Excuse me, Miss Yvonne...

...but before you go making out with everyone in the Playhouse, how about forkin' over the gift?


let A = "It is cold outside and in my apartment"
let B = "My bed is warm"
let C = "Pee-Wee's Playhouse is the only thing that can make me sit up in bed"

A ---> B
B ---> C
:.
A ---> C



Those proofs make no sense, but neither does Magic Johnson and Magic Screen being cousins. And that is why I love it!

Upstate worms will eat my head.

After an unequivocally terrible night at work, I treated myself to the movies and went to the Sunshine to see 'Synechdoche, New York.' Though my coworked warned me that I was completely insane, and called me a 'freak' for going on such an emotionally fraught evening, I thought it seemed like a good idea. In the end, it was. I really liked the movie, though I didn't love it in the intense way I do, say, Eternal Sunshine. Phillip Seymour Hoffman (aka 'the fat guy from 'Twister,'' right, Rinnz?) was fucking great, as I figured he would be-- I mean, so was everybody. I don't know how anybody acts in a movie, to be quite honest, and I don't know how anybody acts in a movie like this. I think it'll be a long long long time before I can ever be halfway decent on screen. This isn't really based on anything. But but but, the performances were really, really wonderful...two of the weirdest movies I've seen this year both starred Samantha Morton, and I might be in love with her. She's so strange. Jennifer Jason Leigh showed up briefly as an evil lady with huge boobs and a fake German accent. Amazing. The 'Schenectady' of the movie bore no resemblance to the real thing-- I laughed when someone said something about catering to 'blue-hair suburban regional theatregoers,' because there aren't too many of those in Schenec....but then again, there's no modern, beautiful theatre complex, either, and no one staging weird, avant-garde shows in big venues which attract large, paying audiences, either. But I'm no complaining, I'm really not. The Schenectady of the movie looked like a pretty darn nice place to live. (My one question for Charlie K. would be-- why did you not choose to use the real Schenec zip code 12345 when you showed us their address??!?!?! Chance of a LIFETIME, sir!)

ANYWAY. It was super long, there was a couple AGGRESSIVELY making out sitting in front of me, and some know-it-alls were driving me nuts afterward- but on the whole, it was a really satisfying antidote to sadness. Even though it was really sad.

After the movie, I slogged to the First Avenue L station, where I wound up embroiled in some bizarre subway talk with the three guys sitting around me. One works with Emma at a restaurant, and so I felt safe accepting part of a cookie he offered me. THIS IS WHY I CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO TALK TO PEOPLE WHEN I AM ALONE. Why do I put this stuff on the internet? Do I want people to think I'm an idiot? There was a lot of solidarity-speak re: how much the subway sucks, a brief discussion abt. rat kings (I'm a one-trick pony), and a lot of nervous laughter on my part.

Speaking of me being an idiot, I'd like to point out that I've passed the one-year anniversary of getting blackout drunk and losing my purse in the LES, and I'd like to pat myself on the back. I think I can almost laugh about it now....?

It's snowing out now, and everything looks beautiful. I wish I could stay in and be cozy all day. I make a trek to the bagel place down the street where I enjoyed a "candy peppermint" bagel, which was striped red and white and essentially tasted like it had candy canes ground up in it. Um, yum.

I'm going home on Tuesday morning. I'm glad.

Charlie Kaufman!! You harsh master.

(And I don't mean Public School!)

PS1:  Japanese Cat Humiliation.

PS2: Monkey Jockeys.

Unresolved.

Yesterday, I took myself to 59E59 to see Rough Magic's 'Improbably Frequency,' a show I had seen four years earlier (JESUS CHRIST) in Dublin.  This was when I was visiting Ben, during Christmas break of my sophomore year, and we were looking for a show to see.  He had free tickets to a new play that looked super boring-- living room set, young actors wearing t-shirts-- so we opted for the 'unwaged' tickets at the Abbey for this show that we knew nothing about.

It turned out to be one of the best and most memorable theatrical experiences of my life.  It's a musical about the Irish Free State during WWII, and though that sounds like just about the worst premise ever, it is insanely silly, inventive, hilarious, creative, exciting....I'll just go on and on, so I won't. It's got historical characters-- Erwin Schroedinger (played as a sex-crazed maniac in ledehosen); the poet John Betjeman (in a straw boater, carrying a teddy bear);and writer Myles na gCopaleen (aka Flann O'Brien). It's got shamrocks shaped like swastikas. It's got the most delightful music.  A religious service for Guiness. Sex in verse.  EVERYTHING AMAZING.

Anyway, I heard it was coming to NY and I freaked out and couldn't wait to see it. I had a few moments of being nervous-- what if it wasn't as good as I remembered it being? 

BUT IT WASSSSSSSSSSSS oh my god it WAS.  I was so delighted to be seeing it again after all this time, and it was just how I remembered it, with the exception of a few cast changes.  The bluehairs around me were half happy, half asleep-- and the quartet next to me left at intermission. Because they were idiots.  It's just so wonderful, and contains so many elements that I can only hope to have in all of my future theatrical projects.  I admire this company immensely, and am so happy that they managed to bring the show over here.  In my half-imagined, cockamamie schemes that I liked to think about late at night, the ones where I go to England or Scotland to work....I think I should include room for Rough Magic.  I mean, why not?

So, I say, GO! if you are able. It runs 'til January 4th in New York.  It's fucking great.

The week+ since my birthday has been good.  I shot a short film earlier this week, in the most incredible apartment I've ever been in.  Enormous windows, through which you can see: the Brooklyn Bridge. My god, it was beautiful.  I was hypnotized by the lights from the cars going over the bridge. I don't know how anyone could actually live there.  The shoot was fun, if totally insane and hectic.  The writer/director, a guy I know from school, did a nice job holding it together under pressure, and the other actor was a nice guy who was amenable to lots of goofing around.  That's basically all I need in a collaborator.  Well, maybe not ALL.  But I wore a crazy red dress and drank a lot of fake gin and had a grand old time.  Somewhere along the way, perhaps on Tuesday night when I walked around for ten minutes in the rain at 3 AM looking for a cab in DUMBO (not a good idea), I got sort of sick. Which blows.  But at least I'm going home soon and can be sick there.

Going home is a source of stress, of course. I don't know when I'm going to be able to go back to the Electric City, or how long I can stay.  And I have to make up my mind about New Year's Eve-- I've been thinking I might go to Boston, but I'm too lazy to figure it out. Even though my horoscope told me finalize travel plans the other day. Eekerz!

Holiday parties are building up; I hate to admit it, but Midtown looks beautiful; my shopping is not done. Ah, Christmas.

Welcome to the fold, brother.

I'm writing on the gloriously white keyboard of my brand-new (used) laptop. I bid the Tecra8200 (never heard of it? Whaaat??) goodbye and opened my arms to this puppy. As of this morning, I'm a Mac gal. Wowza!

I've been pretty bad at blogging lately. There's been a lot going on, certainly some legitimately interesting things (or so I think), but I've been too insane/manic/depressive/hungry/tired/anything else you can think of to sit down and do it.

Now is the time!

Going way back, Thanksgiving (my GOD) was a lot of fun. It was great to be home-- I had been really looking forward to it and was so happy to be in my house, in my old room, with Slinky, with a real kitchen, with a bathroom that doesn't make me into a rageaholic every time I try to take a shower. Most of the extended family was there and I was so happy to see them. Fun things included eating way too much, eating some more, verging on barfing a million times, antagonizing the Guba's dog, eating still MORE, and playing Balderdash with a combination of people who didn't understand the rules, people who understood but had no regard for the rules, very Christian people, drunk people, and people who didn't want to be playing.

A highlight was going, the day after T-giving, to The Newest Lunch in Schenec and 'secretly' 'flirting' with all the guys who work there. This has been going on for approximately six years. They must know. There are a lot of them; Ange is my main crush. When he says "Hey, how you been?" twice a year, my heart goes pitter-pat. My family makes fun; but my crush on the hotdog man is all real. Some day! I'll tell him my love. Until then....I'll take one with everything.

After Thanksgiving, my insanity incread 450% because time started to run out before MY READING. Which happened two days ago. In the week leading up to Tgiving, I spent a minimum of four hours at Cafe Grumpy in Greenpoint, scraping together change to buy cups of coffee, ripping my hair out and doing a lot of agonizing over the three words I'd manage to write. I didn't do a lick of work over Thanksgiving. When I got back to New York, I realized that the new draft still didn't have an ending and that I was in big trouble. However-- I put one together, the folks at La Mama assembled a cast, and we made it through the to day of the rehearsal. I had only a few nervous breakdowns along the way.

And then it was Tuesday, my birthday, and the day of the reading. It's easy to guilt people into coming to a reading that they wouldn't necessarily come to when it's ALSO your birthday, I have to say. My parents were there, as well a many, many of my wonderful friends from all different places-- work, school, shows, etc. I can't imagine having another birthday when I might have so many people that I like in one place. The reading went as well as I could have hoped it to go. I was pleased. And a wreck. I wrang my hands, bit my nails, and compulsively took off and put on my sweater during it. I was flushed and my heart was beating out of my chest. I haven't been so worked up in a long, long time. It felt good. At the end, I was brought onstage while people sang happy birthday, which embarassed me to no end, and which made me turn even redder. Then there was a short, relatively painless talkback in which I attempted to walk the line between charmingly self-deprecating and impressively cool. Uh, I think we can all guess which one I veered more towards. Talkbacks are the devil. The only good part was the lights glinting off my sweet kicks. I liked that.

Some folks went out for drinks afterwards, and I had a great, great time laughing and drinking and eating cookies (my mom made some shaped like Lincoln-- do you see where I get it?). My parents gave me too many presents, including a pair of saddle shoes. They are fucking awesome. (I had a fit last night at the pizza place by my apartment when Nitz and I spotted a hipster girl at the next table wearing a pair. I was like 'NO! This was going to be MY style! How dare the hipsters co-opt it already?!)

So, now I'm 23, have cool shoes, and know that I have a lot of really awesome friends. That's good.

I think I'm slowly crashing from the nervousness/excitement of the past few weeks. The proof? I slept about 12 hours last night and spent today in bed, watching Arrested Development. Indeed. Painting my nails was my biggest accomplishment.

I don't know what's next for me. I know now for sure, though I've known it before, that though it makes me insane, I'm definitely WAY better off when I'm working really hard on something. I should do something new.

We'll see.

Christmas is coming up soon, which I can't believe. Despite attempts not to, I'm falling into the trap and getting stressed out about it.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger in one of his finest roles, I need to "CHILL."

Finally: We've gotten two letters to Santa here at work. The first one was from a girl who was writing on behalf of herself and her two younger siblings. The second on is from a 2-year old (a likely story!!) who asks for clothing and toys and ends her letter this way:

'Please Santa make my wish come true. I will really apprecaite it. This will be the best gift ever for Christmas and for my birthday that's in December 11th and I'm turn 3. Thank you so much. I love you Santa. I wish you a merry, merry, merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.'

I'm not sure how these people confused a beat off-off Broadway theatre with the North Pole-- perhaps it's the red facade?-- but these letters are too cute to be true.

Rain! Go away!

2 things that made yesterday remarkable:

1) I turned 23.

2) I got paid for writing. PAID!

etc + turnips.

I got home from work and had a domestic attack: I just made applesauce and mashed turnips, and got some carrots and brussels sprouts ready to be cooked. WHAAAA? Actually, it's no surprise. The original onset of the domesticity, or rather, gustatory fever, happened at the Greenmarket the other day. I can't explain it. Tonight's activities were more immediately linked to the nagging voice in my head saying "If you let those vegetables rot, you'll have wasted $10." Lord knows nothing prompts a skinflint to cook like money!

Much else to report, but it must needs wait: craft fairs, hats, insanity, work, things that are off the HOOK, etc.

Leave you with two overheards:

#1- On Bedford Ave.

Guy: What's that?
Guy holding juice bottle: This? Oh, this is my JAM. Lemon-ginger-echinacea!


#2- At work.
Guy(?): One time, I was DJ-ing a pee party, and people were literally peeing on the turntable. I was like "People, we are all going to get electrocuted! Pee somewhere else!"

Yup!

You must have put something in my coffee.

This was an unexpectedly fun, if frantic-feeling, night.

After a weird, unproductive, and bad-mood-inducing day of work in the box office, I ate an arepa and bought too much produce at the Greenmarket (about 7 pounds of apples, some carrots, some brussells sprouts, and the world's largest turnip (?!)). Here's where things get REALLY exciting, though (more exciting than turnips?!): I joined Ava at the Access Theatre to see "Call Me Anne, " Phillip Taratula's one-man show about Anne Heche in her Celestia phase. I first saw him do anything as Anne Heche five years ago (JESUS) at BU as part of his senior thesis. I think he's an extremely talented actor and is always a real pleasure to watch. I hope lots of people come and enjoy his work and that he gets rich and famous. Or whatever he wants.

I then left Ava and went to the Williamsburg beer garden to see Carla and Slavko's band, Panonian Wave, play. Some other work folks were there and we danced the hell out of ourselves. It's like gypsy-punk-Balkan and it's a lot of fun. When they were finished playing, a drunk guy pulled a Barney Stinson on me: Beckoned me over, saying "Excuse me?" and when I went over (WHEN WILL I LEARN?!), said "Do you know my friend Anthony?" and tried to hand me off to his drunker friend. Needless to say, these gents had the "best" seats in the house-- as Anthony so eloquently put it, "We were watching...the dancing....." I got out of that as fast as possible.

But! A night of dancing was a good move,I think-- I danced some of my frantic-ness away. I'm acting kind of spazzy lately, and I think it's because I'm nervous about my reading on Tuesday. I'm totally aware that in the scheme of things, a reading is not a big deal at all. Also, the only people who are gonna come will be people who like me and know me and who probably won't be too critical. I guess this is why I'm getting nervous-- because it's just gonna be people I care about, I want it to be great, I want them to really like it. This is not a healthy goal. The thing to think about is that I'm gonna hear my play, I'll hopefully learn some good things about it or what I need to do to it in the future, and then we'll all go raise a glass and bid another year of my youth farewell. This is my hope. And I hope to see you there.

BOOYAH. Now to bed. I keep feeling the urge to quote Moe Axelrod lately. I don't know if that's good or bad. I'll leave you with:


Baby, if you had a dog, I'd love the dog.

The only thing worse than blogging...

...is NOT blogging and then wanting to blog and then fakely post-dating your entry that you wrote while you didn't have internet.

Like I'm about to do.

I wrote this rant on 11.20 and never posted it. Instead of writing something new, I will post it now.

I have had the extreme pleasure of seeing a lot of things live recently. Let me recap. In my haste to talk about the shenanigans of last weekend, I forgot a whole bunch.

Last Tuesday was the opening of Streamers at the Laura Pels Theatre. I guess I've done enough (sexual) favors for Jason to warrant an invite (that was a JOKE), so I dressed up and sat in a great seat, accompanied by Lee, Nitz and Tanni, surrounded by cool-looking people who probably were no more VIPs than we were but at least appeared to have some clout. I did recognize a few faces, including (I'm convinced, though this doesn't really make 'logical' sense) Aaron Staton, aka Ken Cosgrove on Mad Men, aka the husband of former BU student Connie Fletcher. There would have been no point in trying to talk to him, and it probably wasn't even him, but I was excited anyway and wouldn't stop staring. The lesson is—you can't take me anywhere. Once I put on lipstick, I think I have a free pass to act as uncouthly as I want. AND DON'T I?!

I liked the show, though it was a completely different play from the one I remembered reading three years ago in Jim Spruill's class. I guess that's to be expected. Jason has a moment where he crosses the back of the stage, whistling, and he accepts song requests in the form of dares. I put him up to the Mad Men theme song and was not disappointed.

Afterwards, there was a swell party at the Bryant Park Grill, where we all ate and drank a lot, I bonded INTENSELY with a member of the cast who was born in Schenectady (he made me meet his girlfriend so I could corroborate all stories, past and present, about Schenectady being tough), and ultimately resulted in Jason getting yelled at by a Scottish bartender. My people know a good-for-nothing when they SEE one!

Then, this past Monday, I found myself at the Roust Theatre Company's production of Macbeth. I shouldn't probably put the full name of their company, in case someone is googling, so—if you were in the show, please, stop reading now. I'm going to be mean. Michael, this excludes you.

This was, hands down, the most gratuitous, stupid, infuriating production of any Shakespeare play I've ever seen, and I include Complicite's Measure for Measure in that assessment. And I really hate Simon McBurney, so that means a lot. Back then, in the naïve days of my youth, I though cutting a girl's bra open and then making her deliver a five-minute monologue to the audience was bad. Oh, but I had much to learn. Here's a brief tally of the horrors I witnessed inside that small theatre:

3 slit throats

1 rape of a pregnant woman

1 mentally handicapped adult getting asphyxiated with a plastic bag

3 teeth ripped out with a hammer

1 overblown, WSS-wannabe knife fight

1 vagina getting stabbed

1 anus getting stabbed

1 dead king who comes back as a random soldier in a Castro costume

3 slutty witches

infinite sexual positions in the orgy scene

Oh wait, there's no orgy scene in Macbeth? Sure there is. You know, there's the sleepwalking scene, the dagger scene, the dinner scene, the orgy scene. No? Really, are you sure? I know what I saw.

I don't need to go on. I don't care if this makes me seem like some sort of traditionalist prude, but I DO NOT AND WILL NOT ACCEPT THIS KIND OF BULLSHIT. I was actually angry after I saw it, because SO MANY people had spent considerable time and considerably more money bringing this terror to life, and for what? I doubt anyone came away with any sort of familiarity or connection with the play. Maybe a "Wow, that smoke machine was working hard" or "Wasn't that awesome when the witches were all giving Malcolm a blowjob at the end?," but nothing else. No tongues were in cheeks. (They were plenty of other places, though.) No one was winking. I wouldn't even agree with that, but at least then I would have been confident that I wasn't watching something that had been spearheaded by an absolute lunatic. That's what I think the director was, for the record.

Oh Jesus.

HAPPILY, the stains of that evening were washed away the very next, by The Seagull on Broadway at the Walter Kerr. I was absolutely astounded by this show. I had never read the play, and my last experience with Chekhov ranged from forgettable to, um…forgettable-er? I got a $25 "student" (unethical unethical unethical) ticket an hour before the show, which is a fucking steal, and for the next three hours, was totally rapt. With the exception of intermission, where the cute gay guy sitting next to me talked to me about stories of Patti LuPone telling people to be quiet from the stage (which I loved), and when the cellphone of the lady behind me rang at, you know, the emotional climax of the play. Other than that, it was perfect perfect perfect. Forgive me for being in such a proselytizing mood—as much as I could go on and on about how bad Maccers was, I could talk for hours about all the things I loved about The Seagull. I won't. I'll just say that it runs through December 21^st, and if you have time, money, and are in appropriately manageable proximity to it, you should make it your business to go see it. DOOOO IT.

The Seagull was sandwiched between working on WTTAN for four hours in a coffee shop and going out for drinks at Jimmy's corner with my friends (apparently everyone hates that bar except for me, but I could care less), and assessing it now, that is a model that I use for every day. I wouldn't mind. Writing, show, friends. Add in a few hours of rehearsal somewhere and I'm good to go.

And last night Erin and I went to the Bowery Ballroom to see my one true love, Sondre Lerche. Oh my. I….can't even talk about the way he makes me feel. He sang us a bunch of new songs, including one about lost opportunities and second chances called "Like Lazenby," as in George Lazenby, an apparently-underrated Bond. CUTE. It was absolutely ridiculous—though there were a lot of guys there, the only sounds you could here during Sondre's talking was giggling, giggling, giggling. His superpower is making all that look upon him instantly smitten. Or smi'en, as Liam said last night. :)

Note to self:

On touch-and-go days, don't listen to "Cabaret."