Hi baby...
I'm a little drunk right now. Didn't mean to be, but I wanted to go to sleep early 'cause I'm leavin' tomorrow mornin' fer Looaville bright and early, and I didn't know how I'd crash before 4am without a couple hits. But now I'm wide awake and not tired, and drunk.
So I'm drinkin' that crappy plum wine that Brian bought me. It's been in my freezer for months. Worse than I remember, tastes like shit-licorice. It's actually some sort of private joke about Budapest between me and him. It would be funny if it weren't so yucky.
I miss you. I lack you and sometimes it burns a little. Should I drunk-dial you? I won't, don't worry. Trish used to have this ex who would drunk-dial us all the time. One night I drunk-dialed him back, by myself. I thought it would be funny. It was profoundly not.
Call me when I'm back in town, okay? I wanna tell you how it all went. I won't have any friends down there, just scary industry people whom I want to respect me. I'll need your voice.
Right now, what I *should* be doing is making substantial but necessary changes to the play that is getting a reading at the Public in a week and a half, because it's seriously not done. But I'm not.
Instead I'm thinking about coffee. Everyone knows that coffee is a diuretic. But explain this... I wake up, have two sips of coffee, and IMMEDIATELY have to run to the bathroom. Two sips. How can two sips react in my body THAT quickly? On mornings I don't drink coffee I still need to use the facilities, but with none of the body-panic that makes you freeze in mid-sentence horrified and scramble for the door.
My secret boyfriend Howard told me this morning that Paul Hester, the drummer of Crowded House, hung himself from a tree Friday night while taking his dogs for a walk. That song "Don't Dream It's Over" has always sort-of crushed me a little, and now it's like canonized in my brain. The video starts out with two plates hurling toward each other in slow motion and then smashing on contact. Listen to the song. Tell me you don't feel your own plates smashing soundlessly in mid-air.
A day before Dana Plato killed herself, she was on the Howard Stern show. I have that episode recorded. She talks at length about how she's never been happier in her life, and when a caller tells her she's a good person, Dana starts to cry. The next day she was found in her mobile home outside her parent's house, filled to the gullet with painkillers.
Anne Sexton inhaled carbon monoxide in her garage. Spalding Gray threw himself into the east river. Hemingway's granddaughter od'ed on pills on the anniversary of the day Hemingway himself closed his lips around the barrel of his first shotgun (his father had used a pistol).
I think about this all the time. If self-preservation is every animal's most innate instinct, then breaking the barrier that protects yourself from yourself must be the ultimate liberation...
I bought a jump rope and resistance bands so I can take exercise equipment on my many upcoming travels and inspire myself to stay fit, but guess what? Resistance bands only work on people of AVERAGE height. And my jump rope is so long the first time I tried it I took out two chairs, a lighting fixture, and the cat. And I would feel totally silly jumping rope for exercise outside on my front stoop, right across from the middle school (in perfect mocking distance).
So. I'm thinking about coffee and my body and resistance and suicide and catching the deluge in a paper cup, and somehow this will all be relevant when I finally begin to work on my play. Actually, it already is.
Okay so it WAS the taxes. I did 'em and I feel much better. And also I gave my workspace a make-over and it felt GREAT. Let me give you a little tour.
Before (click if you must):
Cables on the floor, crap everywhere... I never used that desk. I mean I never sat at it. I had a very uncomfortable second-hand rolling chair that lived in that space, giving the ILLUSION that I was constantly in the midst of a maniacal work frenzy... but the chair itself was un-sit-on-able. Partially because it was a piece of poo, but also because the floor is slanted and I'd find myself slowly rolling away from my work against my will. Serendipitous at some moments, but mostly annoying.
And the desk itself... well I mean look at that thing. What is on those fucking papers anyway?
Well let me tell you. INSPIRATION, my friend. From left to right: an old New Yorker article about Yo Yo Ma, and how his genius lies in his joy of playing; a famous quote by Martha Graham about expression finding its own form without judgement; a photo ripped from an Urban Outfitters catalogue which looked like the two characters I've been writing in my nasty-girl play; a post-it note from my mom that was attached to a check from when I was living in LA; a post-it from Soph apologizing for stealing a piece of my gum; a book recommended to me by a student; two lists of "writer's commandments", one from Henry Miller and one from Jack Kerouac.
I never looked at that crap, never ever. I write sitting cross-legged on the futon with my computer in my lap, facing the window and ruining my spine from all the hunching. The crap taped to my desk never even entered my periphery. Then who the heck was it meant to inspire, you ask? Good question.
And... after:
No desk! That's right... need a different angle?
Now we have a grown-up wooden file cabinet (as opposed to a plastic Office Max filing system), a grown-up photo on top of the file cabinet, and a grown-up wooden printer stand I bought from a thrift store. For some reason the move from particle board to real wood was significant for me-- so much so that I wound up spending $300 on a goddamn box when I could have gotten this for $109. And if you look closely you'll see a series of small holes running down either side of the cabinet, where I nailed the back panel to the front accidentally. So now it's worth less than the Staples version.
I also re-organized my closet. La-la la la-la la! I have special drawers for everything; work-out socks, trouser socks, crappy underwear, pretty underwear... sometimes I open the closet just to look at my new system and swoon. And YES I KNOW THIS MAKES ME A LOSER BUT MY CLOSET IS AWESOME NOW SO JUST SHUT THE EFF UP!!
And while you're shutting the eff up, why not read an interesting article in the new Harpers (you'll have to buy it)... Neil LaBute gets a tiny little smackdown from Jonathan Dee. It's not major, but it's satisfying.
Is it better to be overwhelmed and underpaid than underwhelmed and overpaid? I was once both overwhelmed AND overpaid, and it was wonderful. A brief eight months. I was perfectly stimulated, eating well, in my mid-twenties, and my eyes glowed.
I'm neither, right now. Well, underpaid perhaps, but not really. I'm just here.
I think I'm depressed.
How original.
Is it because I haven't done my taxes yet?
Is it because everyone on my tae-bo DVD looks so pleased with themselves?
Is it because it takes monumental effort for me just to shower because I figure I'm going to get dirty again anyway so what's the point?
Is it because what I really need is a long, long bike ride up and down the streets of Manattan at night, watching people my age in the windows of restaurants laughing with each other, but I just can't be bothered to do it?
It is because I am food-obsessed? Late for everything? Five foot one? Left-leaning? Irish?
When all else fails, I usually blame my dad.
Hey, what are you doing Monday April 4 at 7pm? Wanna go see a reading? Sure you do... you can't get enough of 'em...
There will be no Santa Claus next Christmas. I know this for a fact. He got impaled on a tree branch in Fort Greene on his way back to the north pole. The denizens of my neighborhood have decided to leave him there as a warning to all annoying fat men who insist on breaking into people's homes and acting excessively jolly.
No idea how entertaining this might be for you... does it make it more interesting to know we were drunk when we did it?
I've been squeezed from my apartment. Roomie has her entire family staying with us for the better part of a week-- mom, dad, sis, sis's wife, and a big boxer named Jersey-- and they are the kind of folks that are much bigger than they initially seem. Big walks, big voices, big laughs, big dogs... I suppose I'm big in that way too, but when confronted with other big people en masse I tend to press up against walls and tremble. So this morning I jetted before the shakes started, and now I'm at my local cafe. Luckily, it's Beatles day. A father was just singing "Back in the U.S.S.R." to his little son. That cheered me up a bit. Along with the coffee.
Last night I had sushi with another playwright, and I found myself going on and on about how burnt-out I am and how badly I need a break. I do that alot. Talk about it. I suppose I'm waiting for someone to stand in outrage, fling the dinner table aside, and scream "NOOOOOO!" But no one has yet.
And hey, why DON'T we do it in the road?
Okay there is a FANTASIC-looking man sitting to my right. He's been here since I have. Incredibly well-dressed in a male-model way, all creams and browns and skullcap, and perfect Saturday stubble... I saw the chapter heading of the book he's reading, and I googled it. The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge. Not bad, cutie. I think this reveals what a snob I am. I always judge the pretty people on the subway by their reading material. "Okay sister, you *may* have great hair but that Ya-Ya Sisterhood is FOUL." And I always have an inappropriate amount of giddiness the day after the new New Yorker comes out... I'll whip mine out on the subway and scan the car for kin. And so do you, admit it.
Am I evil because I am getting a certain amount of pleasure watching the yuppie-mothers struggle with their huge SUV-strollers up the cafe steps? (Yes, Sheila.)
Oh, Bloggie, I could just talk to you forever. You're the only one who understands me. I ♥ you.
Today's most disturbing photograph...
But what is the most disturbing aspect? The hirsute torso/thigh combo, mayhaps? The looming maroon eye behind him, sizing up the goods? For me, it's that protuberant, full-purse of a nutsack. But it usually is. Hey David, if it's cold enough to wear your pleather jacket, why not try some pants... I know it's '82 but isn't there SOME dividing line between sexy and stupid?
Photo brought to you by this. You'll wish you could speak Icelandic. Maybe.
Step up, Los Angeles... I'm comin' to FUCK YOU UP. That's right, biatch. You broke me in '99, and now I'm back in full effect with not one but TWO plays in your face. Count 'em. ONE. TWO. How ya like me now?
And Frisco, you'd better bring it, 'cause you're next...
Saturday night I got to help pour wines at a "Wine Rave." It was very earnestly marketed to 20-somethings who don't know too much about wine but are willing to spend $50 trying to learn. It was a zoo. Over 200 vendors were showing, all mooded-up by the blaring electronica, loungy lights, and thousands of dizzy Gen Xers with startled eyes and stained purple lips.
There was a large contingent of scantily-dressed, amply-made-up, rubenesque lasses stumbling around in heels, and a lot of beefy men with gelled hair and gold necklaces and heavy cologne... And dudes? Next time you attend a wine event, DON'T wear scented shit. Not only does it affect your sense of smell and taste, it affects the senses of those around you. And that girl next to you will be so drunk by the end of the night she'll fuck you no matter what you smell like.
I was pouring the big lusty California wines, Merlots and Cabs and red Zinfandels. I got to use phrases like "fruit-forward" and "strong tannins" and "white pepper nose". I lied and said something was aged in oak for three years when actually it was only 14 months. I pretended the Zin was my favorite when really, I hadn't even tried it (I was nursing a Pinot from the adjacent table). I acted like I knew about climate, varietals, soil variance... and okay, I do. A little. I have a small cache in my brain left over from all research I did for that play I wrote that people keep rejecting. But the stuff I know is really limited, and I get it all confused, and I feel embarrassed having this kind of classist info, so luckily it won't ever get me anywhere.
And anyway people are so bizarre about wine knowledge... the folks who actually did know something wouldn't even look at me. They held out their glasses with their eyes turned down and nearly spat when I tried to tell them about the vineyard. The folks who didn't know anything were also quiet, but in a way that suggested shame rather than arrogance. Gol-dang it, it's a BEVERAGE. Chill.
On a related note, this is what a blue fractal pattern from the iTunes visualizer looks like reflected in a glass of 2000 Sangiovese Grosso...
(It looked much cooler on my little digital viewfinder.)
There is a cafe called Diana's in Hoboken where two ladies named Amy and Penny can be found. I don't know them; I've never been there. Penny likes to drink Yoohoo. Amy dies her hair and wears a pen in the pocket of her blazer. A fellow named Adam loves to eat there on Saturday mornings. I don't know him either. But this is big news. Bigger than when Tony broke up with Ashley or when Raymi went blonde, even. And no, I don't know them.
You can learn all about real life and real people on the internet. It teaches you what it means to LIVE, so that you don't have to.
Love the internet. Be the internet.
Why is my pepper named Nicole? I feel like I should have the right to name my own veggies.
Recent exchange between my boss and myself:
ME: (holding an empty can of Canada Dry club soda) Chris, what's the difference between club soda and seltzer?
CHRIS: (applying lip balm to his chapped lips) Seltzer's not part of a club.
:)
This site is kind of amazing. It will make you feel weird and creepy, or it will bore you, or it may blow your mind a little, but what I can guarantee is it will suck up at least twenty minutes of your life and spit you out a little crooked. So if you value your time and your good posture, don't click here (start with part one).
Oh and PS... this is what it feels like to have a play personally rejected from both South Coast Repertory and Playwrights Horizons in the same week. In case you're wondering.
I'm thinking of the smell of roasting garlic rising up the hill from the Green Cat café. Thirty-somethings pumping their bike pedals up crazy inclines. Palmer making me a tuna sandwich in her and Heidi's kitchen. My mad out-of-control crushes on all the kids at Printer's Devil. The rain rain rain, and the smokey gray sky all plump with drama. Skinny dirty punk kids on Broadway with beautiful clear skin and shaved heads, touching one another. Going to see Sparklehorse at the Crocodile Café and watching the gal with the pink backpack and red pigtails sway sleepily in front of me. Seattle makes me want to pick yellow flowers and pin them in my hair and buy thrift-store dresses and do sexy, terrible, harmless things to near-strangers.
My friend Dup wrote a play set in the famed Seattle haunt Linda's tavern, and I think it captures this vibe perfectly. If you wanna see a reading of it go here on March 16 at 8:00 pm.
And as for you, Seattle... I may see you soon... will you wait for me?
Martha's back! And she's learned so much... her description makes it sound more like she just spent the past five months backpacking in Europe rather than locked up in a minimum-security federal prison. Oh Martha. She's in my heart...
I'm feeling kind of reckless and nasty lately... I suddenly started writing this reactionary play out of nowhere, an angry chick play that is a response to all the angry dude plays taking over Manhattan this season. My play has women on stage hitting each other and pissing on dead people and cursing their faces off and just generally being RUDE. I'm writing it very fast so I don't have to pay much attention to any large issues or plot conventions. It's coming out well, but it's making me feel very gutter-trash.
This mood is also perhaps what induced me to post my last entry, about which I am now slightly nervous. I might take it down. But not yet. Maybe I'll just make it more wholesome. Hm...
She's so versatile...
Cake had another party last week, and they emailed me to work it. I said I was out of town. But really, I was just tired. I mean in the larger sense. Part of me is always hugely turned on by the idea of dancing until dawn with gorgeous women, but at some point the vibe of the evening always becomes more "Girls Gone Wild" than "Male Gaze Subversion." The exhausting part is reminding myself that there's a difference.
Some day I'll tell you ALLLL about it...
Hey you. I made you an e-card. Because I find you winning.
It's kinda gross. But I love it. And I love you.
Happy You Day, my adorable anonymous one.
