Stevens). This was psychically agreed upon, so no need to question it.
12 October 2005
Letter to Beloved Crankypants, 1530 Naismith Dr.
Dearest Beloved,
You're exhausted, I know you are. Your skin's a wreck, there are bags under your eyes, you're drinking alone, and I saw you shout at that telephone pole. You are grapevining spastically between the goalposts of madness. I hate to see you this way, so I think it's time for some advice. Please read closely as I have only your best interest at heart.
When life is getting you down, take a quick glance at your surroundings. Could you be depressed, perhaps, because you see the same people every day? Walk up the same hill? Curse the same alarm clock? Have even the sweeter things in life (coffee, cigarettes, long walks) become bitter in the particular way the light shines down at home? Are you tired of everything, but have neither mono nor a really good excuse?
If so, pack a bag, hop in the car, and get the hell outta town. Consider these facts: people in England pay atleast 3 times as much for gas as you do. Singing along to music is much better on the road than in your room. Gas station food is delicious. And boys and girls in foreign lands (read: atleast 3 hours away) are always prettier than ones at home. Is there any real reason not to flee your own digs, if just for a short minute? If you are lucky, you will come home with a few stories and a greater sense of well being ("The world IS bigger than this black hole of a town!"), and if you are luckier, you will find a way to just stay wherever you end up.
Prepare the following:
two t-shirts*
one pair of jeans*
two pairs of underwear*
a jacket**
one toothbrush (all toiletries should be pilfered)
as much music as you can possibly carry***
a block of cheese
a box of crackers
two cups of coffee (they can both be for you, or you can share, but there must be two of them)
Alright, you're ready to hit the road! Try calling ahead to your destination of choice to find a couch to crash on, but if you don't get through, surely they'll be happy to see you, right? If you show up unannounced or plan to stay for an extended period of time, make sure to relegate yourself to the most uncomfortable sleeping quarters. Keep in mind this motto: "Call ahead, sleep in a bed!"
Go, Go, GO! There's no time to waste!
Best wishes, and call me when (and if) you return. I look forward to seeing you in better spirits.
kisses,
bebe
*It doesn't matter how long you'll be gone. It is doubtful you will ever wear more than this, even if you bring it. Any other clothing items that prove necessary can be purchased or stolen.
**Not only will this covering keep out the wind and rain, it will also serve as a pillow, a placemat, something to keep your feet warm if you have bad circulation and forgot to pack socks, and a sleep mask, perfect for blocking that pesky early morning sunlight.
***If you only have AM radio, please look into taking this trip with someone who has a better car than you. It is best to include The Beatles and a little bit of classical music, regardless of your preference for them, as well as something produced in the town which you plan to visit, if possible.
You're exhausted, I know you are. Your skin's a wreck, there are bags under your eyes, you're drinking alone, and I saw you shout at that telephone pole. You are grapevining spastically between the goalposts of madness. I hate to see you this way, so I think it's time for some advice. Please read closely as I have only your best interest at heart.
When life is getting you down, take a quick glance at your surroundings. Could you be depressed, perhaps, because you see the same people every day? Walk up the same hill? Curse the same alarm clock? Have even the sweeter things in life (coffee, cigarettes, long walks) become bitter in the particular way the light shines down at home? Are you tired of everything, but have neither mono nor a really good excuse?
If so, pack a bag, hop in the car, and get the hell outta town. Consider these facts: people in England pay atleast 3 times as much for gas as you do. Singing along to music is much better on the road than in your room. Gas station food is delicious. And boys and girls in foreign lands (read: atleast 3 hours away) are always prettier than ones at home. Is there any real reason not to flee your own digs, if just for a short minute? If you are lucky, you will come home with a few stories and a greater sense of well being ("The world IS bigger than this black hole of a town!"), and if you are luckier, you will find a way to just stay wherever you end up.
Prepare the following:
two t-shirts*
one pair of jeans*
two pairs of underwear*
a jacket**
one toothbrush (all toiletries should be pilfered)
as much music as you can possibly carry***
a block of cheese
a box of crackers
two cups of coffee (they can both be for you, or you can share, but there must be two of them)
Alright, you're ready to hit the road! Try calling ahead to your destination of choice to find a couch to crash on, but if you don't get through, surely they'll be happy to see you, right? If you show up unannounced or plan to stay for an extended period of time, make sure to relegate yourself to the most uncomfortable sleeping quarters. Keep in mind this motto: "Call ahead, sleep in a bed!"
Go, Go, GO! There's no time to waste!
Best wishes, and call me when (and if) you return. I look forward to seeing you in better spirits.
kisses,
bebe
*It doesn't matter how long you'll be gone. It is doubtful you will ever wear more than this, even if you bring it. Any other clothing items that prove necessary can be purchased or stolen.
**Not only will this covering keep out the wind and rain, it will also serve as a pillow, a placemat, something to keep your feet warm if you have bad circulation and forgot to pack socks, and a sleep mask, perfect for blocking that pesky early morning sunlight.
***If you only have AM radio, please look into taking this trip with someone who has a better car than you. It is best to include The Beatles and a little bit of classical music, regardless of your preference for them, as well as something produced in the town which you plan to visit, if possible.
03 October 2005
Opening NIght (check-In is in the morning, assholes)
I've been battling the urge to throw things all day.
I was a good girl, I was in bed at 11:15, pillow between my knees so my back would be less crunchy than usual, fan on medium to ensure maximum white noise haze. I put lotion on my legs and a cool mask on my eyes. I even counted slowly backwards from six, visualizing each number with its corresponding color of the rainbow (a red six, an orange 5. . .) all lazily dancing in a pretty green meadow.
And what did I get for all of that careful, loving preparation for a good night's sleep?
Half-asleep hallucinations of tap numbers, rolling around on a concrete floor, and people I love spitting in my face. Lots of sweat. Muscle cramps in my jaw.
So. I got up at 8:15, full of innocent hope that my day would be better than my night. I took a shower, I made coffee and breakfast, I listened to Of Montreal. I dressed in green and brown and gold. Things were looking up.
And then.
Ari's car had an almost flat tire that I didn't have the time or money to fill back up. I fell asleep three times in Western Civ. By the time I got back to work my arms and hands were covered with coffee and some combination of pineapple juice and cottage cheese, and my entire body was covered with sweat. My arms were sore from trying to A. carry my coffee cup in such a way that it wouldn't vomit its contents all over me, and B. carrying my stupid make-up kit/lunch/dinner because I don't have time to go home before call AND I have to eat before 5 or my corset won't fit.
Then I show up to work and before I even get in the building I see all of the people that were supposed to check in this morning (check in is in the morning, assholes) lined up to check in at 2PM. Do people not read signs? More importantly, do people not read THE CONTRACTS THEY ARE MADE TO SIGN??? So I spent the first 45 minutes of my afternoon shift literally knee deep in video equipment. Not to mention one of the guys checking in was rude to me about not having the right cable to make his field monitor work.
You know what? They hired me knowing full well I didn't know how any of this equipment works. It's not my fucking fault. I direct plays. I have used a camcorder three times in my life. Once for somebody else's English project in the 9th grade. Once when it was briefly proposed that I do a TV show for my high school. Once to video tape my 609. If you need the cable, ask for it, and I will kindly give it to you. But I'm not here to make suggestions, buddy. FUCK OFF.
And then? Eight text messages from a friend, all of which were sent to make me feel guilty about not paying attention to her. Really, I'm glad she and I are friends again after a several year hiatus, but when she starts in like this, I cannot help but flash back to similar guilt trips, along with some occasionally screaming, that led to our friendship hiatus in the first place. I understand wanting to be paid some attention. God, do I understand. Really, though, there is a limit. Especially today.
After that? You guessed it. I sat down and had myself a little cry, in lieu of throwing coffee in someone's face.
I'm going to Murphy early to do some yoga before I cinch in my waist/paint up my face/shellac my hair. Then I'm going to be a raging bitch like this is the last time I'll ever be on stage.
I have some things to discuss with karma.
I was a good girl, I was in bed at 11:15, pillow between my knees so my back would be less crunchy than usual, fan on medium to ensure maximum white noise haze. I put lotion on my legs and a cool mask on my eyes. I even counted slowly backwards from six, visualizing each number with its corresponding color of the rainbow (a red six, an orange 5. . .) all lazily dancing in a pretty green meadow.
And what did I get for all of that careful, loving preparation for a good night's sleep?
Half-asleep hallucinations of tap numbers, rolling around on a concrete floor, and people I love spitting in my face. Lots of sweat. Muscle cramps in my jaw.
So. I got up at 8:15, full of innocent hope that my day would be better than my night. I took a shower, I made coffee and breakfast, I listened to Of Montreal. I dressed in green and brown and gold. Things were looking up.
And then.
Ari's car had an almost flat tire that I didn't have the time or money to fill back up. I fell asleep three times in Western Civ. By the time I got back to work my arms and hands were covered with coffee and some combination of pineapple juice and cottage cheese, and my entire body was covered with sweat. My arms were sore from trying to A. carry my coffee cup in such a way that it wouldn't vomit its contents all over me, and B. carrying my stupid make-up kit/lunch/dinner because I don't have time to go home before call AND I have to eat before 5 or my corset won't fit.
Then I show up to work and before I even get in the building I see all of the people that were supposed to check in this morning (check in is in the morning, assholes) lined up to check in at 2PM. Do people not read signs? More importantly, do people not read THE CONTRACTS THEY ARE MADE TO SIGN??? So I spent the first 45 minutes of my afternoon shift literally knee deep in video equipment. Not to mention one of the guys checking in was rude to me about not having the right cable to make his field monitor work.
You know what? They hired me knowing full well I didn't know how any of this equipment works. It's not my fucking fault. I direct plays. I have used a camcorder three times in my life. Once for somebody else's English project in the 9th grade. Once when it was briefly proposed that I do a TV show for my high school. Once to video tape my 609. If you need the cable, ask for it, and I will kindly give it to you. But I'm not here to make suggestions, buddy. FUCK OFF.
And then? Eight text messages from a friend, all of which were sent to make me feel guilty about not paying attention to her. Really, I'm glad she and I are friends again after a several year hiatus, but when she starts in like this, I cannot help but flash back to similar guilt trips, along with some occasionally screaming, that led to our friendship hiatus in the first place. I understand wanting to be paid some attention. God, do I understand. Really, though, there is a limit. Especially today.
After that? You guessed it. I sat down and had myself a little cry, in lieu of throwing coffee in someone's face.
I'm going to Murphy early to do some yoga before I cinch in my waist/paint up my face/shellac my hair. Then I'm going to be a raging bitch like this is the last time I'll ever be on stage.
I have some things to discuss with karma.
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