So, four years of acting classes and tonight I had my performing ass handed to my by a bunch of homeless men.
Perhaps I should explain. I went to a workshop tonight that brought together homeless and housed people as a first step towards creating an original work for Homeless Awareness Week in November. Now, I have worked with all sorts of different communities throughout my shortish tenure as a theatre artist, and I have worked with homeless people before as well, although not in a theatrical capacity. But tonight, I who am never without words, was literally stunned speechless and thrown completely off my game. As one of the exercises towards the beginning of the evening, we were supposed to inact a "typical" scene of some aid workers trying to persuade some folks living on the street to come to a shelter. Since I was paired up with four homeless or formerly homeless men, I was of course supposed to be the aid worker. So I start to "get into character", trying to think up what I could say to these people to get them to come to my proverbial shelter, and in the back of my mind I'm thinking, why the hell wouldn't you want to come in off the minnesota february streets and into the warmth of the shelter?
Silly, bourgeoisie girl. As I went to work on my schpiel, these guys were ignoring me. Just flat out ignoring me. They were pretending to smoke a crack pipe, hit on me distractedly, drink, get a blow job (from an imaginary other homeless woman), but mostly just ignoring me. In real life they were being encouraging, telling me to keep trying, but they were trying to make a point, that out there is freedom, with no stupid bitch from the shelter telling them when to come and when to go, what they can have in their room and who can't be in their room. It may not be the most comfortable place to sleep, but no one can tell you what to do in the tent city. Even the cops avoid it.
I don't know why it effected me so much, but it was the first time in a long time that I felt truly out of my depth. I just had no frame of reference for this and therefore no tools in my acting toolbox. But mostly, I think it was the question that one of the asked me: "What would you be willing to sacrifice to get our attention." I didn't have an answer for him, for that particular scene or for my feelings about being an actor as a whole, and it totally knocked me on my ass. What was I willing to sacrifice? How far was a willing to go as a performer? I didn't know, but these men challenged me as an actor in a way I hadn't been challenged in a very long time. It wasn't that their performances were great, it was that their reality was so different from mine, and they were so completely willing to embrace the truth of it. There was no artifice, it was "in the tent city there are people shooting up and smoking crack and having sex with everyone around them watching, so if you really want to be heard little missy, you're just going to have to deal with it". They weren't embarrassed and they weren't trying to embarrass me- it was just their lives, and they weren't going to sugarcoat it. It was my responsibility as a participant in their narrative to meet them on their terms.
It had been some years since I had worked with the homeless, actually 10 years, to be exact. I worked in some soup kitchens and community centers on a mission trip to Chicago in the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and it really changed my opinion of the homeless. Before that, by virtue of living in Kansas where there are very few homeless people and a lot of vocal rightwing republicans, I thought that homelessness was a result of laziness and stupidity. I also thought that george bush senior had been a great president at that point, so you see how far we've come, yes? After speaking to many homeless people on the mission trip, mostly at dinners at soup kitchens and while baby sitting in community centers I came to realize that many thousands, if not millions of Americans are one paycheck or less away from homelessness. It's not about laziness, it's about circumstances, although every single homeless person at the event tonight said that remaining homeless is a choice. They believe that getting out of the cycle has to be your own doing, no matter what the situation. They respect that there are a lot of things in life that you can't control and that can contribute to sudden homelessness, but you also have to seek out resources and work at if you want to move on and out of shelters etc. This may have been a particularly optimistic group, but they seemed to have a good handle on why they were where they were, and articulately debated the causes behind homelessness, like chemical dependency, mental illness, and wanting to stay with ones family (a lot of shelters won't except kids under 18, so that splits up families, and many transitional housing facilities don't allow signifigant others or even married couples to live together). I was amazed by the educational and family backgrounds of the people in the group tonight. We had men and women with graduate degrees, 8 children, grandchildren, parents who were doctors and lawyers, recovering addicts and bible thumpers. There was a huge range of experiences in the group, and the saddest part was that most of them had jobs. One guy I talked to had a job and a car, but just couldn't get enough money together for first month and last month rent. Not to mention that even if people have the money, they may not pass the credit or criminal check. And how do you apply for a job when you don't have a phone or an address?
I was impressed with the people I met tonight. They were better informed and more well read than most of the housed people i know, and had a much better grasp of the socio-political situation of the twin cities, not just in regards to their own circumstances, but to the whole scene. They debated about why they were where they were, and how the community could collectively move up. They were funny and joyful, in a way that I don't know that I could be if I found myself without a home. I was grateful for the experience, and hope to work with them all again. And the next time you see a panhandler on the street, instead of pretending they aren't there, if you don't have the money or don't want to give it, just tell them that. Don't ignore them as though they do not exist. According to the folks I met tonight, they would much prefer you just acknowledged them, even if it is to say no. It's better than being invisible.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Ode to a Leprechaun
In true Irish fashion, I offer a Limerick of thanks:
There once was a wee man named Wayne
Whose Mac-ability garnered some fame.
He can't be understood
'Cause his accent's no good.
But man, can he fix a mainframe!
Thanks for taking care of my baby, Poodle.
There once was a wee man named Wayne
Whose Mac-ability garnered some fame.
He can't be understood
'Cause his accent's no good.
But man, can he fix a mainframe!
Thanks for taking care of my baby, Poodle.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The Day the Mac Died (or Why I Have Been Silent for So Long)
It's hard to talk about it. I still feel so raw inside, like a gaping wound the size of my whole body. I'll try to tell the tale however, so that others might be spared the horror I went through.
*gasp*
At 2am on August the 18th, I was returning home from an evening out with friends, and poured myself a cup of water to keep by my bedside. Unfortunately, for reasons that escape me now, I was at less than my peak gracefulness and managed to spill the entirety of said cup of water onto the floor. On the floor at this time was my ibook G4, aka the Love of My Life.
*sob*
Frantic, I tossed towels, dirty clothes, the cat, anything I could get my hands on onto the floor to mop up the spillage, but alas, to no avail. The damage was done, and when I opened up Mackie all i got was about three seconds of light and joy before she was plunged into stygian blackness. Something was terribly wrong! So I did what any right thinking person in my situation would do, I woke up the Mac tech that happened to be living in my house. This is the real reason Wayne came into my life, not because of Amy, not because they're going to get married and have 17 rather short leprechaunish babies, but because the cosmos knew that my Mac would someday be in jeaopardy. It's like the end of Signs, when you finally understand why Mel Gibson's wife kept telling Joaquin Phoenix to "swing away". To Wayne's credit he jumped right into action and wasted none of the time screaming and cursing at me that I would have if some person had awakened me from my beauty sleep to tell them i had dumbassedly spill water on a glorified appliance.
The professional advised me to put Mackie on the baseboard heater to dry her out, and he'd take a look at it tomorrow. Tomorrow came, and she was still behaving the same way, still starting just fine, getting your hopes up, then crashing and making me want to cry. This was the most boyfriend-like she had ever behaved, and I felt betrayed. Those who know me know that I am obsessed with my computer. I love it. If it were human, I would marry it. It's reliable, beautiful, stylish, and efficient. So much better than most of the people I've ever dated. So this new behavior was very upsetting. I had come to rely on something, and it was letting me down in a way I never thought it would.
Later that day Wayne called me to tell me everything was fine, that she was all put back together and was just behaving badly. There was joy in my heart once again. I was elated. I felt so happy to be back with Mackie, it felt right, like old jeans and childhood stuffed animals. But then, just when I was getting comfortable, a second round of tragedy struck. I could not get her to turn on. She just went blue, no explaination, no warning, just kaput. Nothing. I was inconsolable. I felt jostled by the cruel winds of fate, a prisoner of chance and the Mac gods. It was a terrible place to be. Wayne went in, and discovered that I needed a new logic board. Would I have to get a new computer entirely? Would we not be together through the good times and bad that law school had in store for me? Would I never again feel the warm embrace of my beloved Mackie?
Well, as it turns out, yes, I would feel all those things again. For $469.00 on ifixit, I got my baby back. I have yet to see her post-op, but Wayne says she is recovering nicely and is even a smidge faster. I could turn this into a commentary on how dependent we are on technology or how computers have become so essential to our functioning in society, but at this moment I really couldn't give a shit about any of that. I have my ibook back, and I'm once again a whole person.
*gasp*
At 2am on August the 18th, I was returning home from an evening out with friends, and poured myself a cup of water to keep by my bedside. Unfortunately, for reasons that escape me now, I was at less than my peak gracefulness and managed to spill the entirety of said cup of water onto the floor. On the floor at this time was my ibook G4, aka the Love of My Life.
*sob*
Frantic, I tossed towels, dirty clothes, the cat, anything I could get my hands on onto the floor to mop up the spillage, but alas, to no avail. The damage was done, and when I opened up Mackie all i got was about three seconds of light and joy before she was plunged into stygian blackness. Something was terribly wrong! So I did what any right thinking person in my situation would do, I woke up the Mac tech that happened to be living in my house. This is the real reason Wayne came into my life, not because of Amy, not because they're going to get married and have 17 rather short leprechaunish babies, but because the cosmos knew that my Mac would someday be in jeaopardy. It's like the end of Signs, when you finally understand why Mel Gibson's wife kept telling Joaquin Phoenix to "swing away". To Wayne's credit he jumped right into action and wasted none of the time screaming and cursing at me that I would have if some person had awakened me from my beauty sleep to tell them i had dumbassedly spill water on a glorified appliance.
The professional advised me to put Mackie on the baseboard heater to dry her out, and he'd take a look at it tomorrow. Tomorrow came, and she was still behaving the same way, still starting just fine, getting your hopes up, then crashing and making me want to cry. This was the most boyfriend-like she had ever behaved, and I felt betrayed. Those who know me know that I am obsessed with my computer. I love it. If it were human, I would marry it. It's reliable, beautiful, stylish, and efficient. So much better than most of the people I've ever dated. So this new behavior was very upsetting. I had come to rely on something, and it was letting me down in a way I never thought it would.
Later that day Wayne called me to tell me everything was fine, that she was all put back together and was just behaving badly. There was joy in my heart once again. I was elated. I felt so happy to be back with Mackie, it felt right, like old jeans and childhood stuffed animals. But then, just when I was getting comfortable, a second round of tragedy struck. I could not get her to turn on. She just went blue, no explaination, no warning, just kaput. Nothing. I was inconsolable. I felt jostled by the cruel winds of fate, a prisoner of chance and the Mac gods. It was a terrible place to be. Wayne went in, and discovered that I needed a new logic board. Would I have to get a new computer entirely? Would we not be together through the good times and bad that law school had in store for me? Would I never again feel the warm embrace of my beloved Mackie?
Well, as it turns out, yes, I would feel all those things again. For $469.00 on ifixit, I got my baby back. I have yet to see her post-op, but Wayne says she is recovering nicely and is even a smidge faster. I could turn this into a commentary on how dependent we are on technology or how computers have become so essential to our functioning in society, but at this moment I really couldn't give a shit about any of that. I have my ibook back, and I'm once again a whole person.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Countdown to the LSAT
I have officially decided to apply to law school. However, deciding to do something and actually executing the change are two vastly different things. How did I decide on law school in the first place, you might be wondering? Well. Hmm. Um.
As many of you know my mother is an attorney and I have always been very impressed by and proud of her accomplishments in this field. Growing up people would always ask me whether or not I was also going to be a lawyer, and of course I told them no... I was going to be an actress!
Ha.
So the whole acting thing didn't work out because I got bored, and the whole changing the world through art thing didn't work out because it felt like hammering my head against a brick wall day in and day out. A brick wall made of poor dirty hippies who live with 17 cats. Here's the problem with wanting to change the world: the other people who want to change the world with you are infuriating. These people are all about nice feelings and everyone being loved and not actually getting anything fucking done. There is so much in-fighting, navel-gazing and incompetency in most non-profit organizations it would make your head spin. They are lovely human beings, but I wouldn't trust most of them to lead a cub scout troop, let alone the last great hope of humanity.
Wow. I'm a terrible person.
Anyway, so I decided that if I really wanted to make a tangible and in any way, shape, or form immediate change in the world I would need to become a mover and/or shaker. Also, I really want to be like Josh on the West Wing, and he went to law school, so I figure this might be a good first step towards becoming a cutthroat lobbyist (kidding. sort of). The first step towards this first step is taking the LSAT. This will be my first standardized test since the ACT and the SAT, and while I did well on those there has been a lot of beer and pot consumed since I was a senior in high school. I may be really stupid at this point, who knows? And everyone around me is putting the fear of god into me about not having started studying for the LSAT around the time I was actually conceived. Why haven't I started studying, when the test is little over a month away, you might ask. Here's the thing: much like the President of the United States, i'm not a studier. I don't study. I never have, and I've always done pretty well with that plan. This is not to say that I don't work hard at school, I do. But I don't really sit at a desk with a test prep book and "study", in that traditional sense. I imagine the hardest part about law school for me might be the learning to study in that traditional sense. But I don't really think deep down its my inner ferris bueller or spicolli that is keeping me from studying, I think it's what Yoda would call fear (of failure).It's like if I start studying for this test I'm admitting that I am really doing this, that I am really going to law school and becoming a lawyer and will probably never tap dance on broadway. Not that I know how to tap dance really, but still....I know that I don't want a life in the theatre anymore, but it's still hard to let go of the nostalgia for the dreams I once had (sorry, I was watching Dr. Phil today).
It's so much harder to apply for graduate school than it was for college. First of all, i have no fucking clue where I want to go to school. I bought one of those Princeton Review books that goes through every school ever ABA accredited, but I'm barely into the Ns and I've been reading it since May! Before I went to college I literally had two giant plastic garbage bags chalk full of materials sent to my by prospective colleges just because I had been able to write my name on the PSAT booklet. Now I'm applying to schools based on a two page blurb that may or may not have been updated in the last 3 years. Of course, I can ask for prospecti, but after the fawning that I experienced pre-college it feels dirty somehow, like begging for attention from these schools. I'm definitely above that.
I'm so far above that I'm probably going to end up going to some non-accredited at night law school in a strip mall.
The other reason that it is harder to apply for gradschool is that I now have a job, instead of parents. Meaning that instead of being fed, clothed and cleaned for (to an extent) I am having to actually take care of myself, work a full time job and find another 40 hours a week to commit to the application process. I know I sound like a whiney baby, and I don't care. This is why I am going back to school. Real Life is hard. Boo.
So if any of you know of great, affordable law school programs, want to help me write up my CV, or just do my applications for me, let me know. I promise you free legal counsel in the future. Whether or not I'll be able to get you off, well, that's just a crapshoot I guess.
As many of you know my mother is an attorney and I have always been very impressed by and proud of her accomplishments in this field. Growing up people would always ask me whether or not I was also going to be a lawyer, and of course I told them no... I was going to be an actress!
Ha.
So the whole acting thing didn't work out because I got bored, and the whole changing the world through art thing didn't work out because it felt like hammering my head against a brick wall day in and day out. A brick wall made of poor dirty hippies who live with 17 cats. Here's the problem with wanting to change the world: the other people who want to change the world with you are infuriating. These people are all about nice feelings and everyone being loved and not actually getting anything fucking done. There is so much in-fighting, navel-gazing and incompetency in most non-profit organizations it would make your head spin. They are lovely human beings, but I wouldn't trust most of them to lead a cub scout troop, let alone the last great hope of humanity.
Wow. I'm a terrible person.
Anyway, so I decided that if I really wanted to make a tangible and in any way, shape, or form immediate change in the world I would need to become a mover and/or shaker. Also, I really want to be like Josh on the West Wing, and he went to law school, so I figure this might be a good first step towards becoming a cutthroat lobbyist (kidding. sort of). The first step towards this first step is taking the LSAT. This will be my first standardized test since the ACT and the SAT, and while I did well on those there has been a lot of beer and pot consumed since I was a senior in high school. I may be really stupid at this point, who knows? And everyone around me is putting the fear of god into me about not having started studying for the LSAT around the time I was actually conceived. Why haven't I started studying, when the test is little over a month away, you might ask. Here's the thing: much like the President of the United States, i'm not a studier. I don't study. I never have, and I've always done pretty well with that plan. This is not to say that I don't work hard at school, I do. But I don't really sit at a desk with a test prep book and "study", in that traditional sense. I imagine the hardest part about law school for me might be the learning to study in that traditional sense. But I don't really think deep down its my inner ferris bueller or spicolli that is keeping me from studying, I think it's what Yoda would call fear (of failure).It's like if I start studying for this test I'm admitting that I am really doing this, that I am really going to law school and becoming a lawyer and will probably never tap dance on broadway. Not that I know how to tap dance really, but still....I know that I don't want a life in the theatre anymore, but it's still hard to let go of the nostalgia for the dreams I once had (sorry, I was watching Dr. Phil today).
It's so much harder to apply for graduate school than it was for college. First of all, i have no fucking clue where I want to go to school. I bought one of those Princeton Review books that goes through every school ever ABA accredited, but I'm barely into the Ns and I've been reading it since May! Before I went to college I literally had two giant plastic garbage bags chalk full of materials sent to my by prospective colleges just because I had been able to write my name on the PSAT booklet. Now I'm applying to schools based on a two page blurb that may or may not have been updated in the last 3 years. Of course, I can ask for prospecti, but after the fawning that I experienced pre-college it feels dirty somehow, like begging for attention from these schools. I'm definitely above that.
I'm so far above that I'm probably going to end up going to some non-accredited at night law school in a strip mall.
The other reason that it is harder to apply for gradschool is that I now have a job, instead of parents. Meaning that instead of being fed, clothed and cleaned for (to an extent) I am having to actually take care of myself, work a full time job and find another 40 hours a week to commit to the application process. I know I sound like a whiney baby, and I don't care. This is why I am going back to school. Real Life is hard. Boo.
So if any of you know of great, affordable law school programs, want to help me write up my CV, or just do my applications for me, let me know. I promise you free legal counsel in the future. Whether or not I'll be able to get you off, well, that's just a crapshoot I guess.
Friday, August 18, 2006
To the Person or Persons Who Wrote that I Was "Too Direct" in My 6 Month Review
Ahem.
Buck the fuck up you whiney little baby. It is not my job to be your friend, hold your hand, on in anyway give two little shits about your wellbeing other than in so far as you are another human being. And even that is pushing it. If you think I'm mean now, I can show you mean, and much like the hulk, you will not like me when I am angry. So go back to your little desk, you passive-aggressive fuck, and worry less about my performance and more about your own incompetence. It is not my fault that you're a dumbass, and I'm not about to start tiptoeing around your personal issues. The next time you have a problem with me why don't you grow a set and tell me about it to my face? Just keep hiding behind your anonymous reviews and I'll keep treating you like the intellectual equivalent of a 90-pound weakling that you are. Because no matter what you thought your review of me would make me feel, mostly it makes me feel sorry for a grown person that can't even speak up when they feel they have been wronged. Until you learn to do that, you're just going to keep getting pushed around by the universe, sunshine.
How's that for direct?
Buck the fuck up you whiney little baby. It is not my job to be your friend, hold your hand, on in anyway give two little shits about your wellbeing other than in so far as you are another human being. And even that is pushing it. If you think I'm mean now, I can show you mean, and much like the hulk, you will not like me when I am angry. So go back to your little desk, you passive-aggressive fuck, and worry less about my performance and more about your own incompetence. It is not my fault that you're a dumbass, and I'm not about to start tiptoeing around your personal issues. The next time you have a problem with me why don't you grow a set and tell me about it to my face? Just keep hiding behind your anonymous reviews and I'll keep treating you like the intellectual equivalent of a 90-pound weakling that you are. Because no matter what you thought your review of me would make me feel, mostly it makes me feel sorry for a grown person that can't even speak up when they feel they have been wronged. Until you learn to do that, you're just going to keep getting pushed around by the universe, sunshine.
How's that for direct?
Monday, August 14, 2006
Why I Should Apparently Never Leave the State of Minnesota
I bring catastrophe and discomfort in my wake. The Fursts have had a long tradition of either slightly preceeding or following natural disasters: hurricanes in Florida, earthquakes in San Francisco, tornados all throught the midwest. But I have now become a personal magnate for my own particular brand of travelling horror. It's always on the way back, as though the universe were trying to tell me that being on vacation is where I'm meant to stay. I'm frankly inclined to agree with it, but there are these pesky things like bills and rent that have a nasty habit of asserting themselves whenever I want to take off and move elsewhere. This time I was travelling to Kansas City, and while the trip down was rough, that was completely of my own doing. I had made the absolutely stupid decision to go out the night before I was to make the drive (just so we are all clear, this is a 7 hour drive meant to be commenced at about 6am in order to get me into KC at check-in time at the hotel), and thought, ok, I'll just have one drink and catch up with my friend Maureen. The thing about me and Maureen is though that we are not so much friends as we are drinking buddies. We are friends, we chat and we lend emotional support, but mostly we go to happy hour. That's how we met, that's what we do. We're good at it. So I go out at about 10pm to meet Maureen at this club where she wants to see a particular DJ. Only when we get there the DJ is a no show, so I think, good news, we'll just be here for a little bit. Wrong. There are $3 well drinks to be had, so we have them. I'm about two gimlets into the evening when a couple of friends of mine from my previous career at the hotel come over and say hi. I had once had a crush on one of them, so of course we're going to be staying for a while. Skip to several more gimlets, me falling on the dance floor (in the most beautiful and elegant fashion, natch), and 3am at Mark's apartment. (Don't worry, nothing happened, mom).
So there's this noise in my ear, and I think to myself, why the fuck is someone screaming in my bedroom?
But sadly, it was not someone being disemboweled all Braveheart-style. No, the wiser among you have already guessed that it was my alarm, a scant 3 hours later at 6am. And of course, because I didn't want to have to explain to my parents that I was late reaching Kansas City because I was hungover I get up. Actually, they would probably have more sympathy for that situation than most, but still, it's an uncomfortable admission. So instead of calling them and letting them know I was going to sleep for another hour I dragged my ass out of bed and into the car.
The car without air conditioning. Why does my car not have air conditioning you might ask? Because repairing the air conditioning in my car will cost be $1,450.00, and if I had that kind of scratch I would use it for a down payment on a new car.
Since this is the summer that Proves Al Gore is Telling the Truth, not having air conditioning on a 7 hour drive in the a southernly direction quickly became my own very personal version of hell. Literally. Like a burning lake of fire with a pitchfork wielding demon included. I should mention that nothing puts me in a more irritable mood then the heat. The heat and traffic. So of course the ruthless combination of record temperatures and the dumbest fucking drivers in America mixed to give me one lethal bad mood. Seriously, what is wrong with drivers in this country? How is it legal for someone to watch a DVD while driving a motor vehicle at 85 miles an hour? And why has no one else gotten the memo that the left lane is for passing or at least driving a hell of a lot faster than everyone in the right lane? I swear I want to mount a bull horn to the hood of my car.I was ready to kill someone, and that was before the hangover actually hit me, which it did somewhere in Iowa. Iowa smells like pig shit, and is the largest, longest state in the entire union. I don't care what the map says, if they have disproportionately given priveledge to the northern hemisphere they have also scaled Iowa to like one-fifth of it's hog-waste smelling size. And I could smell it all, because hangovers hit me like migraines, everything is heightened, including my sense of smell and my hatred for all human beings.
So finally, after what feels like a literal eternity I arrive in sunny Kansas City MO. The time spent there with my folks, by the pool, etc, was terrific. But then come sunday, I had to make the drive back. It was 101 degrees by the time I left and I was in no mood to fuck around on the interstate with some Missouri rednecks who couldn't find their ass with a map and two hands. I managed to evade most of them, but still was sweating like a stuck pig by the time I reached Iowa. Of course, in Iowa being a stuck pig is a popular thing to be, so I felt right at home. I keep hearing noise on the radio about storms coming into Iowa and Missouri, and low and behold out of nowhere a whole sky full of storm clouds appear. I'm officially fucked. I'm in the literal middle of nowhere, I have no map, and therefore have no way of knowing where I am in relationship to the storm. Of course, this ceases to be an issue when the barometer dropped like a rock and the clouds opened up. I was looking around for an arc and animals in pairs it was raining so hard. Everyone had to pull over to the side of the road and just sit tight. I couldn't get cell service because of the torrential downpour, so I was relegated to listening to the farm and weather report on KIOA (say it out loud. Clever, aren't they those iowegians). Fun.
Eventually the weather cleared up about an hour later and I was able to get back on the road, having lost much in time and patience. It simply reinforces my theory that whether it's being stranded in Chicago with no flights home, losing luggage on a direct fucking flight or being caught in the storm of the century, if I leave home, people get inconvenienced. Usually me. Perhaps it would be best for all parties involved if I just stayed put for awhile, on a beach with a boat drink.
So there's this noise in my ear, and I think to myself, why the fuck is someone screaming in my bedroom?
But sadly, it was not someone being disemboweled all Braveheart-style. No, the wiser among you have already guessed that it was my alarm, a scant 3 hours later at 6am. And of course, because I didn't want to have to explain to my parents that I was late reaching Kansas City because I was hungover I get up. Actually, they would probably have more sympathy for that situation than most, but still, it's an uncomfortable admission. So instead of calling them and letting them know I was going to sleep for another hour I dragged my ass out of bed and into the car.
The car without air conditioning. Why does my car not have air conditioning you might ask? Because repairing the air conditioning in my car will cost be $1,450.00, and if I had that kind of scratch I would use it for a down payment on a new car.
Since this is the summer that Proves Al Gore is Telling the Truth, not having air conditioning on a 7 hour drive in the a southernly direction quickly became my own very personal version of hell. Literally. Like a burning lake of fire with a pitchfork wielding demon included. I should mention that nothing puts me in a more irritable mood then the heat. The heat and traffic. So of course the ruthless combination of record temperatures and the dumbest fucking drivers in America mixed to give me one lethal bad mood. Seriously, what is wrong with drivers in this country? How is it legal for someone to watch a DVD while driving a motor vehicle at 85 miles an hour? And why has no one else gotten the memo that the left lane is for passing or at least driving a hell of a lot faster than everyone in the right lane? I swear I want to mount a bull horn to the hood of my car.I was ready to kill someone, and that was before the hangover actually hit me, which it did somewhere in Iowa. Iowa smells like pig shit, and is the largest, longest state in the entire union. I don't care what the map says, if they have disproportionately given priveledge to the northern hemisphere they have also scaled Iowa to like one-fifth of it's hog-waste smelling size. And I could smell it all, because hangovers hit me like migraines, everything is heightened, including my sense of smell and my hatred for all human beings.
So finally, after what feels like a literal eternity I arrive in sunny Kansas City MO. The time spent there with my folks, by the pool, etc, was terrific. But then come sunday, I had to make the drive back. It was 101 degrees by the time I left and I was in no mood to fuck around on the interstate with some Missouri rednecks who couldn't find their ass with a map and two hands. I managed to evade most of them, but still was sweating like a stuck pig by the time I reached Iowa. Of course, in Iowa being a stuck pig is a popular thing to be, so I felt right at home. I keep hearing noise on the radio about storms coming into Iowa and Missouri, and low and behold out of nowhere a whole sky full of storm clouds appear. I'm officially fucked. I'm in the literal middle of nowhere, I have no map, and therefore have no way of knowing where I am in relationship to the storm. Of course, this ceases to be an issue when the barometer dropped like a rock and the clouds opened up. I was looking around for an arc and animals in pairs it was raining so hard. Everyone had to pull over to the side of the road and just sit tight. I couldn't get cell service because of the torrential downpour, so I was relegated to listening to the farm and weather report on KIOA (say it out loud. Clever, aren't they those iowegians). Fun.
Eventually the weather cleared up about an hour later and I was able to get back on the road, having lost much in time and patience. It simply reinforces my theory that whether it's being stranded in Chicago with no flights home, losing luggage on a direct fucking flight or being caught in the storm of the century, if I leave home, people get inconvenienced. Usually me. Perhaps it would be best for all parties involved if I just stayed put for awhile, on a beach with a boat drink.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Can We Officially Make a Bomb Out of Anything?
File this under You Have to Laught to Keep From Crying:
A sports drink and some hair gel are reportedly what "terrorists" were using to create explosive devices on about 10 flights between here and Great Britain. I think it's official: If Gatorade and Pantene Pro-V can combine to make a nuclear weapon, every bored 9 year old boy in this country has a de facto license to kill. At this point it's just embarrasing- we spend 89 gadzillion dollars a year on weapons to defend ourselves and it can all be taken down with a approximately $3.89 and a CostCo membership. As per ususal, I'm less disturbed by the plot than I am with our response to it, which has been pretty much as ridiculous as ever. Our administration has no imagination. Their responses to these attempted attacks are basically just to restrict our rights to the point where any trip to Grandma's most closely resembles a chapter from A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch meets 1984. They leap into action like your third grade teacher- punishing everyone because one wackjob thought this would be a good idea. The shoe guy wanted to use his tennies to create a fire, so everyone has to take off their shoes. These cats were going to create bombs out of the contents of a Walgreens, so no one gets to take lotion, hair gel, water, makeup, anything on a flight. I don't know about you, but that puts a major cramp in my style. Airplane flights are notorious dehydrating, and I for one need to apply lotion, drink some water, smooth down the do, and usually put on some makeup towards the tail end to avoid emerging from the plane like some sort of diminuitive Yeti. Doesn't this administration figure that if they stopped the plot Al Qaida might move onto some new material?
Which of course leads us into scary, new territory ducklings: maybe our government is misdirecting our attention in an attempt to get us all to fall in line and give up some of those pesky personal and political liberties that have been causing Georgie-Boy so much trouble lately. I don't doubt that there are people out there that hate America (oversimplification alert)and want to destroy us. I don't doubt that there are madmen and zealots who will stop at nothing to crush that which they disagree with. What I do doubt is that any amount of security checkpoints, gel-less hair styles and flip flops are going to keep us safe. Lets face it, we have the modern day equivalent of Barney Fife performing the general operations of the TSA. I wouldn't trust the security people at airports to feed my fish, let alone with the last line of defense between me and some psycho. I don't think these people even have to have a high school diploma, and I'm going to trust them to stop a terrorist attack at 50,000 feet. Right. Your ass would be history, and we all know it. If a terrorist wants to get on that plane, they are getting on that plane, end of story.
So is this all a song and dance to make us feel more safe or less safe? Is it an exercise in pretending to be protecting us so we'll feel satisfied with our security, or is it an attempt by the powers that be to raise anxiety and create the feeling that we would collectively stop at nothing just to be able to relax again. You decide. I know what I think.
A sports drink and some hair gel are reportedly what "terrorists" were using to create explosive devices on about 10 flights between here and Great Britain. I think it's official: If Gatorade and Pantene Pro-V can combine to make a nuclear weapon, every bored 9 year old boy in this country has a de facto license to kill. At this point it's just embarrasing- we spend 89 gadzillion dollars a year on weapons to defend ourselves and it can all be taken down with a approximately $3.89 and a CostCo membership. As per ususal, I'm less disturbed by the plot than I am with our response to it, which has been pretty much as ridiculous as ever. Our administration has no imagination. Their responses to these attempted attacks are basically just to restrict our rights to the point where any trip to Grandma's most closely resembles a chapter from A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch meets 1984. They leap into action like your third grade teacher- punishing everyone because one wackjob thought this would be a good idea. The shoe guy wanted to use his tennies to create a fire, so everyone has to take off their shoes. These cats were going to create bombs out of the contents of a Walgreens, so no one gets to take lotion, hair gel, water, makeup, anything on a flight. I don't know about you, but that puts a major cramp in my style. Airplane flights are notorious dehydrating, and I for one need to apply lotion, drink some water, smooth down the do, and usually put on some makeup towards the tail end to avoid emerging from the plane like some sort of diminuitive Yeti. Doesn't this administration figure that if they stopped the plot Al Qaida might move onto some new material?
Which of course leads us into scary, new territory ducklings: maybe our government is misdirecting our attention in an attempt to get us all to fall in line and give up some of those pesky personal and political liberties that have been causing Georgie-Boy so much trouble lately. I don't doubt that there are people out there that hate America (oversimplification alert)and want to destroy us. I don't doubt that there are madmen and zealots who will stop at nothing to crush that which they disagree with. What I do doubt is that any amount of security checkpoints, gel-less hair styles and flip flops are going to keep us safe. Lets face it, we have the modern day equivalent of Barney Fife performing the general operations of the TSA. I wouldn't trust the security people at airports to feed my fish, let alone with the last line of defense between me and some psycho. I don't think these people even have to have a high school diploma, and I'm going to trust them to stop a terrorist attack at 50,000 feet. Right. Your ass would be history, and we all know it. If a terrorist wants to get on that plane, they are getting on that plane, end of story.
So is this all a song and dance to make us feel more safe or less safe? Is it an exercise in pretending to be protecting us so we'll feel satisfied with our security, or is it an attempt by the powers that be to raise anxiety and create the feeling that we would collectively stop at nothing just to be able to relax again. You decide. I know what I think.
Monday, August 07, 2006
I'm a Bad Artist
So I just realized that it's been over two weeks since I posted something on this blog. How awful of me. I've probably completely alienated my fan base. I've definitely been keeping busy, if it's any consolation, with meetings and protests about Israel's ridiculous war, weddings, visits from the Mommy, and work-party boat cruises. Obviously some things were more fun than others....
There is something that I have been meaning to confess to you all, my gentle readers, and it is this: I am a Bad Artist. The Fringe Festival as once again come to town and once again I am overflowing with apathy. I could literally not care less that this is going on, which always makes me feel slightly dirty, as though my theatre degree is going to animate itself and kill me with a thousand papercuts. I'm proud to live in a city and a state that houses this awesome theatre festival, but man, I just don't wanna go! Every year I read a list of the shows that are playing, literally hundreds of different things, and not a one catches my eye. And so I have come to realize, even accept, that I am just a bad artist.
I don't mean bad like Carrot Top is bad, believing props to be a legitimate medium for expression. I do fancy myself a decent performer, director and *ahem* writer. I mean bad in terms of my committment to being a participant or spectator to other people's artwork. I'm not big on supporting others, lets be honest. It takes a lot to convince me a show is worth seeing, and I don't know if this makes me an aesthete or just lazy. The Pre-Raphaelites struggled with that distinction too, and they were brilliant artists. Shitty human beings, maybe, but the kids could paint. I think the problem is really that deep down I find nothing more abhorrent than bad theatre (ok, obviously that's not true, killing puppies or stealing from orphanages is probably worse, but unless you're Snidley Whiplash you're just not going to see as much of those things as you will see truly, deeply, disturbingly bad theatre). Now I speak from experience kids, I have been on both sides of some really horrible pieces of stagecraft. I remember one play in particular where I was overjoyed to have a huge speech cut because it meant I wouldn't have to expose myself to the public and give voice to the drivel that was masquerading as dialogue. Man, that was a bad play. For those of you not in the "biz", when and actor wants less stage time, you're in serious trouble. Trying to make those words sing was like playing a musical saw. Every so often you could hit a note, but most of the time you are rubbing metal on a jagged edge. See? The writing in that play was so bad the memory of it is making my writing bad. Lets move on.
I can't say which is worse, being in a bad play, or being subjected to it. At least watching jarringly bad theatre can be entertaining in it's punishing absurdity. The problem is that I tend to get serious giggle fits when presented with absurdly awful spectacles, as anyone who went to see the show "Tales of Djoha" can attest.I can't control myself when it comes to onstage stupidity, I just lose it. This may create a disruption amongst the more honest, non-schaedenfreude-seeking theatre-goers, but seriously, the only appropriate reaction to a woman pretending to be a demon having sex with an elf-puppet while the music from Pokemon plays in the background is stunned silence followed by horrified laughter. There is no other response that makes sense. I guess walking out might be acceptable, but not nearly as much fun. Plus, when you walk out you have to deal with the sad eyes of the performers, watching you leaving and slowly dying inside with the sheer shame of being in this worthless piece of crap just because they can't admit to their artsy friends that they'd rather be working a desk job then cavorting with low rent muppets.
This is the show I think of when it occurs to me that I am squandering my degree.
There is something that I have been meaning to confess to you all, my gentle readers, and it is this: I am a Bad Artist. The Fringe Festival as once again come to town and once again I am overflowing with apathy. I could literally not care less that this is going on, which always makes me feel slightly dirty, as though my theatre degree is going to animate itself and kill me with a thousand papercuts. I'm proud to live in a city and a state that houses this awesome theatre festival, but man, I just don't wanna go! Every year I read a list of the shows that are playing, literally hundreds of different things, and not a one catches my eye. And so I have come to realize, even accept, that I am just a bad artist.
I don't mean bad like Carrot Top is bad, believing props to be a legitimate medium for expression. I do fancy myself a decent performer, director and *ahem* writer. I mean bad in terms of my committment to being a participant or spectator to other people's artwork. I'm not big on supporting others, lets be honest. It takes a lot to convince me a show is worth seeing, and I don't know if this makes me an aesthete or just lazy. The Pre-Raphaelites struggled with that distinction too, and they were brilliant artists. Shitty human beings, maybe, but the kids could paint. I think the problem is really that deep down I find nothing more abhorrent than bad theatre (ok, obviously that's not true, killing puppies or stealing from orphanages is probably worse, but unless you're Snidley Whiplash you're just not going to see as much of those things as you will see truly, deeply, disturbingly bad theatre). Now I speak from experience kids, I have been on both sides of some really horrible pieces of stagecraft. I remember one play in particular where I was overjoyed to have a huge speech cut because it meant I wouldn't have to expose myself to the public and give voice to the drivel that was masquerading as dialogue. Man, that was a bad play. For those of you not in the "biz", when and actor wants less stage time, you're in serious trouble. Trying to make those words sing was like playing a musical saw. Every so often you could hit a note, but most of the time you are rubbing metal on a jagged edge. See? The writing in that play was so bad the memory of it is making my writing bad. Lets move on.
I can't say which is worse, being in a bad play, or being subjected to it. At least watching jarringly bad theatre can be entertaining in it's punishing absurdity. The problem is that I tend to get serious giggle fits when presented with absurdly awful spectacles, as anyone who went to see the show "Tales of Djoha" can attest.I can't control myself when it comes to onstage stupidity, I just lose it. This may create a disruption amongst the more honest, non-schaedenfreude-seeking theatre-goers, but seriously, the only appropriate reaction to a woman pretending to be a demon having sex with an elf-puppet while the music from Pokemon plays in the background is stunned silence followed by horrified laughter. There is no other response that makes sense. I guess walking out might be acceptable, but not nearly as much fun. Plus, when you walk out you have to deal with the sad eyes of the performers, watching you leaving and slowly dying inside with the sheer shame of being in this worthless piece of crap just because they can't admit to their artsy friends that they'd rather be working a desk job then cavorting with low rent muppets.
This is the show I think of when it occurs to me that I am squandering my degree.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
