Props

"See I'm a down-home brother / redneck-undercover."

-- Jason Mraz, "Curbside Prophet"

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My Ichabod Crane hat makes me look like a cross between Napoleon Bonaparte and this asshole. It's also a size too big for my "small head with a flat top" (compliments to the script) so it folds down my ears, like Disney's ferocious feline rey Prince John.

But the real scandal is the book, a manual from 1923 for Gregg Shorthand written both as a textbook for stenographer-women types and especially nerdy '20s men. Already, the binding is splitting into whitish threads on the worn inseam of this bizarre book, after only one rehearsal. Rehearsals, PS, run from 1-9pm in the basement of a Kentucky library (oxymoron, perhaps?), far from the racks and stacks, in the dry-wall corner by the smokers' exit. It's a space that makes me hate the awkward silence when the air vents shudder and halt.

The irony that we are slowly destroying this prop book from the early latter century in a library, believe me, is not lost. It is found, my brethren, found and mourned.

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Hitting a bar tonight with one of the actresses in the troupe in an attempt to feel the city "nightlife," my perception of which until now has been limited to leering black men menacing a local convenience store, which I entered only because I needed some Marlboros. In any event, $2 beers and a hearty crowd will perhaps be fun, though large groups of unknown people make me less likely to hug the mugs.

Just watched Black Snake Moan and loved the rooty Southern sketches. Also, Sam Jackson on bluesy strings--awesome.

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Living in a house with six women is good if only for one thing: Not much needs cleaning.