too much.

I've been blogging for fictional characters lately, and... that's sort of more fun than blogging for myself. I guess I like any opportunity to be completely goofy without getting eyerolls.

But anyway... there's lots to report!

Last Friday, I did EGBDF at the beautiful and weird Town Hall. Sam was confused and went to City Hall and was late for rehearsal. Yup, I mean the actual City Hall. Yup. Backing up--Jane arrived in the late morning and took my keys while I went to rehearse. She bopped around the city and I didn't see her again until after the show. She had a good time shopping and buying food and exercising her NY expertise muscles. Cute.

Rehearsal was long and fun. Pan-Pan introduced me to my new, pointy, three-inch stilettos...my worst enemy. (Saturday I felt like a cripple.) We goofed off, navigated the impossibly crowded stage, cracked mutant jokes, and spent time harassing each other in the dressing room we all shared. Wonderful. Jess & Mikey, Anna & Ian, and Erin & Jessie all came to see the show!

After this, there was an awkward InCite Festival "Wrap Party" where I stubbornly refused to schmooze, instead making gag nametags with Jason and Nitz. Tom Stoppard? Phylicia Rashad? Supoopi Pontain, Dave Rosenblatt's girlfriend? Oh yeth, oh yeth.

Then Jane and I trekked back to the Burg. I was in a FOUL mood about god knows what until we ran into Mr Isaac Klein on the subway and he cheered me up. Foul mood returned when I slept on the floor listening to Lucifer yowl all night, continued through getting up super early and getting on the Chinatown bus, and lifted, finally, after getting a nap. My mom deals with a lot of crap from me. :)

We got to Boston in less than four hours and took the T to Qunicy Adams, where my Uncle Peter picked us up and took us to the Wilson homestead. Gordie, Grace and my dad were already there, followed shortly thereafter by the carful of Gubas, headed by a RAGING Uncle Chris, irate over missing their exit and driving an hour extra. Most of the menfolk then headed off to watch Cousin Matt play rugby...which resulted in Matt getting 8 staples in the top of his head. Frankenstein. What followed after was an orgy of food, family, fighting...no more alliteration, for the love of god, Anna! But yeah, lots of eating and drinking and yelling and stuff, both in public (restaurant; IKEA in Stoughton) and at home. It was wonderful.

Sunday morning we followed up with a massive and long brunch, then eventually I went back into Boston with the fam and then took the Chinatown bus for the second time in 36 hours, back to New York. Then I layed around and did arts and crafts and watched tv all night. Glorious.

Monday...I lounged around in bed in the afternoon. Then I bought jeans. Jeans. I bought jeans at a store. I went shopping and came out of that store with a pair of pants. WHO AM I?!

Since then, I've been working weird shifts and not really getting enough sleep and certainly not getting any work done.

Wednesday, I met Nitz and Craig at Via Della Pace because Tara and Heather were both working, so we sat at the empty bar and let them booze us up for several hours. It was really nice, but it's been a while since I've had two cocktails on an empty stomach at eleven o'clock, so I was a little drunker than I thought I should have been on the way home. I'm not sure why I felt that was relevant to include...but it's the Internet. Whatever.

Someone asked me the other day if something, I forget what exactly "Was sort of a waste of space?" And I was like ".....it's the INTERNET. The whole point is that you don't have to worry about 'wasting space.'" I know that's not entirely true, but come on.

Thursday, Jess came over to the Burg and I gave here the grand desolation tour...Domino, etc, and then we ogled the Hasids and ate hamentaschen and challah. Then we made a hellish trip into the bowels of the Union Square Forever 21 so I could buy some clothes for this thing I was supposed to be in on Friday. In line, discussing the issues of one of our dear guy friends, the woman ahead of us turned and said "Girls, I can't help but overhearing. Let me tell you-- they're all screwed up. You have to be bitches to them. I been married three times. The first one, I was so nice to him and he left me for another woman. Then I think, I'll go back to school, turn my life around...all of a sudden it's "I love you, baby. I love you." You have to manipulate them...but with a smile on your face. They're just thinking about themlseves....eighty percent of the time they're thinking about *it*, and if it's big enough, if they can get it up for long enought....all the time!'

Etc. You get the picture. We smiled and laughed and fidgeted...I guess I can say that her heart was maybe in the right place I don't know.

And then yesterday I was in this bizarre thing with Matt Nasser, Greg Hildreth, and Chris Oullettee. Matt's friend Pat works for some studio, or post-house, or something-- I wans't really clear on what they do. Anyway, he was making, I guess for them, this interactive, choose-your-own-adventure, murder mystery thing for the Internet. I have no idea what the story is because the script was in no sort of order, and I haven't shot all of my scenes yet, but basically, I'm Crystal, the blonde secretary. And the gimmick of it is that it's shot entirely from above. Silly. The MAtt and Greg show is one I haven't seen for a while, so it was a delight to lounge around this totally hip UNion Square office, eating free candy, getting paid for saying like three lines. If that's showbiz, kids....

And today...I'm seeing Gypsy with Isaac! Hooray! And then working, but of courrrrse. And tomorrow, working.

I gotta be more concise.

#$&%@*!!!

Ah, Guardian blogs! Letting me down, at last! Today's batch featured this just-plain-insane entry from a man whose last name is "Pulver," which puts me in mind of a verb describing what I'd gladly do to him if I saw him onl the street. (Alright, not really, but please. Pulver? There's a divorce lawyer near Erin's apt. whose name is"Tracey Bloodsaw." How can that be her real name?! Every time I walk by the sign, I say to myself "Blooooodsawww" in a Vincent Price voice.)

Anyway, here are some key sentences from the entry entitled : 'Should Tim Burton Have Cut Sweeney Todd's Songs?'

"It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm no Sondheim maven, nor am I much of a fan of musicals in general. In fact, the only Sondheim tune I know I've heard is Send in the Clowns. But I really wasn't prepared for the cavalcade of horribleness that was the Sweeney Todd music. (I'm presuming, rightly or wrongly, that it's been lifted pretty much intact from the stage show.) Sweeney Todd the film pretty much grinds to a halt whenever the music starts swelling; the plodding melodies and uninspiring lyrics seeing to that."

"Personally speaking, I still enjoyed Sweeney Todd the movie a great deal. Edit out the songs and there's plenty to get excited about."

And finally...

"The Todd story is colourful and gory enough, you'd have thought, without the need for such pedestrian warbling. (Once again, I stress this is not the fault of the performers, who acquit themselves perfectly well. It's the songs themselves.)"


Oh, dear.


In happier news, I leave today for the Keystone Convention in Christiana, PA! (My mom said "At least it's an appropriately-named town.") Jesse, Lauren, Rachel and I are leaving at prime rush-hour-out-of-NYC and who knows when we'll arrive at our destination. (We've got all four parts in the car. Dorks dork dorks!)

Speaking of dorks, Lauren summed up the theme of the Time Mag article in this succinct statement: "Jesus Christ is a Superstar. He got that way thanks to punks, Jews, Buddhists, freaks....and geeks." You have to say it in a Poindexter voice for it to work. (I use that word at least once a day. My cousin used to have a cat named Poindexter-- they called it 'Pointy.')

The downside of Keystone is that I have to wear clothing there, and since it's a convention, #1, it theoretically should be nice clothing, AND , since it's a convention, #2, I have to have two DAYS worth. I don't really own any nice clothing, per se, so I spent the better part of an hour last night ripping everything out of my closet and throwing it around the room. Then trying it on. I settled on a dour, dour black skirt and shirt outfit which I'll pair with black stocking. But so no one mistakes me for a witch (it's literally what I wore for my "Halloween costume" at temp-work this year, minus the striped knee-socks) or a Quaker I'll wear red high heels. And I'll smile.

Anyway, I'm so excited to go away and to see my friends and to eat very-unhealthy Sacred Harp food and see people from everywhere else. And sleep in a a farmhouse basement. And be inappropriately dressed. And try out three of the four parts. And get anxious about what song I'm gonna call. Etc etc etc. Fun and games.

Finally: a guy who works here brought in some junk from his apt. that he's welcoming people to pick over. One of the things is a beautifully-embossed book from teh late 1800s called "Conscience Tales," or "Flemish Life: Four Stories." It's by a man who is going by the name "Hendrick Conscience." Certainly not one of MY forbears!
Non sequiturs galore!