"You got to know when to hold 'em,
Know when to fold 'em."
-- Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler"
--
If you can tell the values of a nation by its billboards, can you tell a man by the cards in his wallet? I've got a certain scene from American Psycho in mind, the scene of the clone business cards. (The mimetic theory class was especially enraptured by the example: young men in suits and ties, showing off their cards, which were more or less the same, but oh so different...)
I ask the wallet question because I have bulged my billfold with a lot of cards lately. I've joined a lot of things, and they give you cards to prove your membership. As for recent additions, I have two library cards, one for Cinci and one for northern Kentucky, a CTA card from Chicago, an Enjoy the Arts passport to get me in to local shows for free or cheap, and a Target card I accidentally signed up for because I thought it was just a membership to the store--imagine my surprise when a cute little red card arrived in the mail. Along with that stack is the usual smattering: gift cards for Wal-Mart and Chili's, a military dependent ID and a Nebraska driver's license, my International Thespian Society card, Kroger and Blockbuster cards, an American Red Cross certification card in CPR, an insurance card, cards with phone numbers to a few profs and bosses, and my mom's travel agency card.
I honestly use these cards on a regular basis (well, some of them--though the CPR card is probably expired by now, so good luck if I save you from drowning). It makes my wallet hard to fold.
--
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is wonderful. I'm trying to take it in little doses, plodding through it like a Saharan treasure hunter sifting sand, careful to dig often. The author asks the reader not to blow through the narrative, actually, because anything worth doing is worth taking time to do. Hence, taking care of one's motorcycle.
I've never ridden a motorcycle, incidentally. Not even a moped. The book makes me want to.
--
We're playing the local libraries for most of this week. Then we pull an overnight in east Ohio, playing an old opera house in a podunk town. I wonder what the curtains will smell like: moths, paint, or perfume?
I'm brazen enough to walk from my house to the meeting point, about a half a mile into the business district. Beyond that, it's another quarter-mile to the University, with its many swanky cafes and restaurants and bookstores, surrounding the campus like parentheses. The hills are San Franciscan in parts, with long streets disappearing upwards into townhouses and trees, and the breeze at the summits cool the sweat on your face.
Discovered a great Chinese joint about a mile away, aptly named China Food. It's $4.95 for a huge lunch, folks. Thrift and Asian food rarely connect, and a place that makes good egg-drop soup is just as rare.
I'm going there in just a sec.
--
Yesterday, during the Q&A portion of our show, I called on a small child in the back who had very short blond hair and a normal, high-pitched, little-boyish voice. Here's how it went down:
"Uh...is this true?"
"He wants to know if this is based on a true story--"
"She."
"Sorry?"
"I'm a she."
"Oh. Sorry about that. She. Uh...gosh, sorry. She wants to know if this is based on a true story..."
--
Who da man now, eh?
9.30.2008
9.27.2008
Stint
"And these towns all look the same.
We just pass the time in the hotel rooms
And wander around backstage
Til those lights come up
And we hear that crowd
And we remember why we came."
-- Jackson Browne, "Stay"
--
Just finished a four-day stint in KY and TN, rambling through Appalachia in our big white van. Crowded in the backseat are flats, drops, pipes, props, benches, fake trees, boxes, and a sound system with amps. They shake, rattle and roll.
Yesterday morning we played the South Jackson Civic Center in Tullahoma, TN, a great dinosaur of a theatre: dusty, rusty, cluttered. The dressing rooms might have asbestos. The couch in the green room is almost a floor, giving under your weight until your knees meet your chest. The stage floor creaks wonderfully, the seats in the auditorium recline, squeaking. The master electrician, a rootsy black man named Michael, calls it his second home, says that's why he doesn't bother wearing shoes when he comes to work. We told him there were splinters and screws on the floor. He said he knew.
We took back roads to get to Tennessee, sloping, curving, twisting roads. Trees hooded the trip. The Smokeys brought the fog down upon us as we left the state last night, the rain twinkling on the windshield, the sun falling behind hills, the smoke of the earth blinding us. It was magnificent.
--
There's a Country Inn & Suites near Berea, KY, that is all by itself at the top of a huge hill, not unlike Rohan's golden hall. There's a long driveway behind a sort of stone gate. The hill slopes are covered in wild grass, and it is windy there. Driving up that path to the hotel felt like entering a Jane Austen novel.
--
Also ate at a Shoney's for the first time in years.
We just pass the time in the hotel rooms
And wander around backstage
Til those lights come up
And we hear that crowd
And we remember why we came."
-- Jackson Browne, "Stay"
--
Just finished a four-day stint in KY and TN, rambling through Appalachia in our big white van. Crowded in the backseat are flats, drops, pipes, props, benches, fake trees, boxes, and a sound system with amps. They shake, rattle and roll.
Yesterday morning we played the South Jackson Civic Center in Tullahoma, TN, a great dinosaur of a theatre: dusty, rusty, cluttered. The dressing rooms might have asbestos. The couch in the green room is almost a floor, giving under your weight until your knees meet your chest. The stage floor creaks wonderfully, the seats in the auditorium recline, squeaking. The master electrician, a rootsy black man named Michael, calls it his second home, says that's why he doesn't bother wearing shoes when he comes to work. We told him there were splinters and screws on the floor. He said he knew.
We took back roads to get to Tennessee, sloping, curving, twisting roads. Trees hooded the trip. The Smokeys brought the fog down upon us as we left the state last night, the rain twinkling on the windshield, the sun falling behind hills, the smoke of the earth blinding us. It was magnificent.
--
There's a Country Inn & Suites near Berea, KY, that is all by itself at the top of a huge hill, not unlike Rohan's golden hall. There's a long driveway behind a sort of stone gate. The hill slopes are covered in wild grass, and it is windy there. Driving up that path to the hotel felt like entering a Jane Austen novel.
--
Also ate at a Shoney's for the first time in years.
9.22.2008
Secession
"...I believe it was people like them our Saviour bore in mind when He said, Unless ye become as little children. He was thinking of people who are not clever in the things of this world, whose minds are not upon gain and worldly advancement. These poor Christians are not thrifty like our country people at home; they have no veneration for property, no sense of material values."
-- Father Vaillant, in Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop
--
Went south: Broke onstage today, a few chuckles and a smile, during the part where I say, "You are the only woman I could ever wish to be my wife." Marriage, or at least the wedding, should be a generally happy affair, and perhaps a funny one, too. Thing is, it read like I was playing a practical joke on the poor girl. I hope no children left with the impression that marriage is a practical joke. I hope they were thinking, Boy, those Indians sure were happy people.
Two shows done today, in the morning and afternoon. We snagged lunch at an equestrian-themed bar called Harry's, a place which feels more like an Elk's Lodge than a restaurant. There were jockey tops (horse riders, not underpants) and horsewhips under glass, and dammit, I want to know why.
--
Last night, at house supper, I came up with a nice pun. The other Filipina in the house had just asked me what rice I prefer, whether I'm a basmati or jasmine man, and I replied:
"I do not discriminate based on rice."
Laughter ensued, so I followed up: "I'm an equal-opportunity rice consumer."
Boom-diggity.
--
Now I'm at UK in Lexington, in the famous campus library, the giant sprawling spire that rises above the trees and parking garages. The last time I was here, I was nudged out almost as soon as I came in the door, but this time I find to be more welcoming: The computers, for instance, are first-come-first-served to anyone, students and non-students, regardless of who you are. I am no one and everyone and myself...(together, now) all at the very same time.
I'm killing time until Tory sings tonight at the Common Grounds Coffee House. It been too long, yo.
--
Bought Slings & Arrows on Friday, my work's real reward, an outrageous fortune in itself. Ask me if it was worth it.
--
After our show at one, as we were backstage, piling props into crates and laughing about laughing, the principal and four kids came to us with water. "Thank you for coming to our school," they said, shyly offering the custom-made bottles like libations. We were grateful, and they were cute.
Tomorrow begins a three-day overnight tour, a stretch of the sort of travels Jackson Browne or Bob Seger sang about. Long, lonesome highways, folding chairs, and lifting amps.
And no kidding around.
-- Father Vaillant, in Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop
--
Went south: Broke onstage today, a few chuckles and a smile, during the part where I say, "You are the only woman I could ever wish to be my wife." Marriage, or at least the wedding, should be a generally happy affair, and perhaps a funny one, too. Thing is, it read like I was playing a practical joke on the poor girl. I hope no children left with the impression that marriage is a practical joke. I hope they were thinking, Boy, those Indians sure were happy people.
Two shows done today, in the morning and afternoon. We snagged lunch at an equestrian-themed bar called Harry's, a place which feels more like an Elk's Lodge than a restaurant. There were jockey tops (horse riders, not underpants) and horsewhips under glass, and dammit, I want to know why.
--
Last night, at house supper, I came up with a nice pun. The other Filipina in the house had just asked me what rice I prefer, whether I'm a basmati or jasmine man, and I replied:
"I do not discriminate based on rice."
Laughter ensued, so I followed up: "I'm an equal-opportunity rice consumer."
Boom-diggity.
--
Now I'm at UK in Lexington, in the famous campus library, the giant sprawling spire that rises above the trees and parking garages. The last time I was here, I was nudged out almost as soon as I came in the door, but this time I find to be more welcoming: The computers, for instance, are first-come-first-served to anyone, students and non-students, regardless of who you are. I am no one and everyone and myself...(together, now) all at the very same time.
I'm killing time until Tory sings tonight at the Common Grounds Coffee House. It been too long, yo.
--
Bought Slings & Arrows on Friday, my work's real reward, an outrageous fortune in itself. Ask me if it was worth it.
--
After our show at one, as we were backstage, piling props into crates and laughing about laughing, the principal and four kids came to us with water. "Thank you for coming to our school," they said, shyly offering the custom-made bottles like libations. We were grateful, and they were cute.
Tomorrow begins a three-day overnight tour, a stretch of the sort of travels Jackson Browne or Bob Seger sang about. Long, lonesome highways, folding chairs, and lifting amps.
And no kidding around.
9.19.2008
Specials
"If you want it to-go, I'll just put it in a box."
-- the Arabic man who runs the Al-Madina Market
--
From recent receipts:
- Lunch Special at the Al-Madina: $6.00
- Garlic nan at the Al-Madina: $1.95
- Linguini primavera at Pompilio's: $10.25
- Jumbo boneless wings cup at Lee's: $3.89
--
Having been numbed by Saramago's pale depictions of matter-of-fact catastrophe, Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop is shocking, if it is possible to be shocked by colors and dialogue. She uses the word "ruddy" a lot, and I welcome it. Not nearly enough seems "ruddy" these days; pallid, dry, and restless, antelopes move in herds to avoid the packs. The blood is red, but the animal's back is ruddy.
Speaking of Cather, she lived in Nebraska. So did I. Before that, she lived in Virginia. So did I. And in chapter one of Archbishop, she mentions Cincinnati and Ohio more than any other location, besides, of course, New Mexico, where the story takes place. The Bishop looks back to his time in Cincinnati with longing, remembering wine, gardens and friendly Protestants. I've been drinking red wine--ruddy wine--and eating fresh garden greens and ruddy tomatoes almost every day now, living in a house filled with friendly Protestant women.
Coincidences and co-inkiddly-dinks: God as Writer.
--
Got paid yesterday, and the tour has officially begun. Today we ventured north to Lebanon, OH, and performed our Native American mythic show in the sanctuary of a church--a Protestant church. If these were primeval days, we might have been hung.
Progress.
-- the Arabic man who runs the Al-Madina Market
--
From recent receipts:
- Lunch Special at the Al-Madina: $6.00
- Garlic nan at the Al-Madina: $1.95
- Linguini primavera at Pompilio's: $10.25
- Jumbo boneless wings cup at Lee's: $3.89
--
Having been numbed by Saramago's pale depictions of matter-of-fact catastrophe, Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop is shocking, if it is possible to be shocked by colors and dialogue. She uses the word "ruddy" a lot, and I welcome it. Not nearly enough seems "ruddy" these days; pallid, dry, and restless, antelopes move in herds to avoid the packs. The blood is red, but the animal's back is ruddy.
Speaking of Cather, she lived in Nebraska. So did I. Before that, she lived in Virginia. So did I. And in chapter one of Archbishop, she mentions Cincinnati and Ohio more than any other location, besides, of course, New Mexico, where the story takes place. The Bishop looks back to his time in Cincinnati with longing, remembering wine, gardens and friendly Protestants. I've been drinking red wine--ruddy wine--and eating fresh garden greens and ruddy tomatoes almost every day now, living in a house filled with friendly Protestant women.
Coincidences and co-inkiddly-dinks: God as Writer.
--
Got paid yesterday, and the tour has officially begun. Today we ventured north to Lebanon, OH, and performed our Native American mythic show in the sanctuary of a church--a Protestant church. If these were primeval days, we might have been hung.
Progress.
9.17.2008
Confirmed
"But you know / How it goes."
-- Tally Hall, "Spring and a Storm"
--
Day off today, even though most of the power is back. Some schools had their refrigerators down for so long that the meat and dairy went south, and they refuse (rightfully) to re-open until they can feed the chitluns.
Morning booked tomorrow: An early trip to Milford, about 25 miles east, officially the farthest I've ever had to displace for a show. Scotland doesn't count, since we were living in flats that were a ten-minute city walk from the venue. This feels like the real thing. Driving in vans, sliding out crates and the monolith sound system (the free-standing speakers are like thug versions of lawn gnomes: tough, heavy, black, and two feet tall), finding a nook to change where the kids won't accidentally saunter by--this is touring. In a way.
I mean, Disney gets a team of several dozen. We get four. And it's us. We meet in the parking lot of a local Kroger for the time being, wedge into the van, and off we go, armed with our show shit and a little white paper with directions.
We should just be glad to have bookings at all, I suppose. There are lots of homeless, jobless actors out there (or this guy, who snooted some Frenchies with tents), and I know the cloudy sting of performing for a bunch of vacant seats.
--
Finished Blindness today and was disappointed. I read it to prepare for the movie, which comes out in October, because the trailer intrigued me. Fernando Meirelles' new film was scalped by some who saw it at Sundance, Cannes and Toronto. Rotten Tomatoes shows some poor promise, too.
As a side, Econ's entry about the comments on song lyrics seems to coincide with the responses to this article. I especially like the guy who refers to City of God as "God'd Town" and actually touches on something like commercialism in our culture with this gem: "...again the guy had to take it even more easier...result...the guy had to sell his 'soul' to the market once more."
Anyways, the book was very good until the last hundred pages, which sort of devolve into a thinly-veiled essay on modern society's problems. How many times can you use the metaphor of blindness? A ton, apparently. How many things can you say with that metaphor? One, apparently.
I'm trying to stay stoked for the film.
--
Hit the Levee AMC last night and watched Burn After Reading--I have mixed feelings. I like the Coen Brothers, and the flick was genuinely funny. But I kinda feel like maybe No Country was such a big hit that they took a Beta project, gave it an Alpha cast, and made an Epsilon movie. Just a feeling. Critics and fans are loving it. But hey, it's also got a bizarre head-axing in the streets of DC, Malkovich repeating the line, "What the FUCK," at least thirty times, George Clooney, and a dildo.
Dunno.
-- Tally Hall, "Spring and a Storm"
--
Day off today, even though most of the power is back. Some schools had their refrigerators down for so long that the meat and dairy went south, and they refuse (rightfully) to re-open until they can feed the chitluns.
Morning booked tomorrow: An early trip to Milford, about 25 miles east, officially the farthest I've ever had to displace for a show. Scotland doesn't count, since we were living in flats that were a ten-minute city walk from the venue. This feels like the real thing. Driving in vans, sliding out crates and the monolith sound system (the free-standing speakers are like thug versions of lawn gnomes: tough, heavy, black, and two feet tall), finding a nook to change where the kids won't accidentally saunter by--this is touring. In a way.
I mean, Disney gets a team of several dozen. We get four. And it's us. We meet in the parking lot of a local Kroger for the time being, wedge into the van, and off we go, armed with our show shit and a little white paper with directions.
We should just be glad to have bookings at all, I suppose. There are lots of homeless, jobless actors out there (or this guy, who snooted some Frenchies with tents), and I know the cloudy sting of performing for a bunch of vacant seats.
--
Finished Blindness today and was disappointed. I read it to prepare for the movie, which comes out in October, because the trailer intrigued me. Fernando Meirelles' new film was scalped by some who saw it at Sundance, Cannes and Toronto. Rotten Tomatoes shows some poor promise, too.
As a side, Econ's entry about the comments on song lyrics seems to coincide with the responses to this article. I especially like the guy who refers to City of God as "God'd Town" and actually touches on something like commercialism in our culture with this gem: "...again the guy had to take it even more easier...result...the guy had to sell his 'soul' to the market once more."
Anyways, the book was very good until the last hundred pages, which sort of devolve into a thinly-veiled essay on modern society's problems. How many times can you use the metaphor of blindness? A ton, apparently. How many things can you say with that metaphor? One, apparently.
I'm trying to stay stoked for the film.
--
Hit the Levee AMC last night and watched Burn After Reading--I have mixed feelings. I like the Coen Brothers, and the flick was genuinely funny. But I kinda feel like maybe No Country was such a big hit that they took a Beta project, gave it an Alpha cast, and made an Epsilon movie. Just a feeling. Critics and fans are loving it. But hey, it's also got a bizarre head-axing in the streets of DC, Malkovich repeating the line, "What the FUCK," at least thirty times, George Clooney, and a dildo.
Dunno.
9.16.2008
Tour
"Look out, Europe--we're going on tour."
-- "Springtime for Hitler," The Producers
--
Had a blast in KY with Tory after a dazzling (brass and velvet) symphony on Friday night, an obscure Tchaikovski march and two Rachmaninoffs, the first of which blew me right out of my bouncy-cushioned seat. The Music Hall downtown is about as shiek as an arts building can get without being considered vulgar by the martinis and wine glasses who frequent its concerts, and little did I know, but I chose to come on the opening night of their season. In my ratty sports coat and casual Polo shoes, I felt scuzzy and small sitting next to a man in a tux.
Lexington, KY, is gorgeous. The campus library at UK is magnificent and huge, with a wide quad before it like a satellite dish of grass, and even though we only had five minutes to take in the beauty of this house of books (Tory gets to study there, lucky lucky), it was definitely a highlight. That, plus Strongbows into the wee hours after salads at a tiki place downtown, made the whole weekend a highlight, a nugget in radioactive gold at the bottom of what has so far been a kind of drab Cincinnati experience.
Storms and trips, man, friends and winds: Lightning bolts for life.
--
The wind blew my hangover away on Sunday. These gusts were left over from big ol' Ike, cruising his way along the Ohio, chewing up the landscape. While Tory and I dealt with crosswinds on a crosswalk (the Indian buffet has nonstop nan), the selfsame storm was tearing down trees, scaring children, and knocking out power for the greater Cincinnati area, killing four people. So it goes.
We had power again about three hours after I returned. I was asleep when it happened, but when a house of women squeals and lights go on, you wake up.
We lost power again today around noon. I was halfway through making a delicious lunch (shredded chicken in a curry-broccoli-tomato-cabbage mix, padded with rice and stolen spaghetti noodles) when there was a housewide tick!, and it seemed that the world had maybe rolled to a stop.
It didn't, though.
--
Today we opened our season. The show went well, as shows tend to do, and the kids were quiet but attentive, and their questions poured forth like rain. It was the satisfying awe at what we do that we had craved for weeks, and it was enough. My hope is that it continues to be enough.
We had a thirty-five-minute load-out, which is not bad for children's theatre standards. Techies and roadies could maybe do it quicker, but add costumes and bona fide actor ineptitude, and you may need to grab a Snickers. I'll be keeping track of times and crowds, morale and hiccups, as the tour's road manager (I like my grapes peeled, please), the daily audits of hokey-dokey theatre. I don't mind. As a geek among geeks, I dig a dose of digits every now and again.
Day off tomorrow. Hope the skies stay blue.
-- "Springtime for Hitler," The Producers
--
Had a blast in KY with Tory after a dazzling (brass and velvet) symphony on Friday night, an obscure Tchaikovski march and two Rachmaninoffs, the first of which blew me right out of my bouncy-cushioned seat. The Music Hall downtown is about as shiek as an arts building can get without being considered vulgar by the martinis and wine glasses who frequent its concerts, and little did I know, but I chose to come on the opening night of their season. In my ratty sports coat and casual Polo shoes, I felt scuzzy and small sitting next to a man in a tux.
Lexington, KY, is gorgeous. The campus library at UK is magnificent and huge, with a wide quad before it like a satellite dish of grass, and even though we only had five minutes to take in the beauty of this house of books (Tory gets to study there, lucky lucky), it was definitely a highlight. That, plus Strongbows into the wee hours after salads at a tiki place downtown, made the whole weekend a highlight, a nugget in radioactive gold at the bottom of what has so far been a kind of drab Cincinnati experience.
Storms and trips, man, friends and winds: Lightning bolts for life.
--
The wind blew my hangover away on Sunday. These gusts were left over from big ol' Ike, cruising his way along the Ohio, chewing up the landscape. While Tory and I dealt with crosswinds on a crosswalk (the Indian buffet has nonstop nan), the selfsame storm was tearing down trees, scaring children, and knocking out power for the greater Cincinnati area, killing four people. So it goes.
We had power again about three hours after I returned. I was asleep when it happened, but when a house of women squeals and lights go on, you wake up.
We lost power again today around noon. I was halfway through making a delicious lunch (shredded chicken in a curry-broccoli-tomato-cabbage mix, padded with rice and stolen spaghetti noodles) when there was a housewide tick!, and it seemed that the world had maybe rolled to a stop.
It didn't, though.
--
Today we opened our season. The show went well, as shows tend to do, and the kids were quiet but attentive, and their questions poured forth like rain. It was the satisfying awe at what we do that we had craved for weeks, and it was enough. My hope is that it continues to be enough.
We had a thirty-five-minute load-out, which is not bad for children's theatre standards. Techies and roadies could maybe do it quicker, but add costumes and bona fide actor ineptitude, and you may need to grab a Snickers. I'll be keeping track of times and crowds, morale and hiccups, as the tour's road manager (I like my grapes peeled, please), the daily audits of hokey-dokey theatre. I don't mind. As a geek among geeks, I dig a dose of digits every now and again.
Day off tomorrow. Hope the skies stay blue.
9.11.2008
Beats
"The primroses were over."
-- First line of Richard Adams' Watership Down
--
Beat our chests and sang as stars in the basement today, rocking the Native American (New Agey) choreography and lyrics as bookworms peeked around the racks from the book sale. The back room special gave cost-cutter customers a deal and a half: Fill a bag and pay a buck. I filled a bag just now, nabbing Joyce's Ulysses and a compendium of children's folk tales. Earlier today, I dropped just under five bucks for fourteen plays and books, among them my fave, Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King, in hardback, in pristine condition. The stuff you can buy for a few bits these days...
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard, and a Solzhenitsyn play, among the rest of the dirty dozen, will serve as book and shelf in my humble little literary corner, beside the gridiron vent, where my paperback buds sit in three not-so-neat piles on the floor: drama, classics, ought-to-be-classics.
Book purchases can be such a rush for me. Today's splurge (grand total: $5.75, or about 27 cents per book) began with four quarters taken from the bottom of my bag during a morning break. I was back at lunch with a five-dollar bill. When five o'clock rolled around, I snuck back into the back room to look at the books in really bad shape, where I rescued several. I feel like I've adopted about twenty little orphans, with the happy and firm resolve to make them take care of me.
Why check out books for free when you can buy them for cheap?
--
Now it's off to the northern blue and white, the glittering Wal-Mart on I-71, the Chimney Rock of my life. My list includes: new wallet, new planner, new bed/sheets/pillows, engine coolant, bath mat, showerhead, trashcan. My wallet has--literally--worn a wallet-shaped hole in my khakis back pocket, like a little trapdoor on my right asscheek. The money deities are telling me something.
Begun to start days now with McDonald's iced coffee (hazelnut, vanilla, or caramel) and yogurt. This new breakfast regimen has me doubting my manhood, but lunches are cheap and arresting: Kroger's dollar-each microwavable cup meal deals fuel my half-days of rehearsing.
Also bought my first six-pack since Hillsdale. Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat, standing cold in the fridge like foxholed soldiers in the Argonne, waiting to be found, uncapped, and emptied.
--
Piano concert tomorrow downtown. Gonna bust out the suit and tie (another first since Hillsdale), drink a highball like some kind of dandy, and probably sit between an old woman with gout and an elitist yuppie from Mt. Adams. With Hillsdale's wonderful ID card (no expiry date, folks), I still get student tix.
A journey into Lexington, KY, to see Tory awaits me on Saturday. My gas tank is ready.
-- First line of Richard Adams' Watership Down
--
Beat our chests and sang as stars in the basement today, rocking the Native American (New Agey) choreography and lyrics as bookworms peeked around the racks from the book sale. The back room special gave cost-cutter customers a deal and a half: Fill a bag and pay a buck. I filled a bag just now, nabbing Joyce's Ulysses and a compendium of children's folk tales. Earlier today, I dropped just under five bucks for fourteen plays and books, among them my fave, Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King, in hardback, in pristine condition. The stuff you can buy for a few bits these days...
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard, and a Solzhenitsyn play, among the rest of the dirty dozen, will serve as book and shelf in my humble little literary corner, beside the gridiron vent, where my paperback buds sit in three not-so-neat piles on the floor: drama, classics, ought-to-be-classics.
Book purchases can be such a rush for me. Today's splurge (grand total: $5.75, or about 27 cents per book) began with four quarters taken from the bottom of my bag during a morning break. I was back at lunch with a five-dollar bill. When five o'clock rolled around, I snuck back into the back room to look at the books in really bad shape, where I rescued several. I feel like I've adopted about twenty little orphans, with the happy and firm resolve to make them take care of me.
Why check out books for free when you can buy them for cheap?
--
Now it's off to the northern blue and white, the glittering Wal-Mart on I-71, the Chimney Rock of my life. My list includes: new wallet, new planner, new bed/sheets/pillows, engine coolant, bath mat, showerhead, trashcan. My wallet has--literally--worn a wallet-shaped hole in my khakis back pocket, like a little trapdoor on my right asscheek. The money deities are telling me something.
Begun to start days now with McDonald's iced coffee (hazelnut, vanilla, or caramel) and yogurt. This new breakfast regimen has me doubting my manhood, but lunches are cheap and arresting: Kroger's dollar-each microwavable cup meal deals fuel my half-days of rehearsing.
Also bought my first six-pack since Hillsdale. Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat, standing cold in the fridge like foxholed soldiers in the Argonne, waiting to be found, uncapped, and emptied.
--
Piano concert tomorrow downtown. Gonna bust out the suit and tie (another first since Hillsdale), drink a highball like some kind of dandy, and probably sit between an old woman with gout and an elitist yuppie from Mt. Adams. With Hillsdale's wonderful ID card (no expiry date, folks), I still get student tix.
A journey into Lexington, KY, to see Tory awaits me on Saturday. My gas tank is ready.
9.10.2008
Banked
"If you're robbing a bank and your pants fall down, I think it's okay to laugh and to let the hostages laugh, too, because, come on, life is funny."
-- Jack Handy
--
Got my moolah back. Baby got bank.
Also paid off a credit card. Half of Debt Mountain is gone. Avalanches can do that.
I have a detective with the Cinci Po Po working on the case. She actually used the phrase, "on the case," which either means she watches a lot of "Law & Order" or "Matlock." Maybe "Remington Steele."
She estimates that within 24 hours, we will have a face. In the meantime, I'm just glad to feel like I got paid again.
--
Been listening up on Broadway stuff lately. Not the age-old cheese, warbles and vibrattos and such, but the new stuff, Urinetown, Spring Awakening, and The Drowsy Chaperone. Decent stuff. Great stuff, at times. But there needs to be a reason for the edge, though: You wonder how many angsty musicals a nation's most elite theatre wizzes can churn out before practice becomes imperfect. Keep it raw, keep it sad, keep it gray. Since when does art have to stir you like some kind of pity pasta? Not that these musicals in particular are angsty--most of them are funny as hell. But with the advent of J.R. Brown and melodramatic duos, it's like we're all adolescents all of a sudden.
(Historically, we kind of are. Hm.)
We've got the tilt, basically. Where's the lilt?
In other words, Don't worry, Broadway. Be happy again. It's not a bad thing.
Though I suppose when Brigadoon closes almost as soon as it opens, you can honestly say a society has moved on.
--
Speaking of angst, I'm amazed at how many teenagers come to this library just to read anime blogs and watch anime YouTube episodes. The kid beside me is blaring some Japanese adventure saga so loud I can almost follow the plotline.
-- Jack Handy
--
Got my moolah back. Baby got bank.
Also paid off a credit card. Half of Debt Mountain is gone. Avalanches can do that.
I have a detective with the Cinci Po Po working on the case. She actually used the phrase, "on the case," which either means she watches a lot of "Law & Order" or "Matlock." Maybe "Remington Steele."
She estimates that within 24 hours, we will have a face. In the meantime, I'm just glad to feel like I got paid again.
--
Been listening up on Broadway stuff lately. Not the age-old cheese, warbles and vibrattos and such, but the new stuff, Urinetown, Spring Awakening, and The Drowsy Chaperone. Decent stuff. Great stuff, at times. But there needs to be a reason for the edge, though: You wonder how many angsty musicals a nation's most elite theatre wizzes can churn out before practice becomes imperfect. Keep it raw, keep it sad, keep it gray. Since when does art have to stir you like some kind of pity pasta? Not that these musicals in particular are angsty--most of them are funny as hell. But with the advent of J.R. Brown and melodramatic duos, it's like we're all adolescents all of a sudden.
(Historically, we kind of are. Hm.)
We've got the tilt, basically. Where's the lilt?
In other words, Don't worry, Broadway. Be happy again. It's not a bad thing.
Though I suppose when Brigadoon closes almost as soon as it opens, you can honestly say a society has moved on.
--
Speaking of angst, I'm amazed at how many teenagers come to this library just to read anime blogs and watch anime YouTube episodes. The kid beside me is blaring some Japanese adventure saga so loud I can almost follow the plotline.
9.09.2008
Adders
"I know from long experience all my men have the artistic talent of a cluster of colour-blind hedgehogs in a bag."
-- Rowan Atkinson as Black Adder, from BBC's The Black Adder series
--
Filled out the last of the bank docs. Hopefully, they can show up soon and operate, get my account on its feet again. In terms of mere pagination, this infection (illegal amputation?) requires over ten sheets of paper to decipher and complete, which--shocker, I know--will oust my 2006 Michigan Income Tax Return as the biggest papertrail I've ever had to blaze because of mulah. That was a seven-pager, worksheet after worksheet of instructions and boxes so convoluted, so idiotic, that pissants and pundits alike can't help but do something wrong.
Bureaucracy is a bitch. A big, fat, smiling, tie-wearing biotch.
--
So is the woman who notarized my affadavit this afternoon at the courthouse in Kentucky. (The Cinci house has sadly little parking around it, none of it free, and is situated in this funny part of downtown where one-way streets appear out of nowhere about as frequently as homeless pedestrians who sell hats when the Reds play. It makes driving--and parking--hard to do in a timely manner.)
But about the courthouse bitch: As always, there's a story.
--
I drove away from the courthouse downtown, frustrated that I hadn't found any parking spaces after driving around for fifteen minutes. At a Chase bank in Newport, I found out that notaries in banks are bonded to their place of employment; in other words, as I had no member card for Chase bank, Chase bank could not notarize anything for me. My lunch break was disappearing fast. I asked the nice lady (she looked like the teacher on The Magic Schoolbus) for directions to the nearest courthouse. She had this blank stare. "Turn right, and you go past the Levee, and you kind of..." [blank stare] "...well, there's the parkin' garage, and you don't go through it, you just sort of..." [blank stare] "...well, you go around it."
"I know what you mean."
"Yeah, you go around it. And you'll keep goin' for a few blocks, I don't know how many, and then you'll see York Street. The courthouse is this biiiiiiig--" [shows me with her hands just how big] "--building on your left."
"So it's on York?"
"On York and Fourth." [blank stare] "I think."
"Thank you." I left the bank and made a right, and drove for about five minutes before realizing that when the frazzled teller told me to turn right, she meant left. I pulled a uey, almost had an accident because it was a one-way (KY studied street planning under Cinci, apparently) and found my way to the courthouse. Sure enough, York and Fourth. I parked, paid, and walked in.
There's this long hallway, and a fat old man behind a table by a metal detector. He's slapping his meaty arm on the aluminum table, screaming at a hallway filled with mothers and children, shouting, "DOWN! DOWN! QUIET DOWN!" [slam, slam] "QUIET, OR I'LL KICK ALL OF YOU OUT!"
He didn't see me, so I walked through the metal detector, grabbed my keys and backpack, and walked past him.
I found a notary in a clerk's office, and as she began to pen her Hancock, she stopped and said, "Oh, that's two dollars."
"Oh, there's a charge? I didn't know that."
"Well. It's two dollars." She was being a bitch. "Two dollars for every notary signature."
"I don't have any cash on me, sorry. Can you...I don't know, send me a bill for it, or something?"
"Do you have a debit card?"
I sighed. "That's why I'm here, actually. See?" I pointed to the top of the form. "I'm filing a stolen-debit-card report."
She smiled slightly, a light and tight bitch smile, where the mouth sort of widens and shrinks at the same time. A snooty French smile, a feline killer smile. "Why didn't you go to Cincinnati?"
--
I got her signature, pro bono, and, like I said, my forms are all in order.
Money, man: It makes the world fucking go round.
-- Rowan Atkinson as Black Adder, from BBC's The Black Adder series
--
Filled out the last of the bank docs. Hopefully, they can show up soon and operate, get my account on its feet again. In terms of mere pagination, this infection (illegal amputation?) requires over ten sheets of paper to decipher and complete, which--shocker, I know--will oust my 2006 Michigan Income Tax Return as the biggest papertrail I've ever had to blaze because of mulah. That was a seven-pager, worksheet after worksheet of instructions and boxes so convoluted, so idiotic, that pissants and pundits alike can't help but do something wrong.
Bureaucracy is a bitch. A big, fat, smiling, tie-wearing biotch.
--
So is the woman who notarized my affadavit this afternoon at the courthouse in Kentucky. (The Cinci house has sadly little parking around it, none of it free, and is situated in this funny part of downtown where one-way streets appear out of nowhere about as frequently as homeless pedestrians who sell hats when the Reds play. It makes driving--and parking--hard to do in a timely manner.)
But about the courthouse bitch: As always, there's a story.
--
I drove away from the courthouse downtown, frustrated that I hadn't found any parking spaces after driving around for fifteen minutes. At a Chase bank in Newport, I found out that notaries in banks are bonded to their place of employment; in other words, as I had no member card for Chase bank, Chase bank could not notarize anything for me. My lunch break was disappearing fast. I asked the nice lady (she looked like the teacher on The Magic Schoolbus) for directions to the nearest courthouse. She had this blank stare. "Turn right, and you go past the Levee, and you kind of..." [blank stare] "...well, there's the parkin' garage, and you don't go through it, you just sort of..." [blank stare] "...well, you go around it."
"I know what you mean."
"Yeah, you go around it. And you'll keep goin' for a few blocks, I don't know how many, and then you'll see York Street. The courthouse is this biiiiiiig--" [shows me with her hands just how big] "--building on your left."
"So it's on York?"
"On York and Fourth." [blank stare] "I think."
"Thank you." I left the bank and made a right, and drove for about five minutes before realizing that when the frazzled teller told me to turn right, she meant left. I pulled a uey, almost had an accident because it was a one-way (KY studied street planning under Cinci, apparently) and found my way to the courthouse. Sure enough, York and Fourth. I parked, paid, and walked in.
There's this long hallway, and a fat old man behind a table by a metal detector. He's slapping his meaty arm on the aluminum table, screaming at a hallway filled with mothers and children, shouting, "DOWN! DOWN! QUIET DOWN!" [slam, slam] "QUIET, OR I'LL KICK ALL OF YOU OUT!"
He didn't see me, so I walked through the metal detector, grabbed my keys and backpack, and walked past him.
I found a notary in a clerk's office, and as she began to pen her Hancock, she stopped and said, "Oh, that's two dollars."
"Oh, there's a charge? I didn't know that."
"Well. It's two dollars." She was being a bitch. "Two dollars for every notary signature."
"I don't have any cash on me, sorry. Can you...I don't know, send me a bill for it, or something?"
"Do you have a debit card?"
I sighed. "That's why I'm here, actually. See?" I pointed to the top of the form. "I'm filing a stolen-debit-card report."
She smiled slightly, a light and tight bitch smile, where the mouth sort of widens and shrinks at the same time. A snooty French smile, a feline killer smile. "Why didn't you go to Cincinnati?"
--
I got her signature, pro bono, and, like I said, my forms are all in order.
Money, man: It makes the world fucking go round.
9.08.2008
Pomp
"Underwear is underwear! It is underwear wherever you buy it! In Cincinnati or wherever!"
-- Tom Cruise as Charlie in Rain Man
--
The cast is going to Pompilio's tonight. Bonding. Munching. We meet in a half hour, half a mile up the street. It's the famous (?) Italian restaurant where the "toothpicks scene" in Rain Man was filmed. Cruise and Hoffman, man, counting sticks ten feet from our table. Definitely, definitely, definitely...but not going "full retarded." Gotta get the hardware.
The recent debit-card fiasco, however, has cut my available menu in half. I'm looking at salads, soups, and veggie meals, thank you very much. Theft equals thrift, but there's a raft in the rift, and thirds are for turds, anyway.
--
Actors and housemates alike have been sympathetic (as they often are), and not a few of them has had to deal with this kind of bullshit. Advice and consolation pours in from all sides. There's much to do, though, once your bank account has been raped, except to wait nine months and undergo all procedures (legal, financial, personal) and hope the thing turns out okay. Crude and cruel is the money world, where to live in it is to be more livid than loved.
And being robbed makes you fall in love with alliteration, assonance and consonance, all those funky lit terms, all over again. Who knew.
--
Been falling in love with Cate Blanchett lately: I'm Not There, The Life Aquatic, and The Aviator. Whether Dylan, pregnant or Hepburn, the woman is magnificent.
Also watched the first season of the BBC's The Office, the original which spawned the NBC spinoff. Having watched the American version a bit, the British series feels like a condensed hodgepodge, a sort of highlights reel where the same character types call each other "wankers" but basically go through the same things: staplers in Jell-O, fake firings, bawdy clubbing blunders. There seems to be less pop commentary (or maybe I just don't really know British pop) and zany shenanigans, but honestly, that's kinda nice. They make the most of their 180 minutes a season--only six episodes in season one, folks, and only two seasons per series...the BBC is fucking efficient.
--
And last night, our house had our first meeting/meal together, and it was good. We sort of potlucked our way through dinner ("What else can we throw in there?" "I've got green beans!" "Are they still good?" "They smell okay.") and then sort of danced through rules. And then we sat through Juno, which is always good.
-- Tom Cruise as Charlie in Rain Man
--
The cast is going to Pompilio's tonight. Bonding. Munching. We meet in a half hour, half a mile up the street. It's the famous (?) Italian restaurant where the "toothpicks scene" in Rain Man was filmed. Cruise and Hoffman, man, counting sticks ten feet from our table. Definitely, definitely, definitely...but not going "full retarded." Gotta get the hardware.
The recent debit-card fiasco, however, has cut my available menu in half. I'm looking at salads, soups, and veggie meals, thank you very much. Theft equals thrift, but there's a raft in the rift, and thirds are for turds, anyway.
--
Actors and housemates alike have been sympathetic (as they often are), and not a few of them has had to deal with this kind of bullshit. Advice and consolation pours in from all sides. There's much to do, though, once your bank account has been raped, except to wait nine months and undergo all procedures (legal, financial, personal) and hope the thing turns out okay. Crude and cruel is the money world, where to live in it is to be more livid than loved.
And being robbed makes you fall in love with alliteration, assonance and consonance, all those funky lit terms, all over again. Who knew.
--
Been falling in love with Cate Blanchett lately: I'm Not There, The Life Aquatic, and The Aviator. Whether Dylan, pregnant or Hepburn, the woman is magnificent.
Also watched the first season of the BBC's The Office, the original which spawned the NBC spinoff. Having watched the American version a bit, the British series feels like a condensed hodgepodge, a sort of highlights reel where the same character types call each other "wankers" but basically go through the same things: staplers in Jell-O, fake firings, bawdy clubbing blunders. There seems to be less pop commentary (or maybe I just don't really know British pop) and zany shenanigans, but honestly, that's kinda nice. They make the most of their 180 minutes a season--only six episodes in season one, folks, and only two seasons per series...the BBC is fucking efficient.
--
And last night, our house had our first meeting/meal together, and it was good. We sort of potlucked our way through dinner ("What else can we throw in there?" "I've got green beans!" "Are they still good?" "They smell okay.") and then sort of danced through rules. And then we sat through Juno, which is always good.
9.06.2008
Robbed
"That's why I'm singin why
What is wrong with the world today?"
-- Flight of the Conchords
--
Our director has told us that a lot of her playwriting prowess has been stolen from the Flight of the Conchords. Mix that in with Algonquin legend and a naturalistic set, and you've got some comedy.
I'm told that as the middle sister, I have a "fierce walk." I just love my beads, man.
--
My debit card has been stolen. My first-real-paycheck high came to an abrupt drop when I saw how much damage can be done overnight. Thursday come, Friday go. I try to tell myself, It's just money, and once the police get into the fray, I'll get it all back, but what really irks me is myself, oddly: I can't believe how much loathing and pitiless derision I have for this random (probably poor, opportunistic) person who has done this to me, an equally random and faceless victim.
If only I hadn't dropped my wallet coming out of my car...I figure that's when it happened, but that's the frustration at losing something. I can't remember where I lost it. That's a big part of why it's now lost.
I hope he/she enjoyed his/her breakfast in Kentucky. The bastard.
Have I really been the victim of identity theft? Such a weird way to think of oneself, and I guess that's part of the fear of it. Someone has been pretending to be me, spending my earnings. My card sits in a slot in their wallet. And I say, Fuck him or her.
--
Along with several hundred dollars of my money, this person has robbed me of a big chunk of my faith in humanity. Or at least, the kind of humanity that lives on my street.
What is wrong with the world today?"
-- Flight of the Conchords
--
Our director has told us that a lot of her playwriting prowess has been stolen from the Flight of the Conchords. Mix that in with Algonquin legend and a naturalistic set, and you've got some comedy.
I'm told that as the middle sister, I have a "fierce walk." I just love my beads, man.
--
My debit card has been stolen. My first-real-paycheck high came to an abrupt drop when I saw how much damage can be done overnight. Thursday come, Friday go. I try to tell myself, It's just money, and once the police get into the fray, I'll get it all back, but what really irks me is myself, oddly: I can't believe how much loathing and pitiless derision I have for this random (probably poor, opportunistic) person who has done this to me, an equally random and faceless victim.
If only I hadn't dropped my wallet coming out of my car...I figure that's when it happened, but that's the frustration at losing something. I can't remember where I lost it. That's a big part of why it's now lost.
I hope he/she enjoyed his/her breakfast in Kentucky. The bastard.
Have I really been the victim of identity theft? Such a weird way to think of oneself, and I guess that's part of the fear of it. Someone has been pretending to be me, spending my earnings. My card sits in a slot in their wallet. And I say, Fuck him or her.
--
Along with several hundred dollars of my money, this person has robbed me of a big chunk of my faith in humanity. Or at least, the kind of humanity that lives on my street.
9.04.2008
Seconds
"and when the coyotes they sing at the park
till the city lights starts falling
ride them rodes they winding down till the flame hits the ground
every motion is closer to touching the coyotes sing when they call
in the middle of it."
-- Jason Mraz, "Coyotes"
--
Parking meters are stealing my quarters, and the cash in my wallet is like liquid paper, erasing and updating the money I lose, bills trickling out like they're trying to escape. It's the big drawback to spending time downtown--time equals money, hey hey. When I leave my car parked by a meter, I feel tethered to it, doomed to return every hour (on some streets, every half hour) to replenish my free time. There's about four competing parking charge systems, too, all of them with different protocols and rates. The large gray box with "PAY HERE" printed on the side is best for quick trips to, say, drop off books, and the lots with the yellow huts are best for long-term, and the good old silver stick works if you can find a spot on the curb. I don't know why I still have trouble parallel parking.
Tried to do some research on the Mi'kmaq tribe, of the Algonquin peoples, in preparation for the show we start tomorrow. The director has asked us to do some pre-reading, brushing up on Native Am. customs and history. But I can't see how cultural accuracy can be so huge when half of our four-person cast is African-American, and one-fourth is Asian. Indians...[question mark]...
So...some tidbits about the Mi'kmaqs (a.k.a. Micmacs):
- They were the first tribe to embrace the French settlers.
- They were not surprised to see European flagships, since an ancient Mi'kmaq guru told of a blue-eyed race which would float to shore on a giant island with big white trees.
- Their name comes from their word for "ally," which is directly related to their word for "people." People, by linguistic default, are your friends.
- They signed a religious treaty with French priests which allowed Mi'kmaq individuals to choose to believe in their blend of nature-worship, or Catholicism, or a mystic blend of the two. The Mi'kmaq flag often includes a red cross lying on its side.
--
Call is in twelve minutes for our final (?) dress rehearsal for Sleepy Hollow. It'll be in the basement, where it lives for the moment. Our set sits still, assembled and upright, its own little world in the corner with the huge windows.
Through those windows, we see many random Kentuckians walking around, maybe a dozen a day, always with children, always with dogs, never with dignity. Marva, Teresa and I explored the area today, found a creek with unsteady rock bridges, dead grass pathes with doggy doo and human litter, and the most boring park on earth: Four benches, one of them under a tree, a lot-sized carpet of overheated grass, and two waste barrels, and a lot of boredom. There was a mysterious pile of cigarette butts near a pine tree. The sun was awful. One of the benches had an interesting bronze plate on it, but other than that, what we saw was what we got. It would make an ideal paint-ball hill if the highway weren't twenty feet to the west.
Also, the highway is on concrete stilts around which hobos commune at night. There's a random ramp that comes from nowhere on our side of the overpass. It just starts. We think maybe they wanted a two-and-a-half lane highway.
Down the block is a snazzy Italian bistro where they filmed the toothpicks scene from Rain Man.
till the city lights starts falling
ride them rodes they winding down till the flame hits the ground
every motion is closer to touching the coyotes sing when they call
in the middle of it."
-- Jason Mraz, "Coyotes"
--
Parking meters are stealing my quarters, and the cash in my wallet is like liquid paper, erasing and updating the money I lose, bills trickling out like they're trying to escape. It's the big drawback to spending time downtown--time equals money, hey hey. When I leave my car parked by a meter, I feel tethered to it, doomed to return every hour (on some streets, every half hour) to replenish my free time. There's about four competing parking charge systems, too, all of them with different protocols and rates. The large gray box with "PAY HERE" printed on the side is best for quick trips to, say, drop off books, and the lots with the yellow huts are best for long-term, and the good old silver stick works if you can find a spot on the curb. I don't know why I still have trouble parallel parking.
Tried to do some research on the Mi'kmaq tribe, of the Algonquin peoples, in preparation for the show we start tomorrow. The director has asked us to do some pre-reading, brushing up on Native Am. customs and history. But I can't see how cultural accuracy can be so huge when half of our four-person cast is African-American, and one-fourth is Asian. Indians...[question mark]...
So...some tidbits about the Mi'kmaqs (a.k.a. Micmacs):
- They were the first tribe to embrace the French settlers.
- They were not surprised to see European flagships, since an ancient Mi'kmaq guru told of a blue-eyed race which would float to shore on a giant island with big white trees.
- Their name comes from their word for "ally," which is directly related to their word for "people." People, by linguistic default, are your friends.
- They signed a religious treaty with French priests which allowed Mi'kmaq individuals to choose to believe in their blend of nature-worship, or Catholicism, or a mystic blend of the two. The Mi'kmaq flag often includes a red cross lying on its side.
--
Call is in twelve minutes for our final (?) dress rehearsal for Sleepy Hollow. It'll be in the basement, where it lives for the moment. Our set sits still, assembled and upright, its own little world in the corner with the huge windows.
Through those windows, we see many random Kentuckians walking around, maybe a dozen a day, always with children, always with dogs, never with dignity. Marva, Teresa and I explored the area today, found a creek with unsteady rock bridges, dead grass pathes with doggy doo and human litter, and the most boring park on earth: Four benches, one of them under a tree, a lot-sized carpet of overheated grass, and two waste barrels, and a lot of boredom. There was a mysterious pile of cigarette butts near a pine tree. The sun was awful. One of the benches had an interesting bronze plate on it, but other than that, what we saw was what we got. It would make an ideal paint-ball hill if the highway weren't twenty feet to the west.
Also, the highway is on concrete stilts around which hobos commune at night. There's a random ramp that comes from nowhere on our side of the overpass. It just starts. We think maybe they wanted a two-and-a-half lane highway.
Down the block is a snazzy Italian bistro where they filmed the toothpicks scene from Rain Man.
Bulls
"Katrina, give me your hand, your heart, your vow, / For you are my dove, my lamb, and my...cow."
-- Ichabod Crane, in Kathryn Schultz Miller's stage adaptation of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"
--
Today we lay to rest the first show of our season. It will stay dormant until we exhume the thing in two weeks as our tour begins. That means a dress rehearsal this afternoon, complete with my nasty, sweaty self (seriously, I don't normally sweat this much in 45 minutes), and the cream of the Children's Theatre crop, the bosses of bosses, watching and participating. I don't know why, but it sort of feels like we're ancient Greek sailors, praying for favorable winds from the gods, or something. I hope no one's killed anyone's bull on accident.
Fun fact: Kathryn Schultz Miller, the adaptionator and playwright of our show, founded our theatre WBW (way back when). Sleepy Hollow is now readable on GoogleBooks, too.
--
Was told again last night, fleetingly, in passing, "You're an actor," and I reacted with typical Stewartian ambivalence: a deep walrus groan, shoulders dancing, eyebrows worming. I said I didn't really feel like an actor, didn't really consider myself a "theatre person," and as I spoke, I realized that I didn't have any idea what either of those things might feel like, anyway.
Theatre people, after all, are people,--people, people, and always, people--and while "life in a box is better than no life at all," it's still a box, and it seems to me that many theatre types spend a lot of effort trying to escape from boxes, cages and stages. We return to work with a sort of reluctant vigor, a mindset more driven by the agony of absence than the prestige of presence. It's the one job that seems like it ought to be nothing but fun, and yet, directors constantly remind everyone to make sure "to have fun." In a way, the plight of every artist (however childish or amateurish the art might be, or however lofty and pretentious and challenging and fresh it may be) is to hate what they love.
Camus said he was most interested in Sisyphus at the moment when he looks down the mountain at his rock, smiles, and descends again. The pushing is just work, sweat, and panting; but the release of the rock, the return to the depths, the will to fall to crests and sing in sadness--this is what really jimmies the lock.
In fake life as in real life, enjoy the show. Right?
-- Ichabod Crane, in Kathryn Schultz Miller's stage adaptation of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"
--
Today we lay to rest the first show of our season. It will stay dormant until we exhume the thing in two weeks as our tour begins. That means a dress rehearsal this afternoon, complete with my nasty, sweaty self (seriously, I don't normally sweat this much in 45 minutes), and the cream of the Children's Theatre crop, the bosses of bosses, watching and participating. I don't know why, but it sort of feels like we're ancient Greek sailors, praying for favorable winds from the gods, or something. I hope no one's killed anyone's bull on accident.
Fun fact: Kathryn Schultz Miller, the adaptionator and playwright of our show, founded our theatre WBW (way back when). Sleepy Hollow is now readable on GoogleBooks, too.
--
Was told again last night, fleetingly, in passing, "You're an actor," and I reacted with typical Stewartian ambivalence: a deep walrus groan, shoulders dancing, eyebrows worming. I said I didn't really feel like an actor, didn't really consider myself a "theatre person," and as I spoke, I realized that I didn't have any idea what either of those things might feel like, anyway.
Theatre people, after all, are people,--people, people, and always, people--and while "life in a box is better than no life at all," it's still a box, and it seems to me that many theatre types spend a lot of effort trying to escape from boxes, cages and stages. We return to work with a sort of reluctant vigor, a mindset more driven by the agony of absence than the prestige of presence. It's the one job that seems like it ought to be nothing but fun, and yet, directors constantly remind everyone to make sure "to have fun." In a way, the plight of every artist (however childish or amateurish the art might be, or however lofty and pretentious and challenging and fresh it may be) is to hate what they love.
Camus said he was most interested in Sisyphus at the moment when he looks down the mountain at his rock, smiles, and descends again. The pushing is just work, sweat, and panting; but the release of the rock, the return to the depths, the will to fall to crests and sing in sadness--this is what really jimmies the lock.
In fake life as in real life, enjoy the show. Right?
9.03.2008
Blus
"The movie industry assumes you are a criminal."
-- bluraysucks.com
--
Now that I'm in the market for a new (?) laptop,--searching for an Apple G4, ahem yes--I've been spending more time on eBay lately, tracking trends, marking the market. I'm cyber-watching a couple dozen potential my-computers. The search always yields major piles of hits, but I want a comp that comes with the adapter, AirPort, and worthwhile software. It's a mix of good and bad, I suppose, when so many of these notebooks are selling for under $400.
But I stray during lappy time, too. I've added NetFlix and ActorCast accounts on separate whims, and I'm holding aloft the idea of creating a personal acting website, stocked with production shots, resume blips, and the set of headshots I don't have...all financed by money I don't really have.
Spending plans are pending. They always are.
--
On the market for movies, as well, looking for titles I want to add to my sad little pile of DVDs. It would be one thing if I owned four or five select picks (some Kubrick, Nichols, and Welles, for instance), shock-and-awe flicks on my movie shelf, but as is, Catch Me If You Can and Storm of the Century seem as lame as library brochures. When you buy your movies from the $5 bin at Wal-Mart, sheepish regret is inevitable.
Searched for No Country for Old Men, just to see what was there, and was floored to see a lot of people selling. Then I saw that a big chunk of the items up for bid, as they say, were Blu-Rays. A lot of the DVDs going for cheap-cheap on eBay right now are the hoity-toity Blu-Ray versions. The Blu-Ray is a product of shorter wavelengths (the tiny blue laser replaces the clunky red) and greater disc space, a capstone to the HD hoopla, and seems like a nice example of sharp techno progress. You can put a lot more on a Blu-Ray disc and, if you've got the gizmos, get more out of them. (Disney is re-releasing all their classics in vintage Blu.)
So why are so many people ditching the new disc? It turns out that Blu-Rays won't play on antique DVD players, and most computers lack the necessary drive and software. So movie owners with far more movies than me would have to buy the new Blu-Ray player (going for around a hundred-and-a-half), and then there's the temptation to replace the existing DVD collection with Blu-Ray DVDs. Buy one, may as well get the rest. It's like a revised version of the VCR-to-DVD shift that's been in the works for about a decade. My dad, for instance, still refuses to replace his anniversary edition Star Wars VHS collection.
Plus to minus, I have no real opinion on the Blu-Ray DVD, though it does seem sad that it's an exclusive thing. A techspert I am not; I only read random quips online. Do be do be do...
--
On a audibly-related subject, I've started listening to a lot of B. B. King lately. You don't notice how damn good he is until you realize that the guitar sings better than he does.
-- bluraysucks.com
--
Now that I'm in the market for a new (?) laptop,--searching for an Apple G4, ahem yes--I've been spending more time on eBay lately, tracking trends, marking the market. I'm cyber-watching a couple dozen potential my-computers. The search always yields major piles of hits, but I want a comp that comes with the adapter, AirPort, and worthwhile software. It's a mix of good and bad, I suppose, when so many of these notebooks are selling for under $400.
But I stray during lappy time, too. I've added NetFlix and ActorCast accounts on separate whims, and I'm holding aloft the idea of creating a personal acting website, stocked with production shots, resume blips, and the set of headshots I don't have...all financed by money I don't really have.
Spending plans are pending. They always are.
--
On the market for movies, as well, looking for titles I want to add to my sad little pile of DVDs. It would be one thing if I owned four or five select picks (some Kubrick, Nichols, and Welles, for instance), shock-and-awe flicks on my movie shelf, but as is, Catch Me If You Can and Storm of the Century seem as lame as library brochures. When you buy your movies from the $5 bin at Wal-Mart, sheepish regret is inevitable.
Searched for No Country for Old Men, just to see what was there, and was floored to see a lot of people selling. Then I saw that a big chunk of the items up for bid, as they say, were Blu-Rays. A lot of the DVDs going for cheap-cheap on eBay right now are the hoity-toity Blu-Ray versions. The Blu-Ray is a product of shorter wavelengths (the tiny blue laser replaces the clunky red) and greater disc space, a capstone to the HD hoopla, and seems like a nice example of sharp techno progress. You can put a lot more on a Blu-Ray disc and, if you've got the gizmos, get more out of them. (Disney is re-releasing all their classics in vintage Blu.)
So why are so many people ditching the new disc? It turns out that Blu-Rays won't play on antique DVD players, and most computers lack the necessary drive and software. So movie owners with far more movies than me would have to buy the new Blu-Ray player (going for around a hundred-and-a-half), and then there's the temptation to replace the existing DVD collection with Blu-Ray DVDs. Buy one, may as well get the rest. It's like a revised version of the VCR-to-DVD shift that's been in the works for about a decade. My dad, for instance, still refuses to replace his anniversary edition Star Wars VHS collection.
Plus to minus, I have no real opinion on the Blu-Ray DVD, though it does seem sad that it's an exclusive thing. A techspert I am not; I only read random quips online. Do be do be do...
--
On a audibly-related subject, I've started listening to a lot of B. B. King lately. You don't notice how damn good he is until you realize that the guitar sings better than he does.
9.02.2008
Labors
"Were it not for the fact that we're blind this mix-up would never have happened, You're right, our problem is that we're blind. The doctor's wife said to her husband, The whole world is right here."
-- Jose Saramago, Blindness
--
Back in the library after a holiday weekend hiatus. Tried to be prolific, pounding out a few pages of what could be a new play. It's pretentious and I love it, which probably means it's bad. More updates in time, assuming the project continues.
Had a full movie weekend, too: The Squid and the Whale, Wit, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Catch-22, There Will Be Blood, and Little Children.
--
My air mattress is deflating in the nights, and the hard floor against my tailbone wakes me up at odd morning hours. My window stays open to ventilate, and the hot air flows in and the fan beside me fights back. Sleep has felt like a chore lately.
Had a three-hour photo session this morning for the theatre's 2009-10 season. They photo-cast me as Hansel and a Toymaker, and I got to make faces and freeze. I'm told we were paid extra for it, so all's well. His studio, in a humble corner on the third floor, has Reds adornments and pictures everywhere (there's a rumor that he's an official photographer for the team) and stacks of picture-savvy mags. Getting there, we lost ourselves in the southwest industry yards, looking for the photog's warehouse-turned-studio, and at the end of it all, we got stuck in the freight elevator for about 15 minutes. We stood there and cursed and sweated with a giant cartoon tree made of wood, boxes of animal costumes and a drab magic mirror, trying to unbolt the rusty lock and breathe the free air of the heated southern ghetto. The color of bricks comes to mind, a lazy, baked maroon, a kind of clay border to the morning. But, as I say, we were paid extra, and the streets ain't so mean in the broad daylight, much like Ichabod's church bridge.
--
I've stopped using my crude GoogleMaps printouts to get around. Tiny victories.
-- Jose Saramago, Blindness
--
Back in the library after a holiday weekend hiatus. Tried to be prolific, pounding out a few pages of what could be a new play. It's pretentious and I love it, which probably means it's bad. More updates in time, assuming the project continues.
Had a full movie weekend, too: The Squid and the Whale, Wit, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Catch-22, There Will Be Blood, and Little Children.
--
My air mattress is deflating in the nights, and the hard floor against my tailbone wakes me up at odd morning hours. My window stays open to ventilate, and the hot air flows in and the fan beside me fights back. Sleep has felt like a chore lately.
Had a three-hour photo session this morning for the theatre's 2009-10 season. They photo-cast me as Hansel and a Toymaker, and I got to make faces and freeze. I'm told we were paid extra for it, so all's well. His studio, in a humble corner on the third floor, has Reds adornments and pictures everywhere (there's a rumor that he's an official photographer for the team) and stacks of picture-savvy mags. Getting there, we lost ourselves in the southwest industry yards, looking for the photog's warehouse-turned-studio, and at the end of it all, we got stuck in the freight elevator for about 15 minutes. We stood there and cursed and sweated with a giant cartoon tree made of wood, boxes of animal costumes and a drab magic mirror, trying to unbolt the rusty lock and breathe the free air of the heated southern ghetto. The color of bricks comes to mind, a lazy, baked maroon, a kind of clay border to the morning. But, as I say, we were paid extra, and the streets ain't so mean in the broad daylight, much like Ichabod's church bridge.
--
I've stopped using my crude GoogleMaps printouts to get around. Tiny victories.
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