#$&%@*!!!

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!

Superstitions galore.

So, I'm actually finding myself feeling very sad about Heath Ledger. The more I think about it, the sadder I get. I keep thinking about Ms. Lohmann and how she used to talk about shutting herself in a room for a week after James Dean died and how heartbroken she was. I called my mom and she hadn't heard yet and she said 'That's so sad. He was so lovely.' Sometimes I think about how much of a mess I could legitimately be when a certain of my favorite actors dies. I don't even want to say his name! Lord knows I'm a very superstitious person, and also a very dramatic and emotional person...so it's a recipe for disaster. I guess the hope is that his death will not be untimely-- if any death can be called 'untimely' (because who knows?)--or shocking or terrible in any way. And Rinnz and I were just watching Brokeback last week! This combined with the fact that we saw Paul Rudd on the street yesterday just as H.L.'s body was being found makes us believe that we are somehow responsible for his death. Of course we aren't. Neither of us are quite sure why or how we think Paul Rudd is linked to this in any way....but we're sure it is. (We know it isn't.)

We bought dishes at Fishs Eddy yesterday. Are we getting old? Buying dishes? Don't most twentysomethings buy shoes? Or something?

Work was quiet as a lightbulb (credit that bon mot to Dan Iskhakov circa 2003 German class) last night. No show, nothing to do. I sold about four tickets in five hours. Two friends came to visit, both lovely surprises. When it was through I went to Queens (which took the better part of an hour, thank you MTA) to watch Law and Order with Erin and Jimmy and Rory Calhoun while eating Krasdale ice cream sandwiches. They were like manna from heaven.

There's a chance that some form of The Civil Wargasm, one of my old class plays, could be performed next month. So I've hauled its dusty carcass out and have been looking at it. It's a woolly mammoth. It's some species that's been dead for millions of years. It's ancient and doddering and I have to get some purchase on it so I can hope to shape it up in some, ANY way. (Why is it that I WANT to do this with my life, again? What? Acting? Theatre? What?)

Sigh.

Shadows of dissent on the fasola mailing list:

Although this may best be a message left to the Discussions list, it involves a recent press article that will doubtless be at the center of attention among singers at upcoming singings since it is one of the first nationally distributed articles in awhile. For that reason, and to get us thinking yet again about what our music is and isn't, I offer this note to the Singings list.

For those with heartfelt desire to preserve the tradition of Sacred Harp singing, regardless of whether they are motivated by religious or secular considerations, it is important to recognize the central message contained in most of the music. Contrary to the primary themes of the Time article, the music was not written and sung to create a trendy art form, generate a place for "hip advocates" to gather, or necessarily even do it merely for "the sound." Many - I would hope most - of the early singer/composers were writing and singing as a form of worship of our savior, Jesus Christ the Son of God. Whether a portion of the singers, even a majority of the singers, now sing the music for other reasons (such as is their right), we must faithfully recognize the centrality of the spiritual roots of Sacred Harp. To do otherwise is to risk that Sacred Harp singing will go the way of all trends and fads; a flash in the pan rather than a continuing tradition.

Tom Mitchell

Oh.

I am reminded lately of one of my favorite parts from bobrauschenbergamerica. It's repeated by two couples- Allen & Carl, and later, Susan & Wilson. It keeps drifting through my brain.


Blah blah blah. Let Charles Mee say it:


ALLEN
And I think
if you think a person's agreeable and warmhearted
then I think there's something there you can't explain
that gives you real
delight.

CARL
Oh.

ALLEN
I find
you give delight to me.

CARL
Oh. Well.
That's what I'd hope for more than anything.

ALLEN
So would I.

CARL
And you're not sorry about it?

ALLEN
How do you mean?

CARL
That you find delight in someone
who doesn't seem to you in any other way
desirable
who doesn't perhaps have those qualities
that you can count on
for, you know, the solid, long-term kind of thing.

ALLEN
I would just take delight long-term.

CARL
Oh.
So would I.

When I try to make eye contact, my face pays no attention. It just turns and looks the other way!

At any given second lately, here's what you'd find if my forehead had a ticket-tape printer of the thoughts behind it:

LONDON LONDON LONDON LONDON LONDON  (repeat on and on and on and....)

Yeah. Uh, I'd like to go back to Jolly Olde. Anyone want to help the cause?

I've been thinking about it a lot lately.  I think it's because of the season-- this is the time of the year that I was away and sometimes I like to crack open the old journal and see what I was doing, then.  I said the other day that maybe I'm so nostalgic for that time because right now my life is so uncertain, with nothing as a given, and no real clear direction-- and the semester that I was in London, I barely had to worry about ANYTHING. Other than 'How am I getting to Ireland next weekend?' I didn't have to worry about school, because there was so much time for that after I got home, and I didn't have to worry about graduating because I had a whole year left, and I didn't really have to worry about a job or anything because that's how it was.  So maybe I'm so nostalgic not only for England as a thing itself but for the feeling of not-panic that I felt for my semester over there.  I could use some of that now.  I could also use a weekend getaway to Dublin.  Or anywhere else.

But! I'm going to exotic and glamorous Christiana, Pennsylvania, next weekend for the Keystone Convention. I am thrilled.  I will see so many of my singing friends from Boston that I haven't seen since god-knows-when....the NYC All-Day? Really?! And I haven't been to PA since, I think, the days of Music in the Parks and Dorney Park.  And that brown limo with the giant stuffed animals in it. (Did I make that up? Rinnz?)

Anyway....misdirected nostalgia.  Leah had a line in her play the other day that went something like: "Memory and fantasy are the Viet Cong of the mind." I laughed.

In Addendum...

I totally forgot to write about the most exciting part of my day yesterday, which was going to my cousin Leah's reading at New Dramatists. First of all, I've never been there, but I hold it in such high regard that it was thrilling to even go inside. It was full of scruffy-looking people holed up on couches and at tables, surrounded by papers and books and things. Ideal fulfilled, obviously. It was really nice to see Leah-- and my uncle Bill and his former wife (my ex-aunt? who knows) Barbara came which was a surprise to me, albeit a good one. The actor reading the lead was a senior at CFA when I was a freshman-- I saw him in many a show including Marat/Sade and Romeo and Juliet and of course it's only natural that he should wind in a reading of my cousin's play. Of course. I couldn't stay to talk-- I had to get to work-- but it was a really nice afternoon and I'm so glad that I got to go. And I congratulate Leah heartily. Maybe someday she will come see a reading of something I write. In a shack somewhere.

I've been using up some Starbucks gift certificates that I got for Christmas on frivolous, foamy drinks. I have a love-hate relationship with Starbucks which is too stupid to talk about, but I will say-- I absolutely hate their inane "The Way I See It"s. Today I got one that really took the cake:

"Music is what I always turn to when I'm feeling a certain way. It's my reason for everything."

Credit that gem to Josh Groban, asinine musician extradaordinaire. I felt stupider after reading it.


Anyway, what do I expect?

My sheets are tearing from sleeping in too long, sleeping in too long...

So I would be remiss if I didn't address my newfound stardom; yes, that's right, I AM in Time Magazine. I know. No, I won't come entertain at your kid's  birthday party or speak at your next corporate function. I am basically super-renowned now, for saying things about Jude Law and posing with my cellphone in my back pocket.  If you'd like to see it for yourself, check it out here:

Give Me That Old-Time Singing

Really though, it's fun. If you listen to the audio, Aldo does everyone proud in his role as "antiquarian and musician."  Silliness.

I tried to swim at Met Pool today, but in my haste to avoid the Hasidim, I went when there was no swimming at all. Lame.  Instead I ate a big old bagel and strolled around in the strange sunshine.  I saw a guy wearing and Old School NY 'Albany is Eggciting!' shirt in the Bagel Store, and I had just been talking to the counter guy about Schenectady (he asked, he asked), and I turn around and see this shirt-- so of course I blow up and the guy was notttttttttt interested.  His girlfriend, who was sitting with him and apparently lives in Albany, was also nottttttttt interested.  Whatever.

I got my lost wallet back today.  Thank god for my student ID being back in my sweaty paws.  Let the scamming resume.

So, Bobby Fischer died.  This completes the celebrity dead triangle and I can calm down wondering who's next, at least for a little bit.  What do Vampira, Brad Renfro, and Bobby Fischer have in common?  What a strange combination.

I'm still at work.  Still. Chriz is drinking cognac out of a snifter.  There is a gang of guys chatting about doing drugs. I'd like to be in bed.