Holy crud, folks... we gotta make a HUMAN CHAIN! And NEVER BREAK IT UP! Dammit, why did no one tell me about this before...
Lordy, there is so much to discuss here... the eyeliner, the track clips, the bubbles, the hot tub, the 80's video effects, and I won't even TOUCH the old white lady (but someone please explain it to me)... and notice that when you click "next video" and "previous video" you are delivered to the same place you started. Sort-of a Carl Lewis Purgatorio. It really isn't a bad place, though. Everyone is pumped, hair-spray is in abundance, and you can undulate on a weight machine to your heart's content and no one will laugh at you.
Link brought to you by The Urban Sherpa, your source for all things unholy.
Two huge cardboard boxes. One filled with three impossibly adorable children-- tiny, huge-eyed, several years before their excess weight was problematic. On the beach, their bathing-suit bottoms filled with sand. On Christmas morning, the girls in flowered nightgowns and new "Holly Hobby Homemaker" kits (bonnets, aprons, brooms and dustpans), the boy in feety pajamas with a foam T-ball set, matchbox cars, a hard-hat, a slinky. Two dizzy parents, exhausted but blissed-out at their good fortune-- they couldn't have their own children, and after years of waiting were suddenly handed a pile of pretty babies, all with the same round face. The children grow fast in the photos, too fast to make albums. The girls wear make-up, the boy has acne. It's the 80's. Everyone gets fat. The last photo in the box is another Christmas, five years before the boy will be on his knees in his parents' bedroom performing CPR on his father.
The other box: press clippings from 1932. A purple heart. A girl on a horse, a girl in a prom gown. A daguerreotype of a man with white-blue eyes and an ice-pick stare, and shrapnel in his arm and leg. A woman in finger-curls, too old to be holding her own infant but there she is in the portrait studio, amazed with maybe a hint of the fierceness she would feel for this child and the terror over losing another. Countless black and whites of couples, babies, vacations... I am told everyone in the pictures is dead by the one person in the photos who is not-- the girl on the horse, in the dress. Forty-six years before cancer will quietly take part of her body.
I am drinking the monsignor's whisky long after my mother has gone to bed, and tearing through her boxes. The monsignor is the only one allowed to smoke in her apartment, and the smell of his Marlboros clings to her new carpet. He can't feel his feet because of his Lupus. He walks with a cane and has trouble getting out of cars and chairs. She cooks him dinner three nights a week and buys his groceries for him, and sometimes she cleans his house. They dream about each other sometimes. He dreams the Black Demons are making visits to all the people in their retirement community, and he wants to call her to warn her but he can't find the phone. She dreams he is her husband, but she sleeps on the couch in the living room at night so she won't disturb him. They laugh about these dreams in front of me as if it's just funny, nothing more.
I interviewed my mom about the photos before she went to bed, rather businesslike, at the kitchen table. Her mortality (and mine) is all I think about when I'm with her these days, which gives a sort-of heightened quality to our interactions... but anyway I was taking notes as she talked, and in my head I was thinking, "the blog might find this detail interesting..." or "I wonder what the blog will think of THIS story..."
So finally my mom was like, "why the hell are you taking notes?" It didn't even occur to me how odd it was. I told her, "I'm a writer, mom, I write things down," which seemed to satisfy her... but it also signaled to me that maybe I am taking my blog a little too seriously.
At any rate. There you have it, blog. The weekend of my discontent, told from within two large cardboard boxes at a modest retirement community in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, USA.
I don't generally see a lot of theatre. I don't quite know why. I think it exhausts me. Plus I'd rather be writing. I mean I see the readings and workshops and plays of my cohorts and friends, but by the time I get all that out of the way I don't wanna see no more.
BUT. This past week I've been ON FIRE. Really hungry for it. Some quick thoughts:
This was rather good! Smart direction, light on its feet, and really really well acted. Alda impressed me quite a bit, Schreiber even more, and this fella... gol dang it, he was TERRIF. Who knew?
As far as new plays... this was DEVESTATING. Fantastic cast, sensitive and beautiful direction, fully courageous writing... I was so moved by it that I was rendered kinda retarted after—at the post-show benefit I had to stuff my face full of gouda so no one would talk to me. Definitely my favorite kind of play... emotional and unusual and super ballsy. But it ain't no party.
Of course, there was a stinker. It was so bad there shoulda been a sign outside the theatre. I'd love to be more specific but I don't want to hurt the parties involved... however I must purge somehow, obliquely yet publically, or else I will shoot myself. It was so bad it made my menstrual cramps worsen by degrees. It was so bad that during the second act (I got suckered into staying) someone in the theatre farted, and for a few moments I was convinced I was smelling the play itself.
Occupational hazard, I suppose.
A few of my favorite pictures from the trip. Click any one to see the larger version (they look better when they're big).
From the garden patio at our hostel in Lima.
We ate a "continental breakfast" every morning, which was included in the price of the room. Toast and juice and coffee. EVERY morning. You gotta wonder, what continent could possibly love toast THAT much...
My travellin' buddy.
Ceviche, the yum-ass specialty of Lima... raw fish, lime juice, cilantro, and a little bit of hot pepper. My tastebuds ache just thinking about it. The corn was so odd there... humungous kernels with soft skins outside, and inside, the consistancy and flavor of an overcooked potato.
In Cuzco, a beautiful mountain city in the Andes.
We got lost trying to find the plaza. And we were very tired. And everything is uphill there. Hence the look of existential despair.
Restaurant at the plaza at night... no idea how those ghost-people got into the shot... the specs on my digital camera don't include spectral-being-capture.
I'm often spellbound by old machines, especially registers and typewriters.
On the 6am train to Machu Picchu, minutes before daylight. Incredible four-hour train ride though a gorgeous fertile valley. Yatta and I were knee to knee the whole ride with two pluckish old British ladies... one looked like a female Ian McKellen and the other looked like a personified scone. Upon spotting a village woman in traditional garb outside the train window, the scone exclaimed with delight, "well isn't SHE authentic!"
Small village on the way to Machu Picchu. They sure have a lot of Mts... Nyuk nyuk.
We ditched our tour for a while and went on a little hike... all the Germans were making us itchy.
Even in the off-season the ruins are mauled by well-meaning culture-seekers.
The classic shot of Machu Picchu, along with "Old Mountain" (rough translation from the Quechua).
Some llamas and a river.
My Favorite Llama. (Note to self: write pilot for new Peruvian sitcom.)
Trying to do a self-timed photo... apparently, a ten second lead is not enough for some folks.
I'd like to make a stunning quip about Twin Peaks here, but I'm not that talented.
Okay, here's what you've been waiting for... the guinea pig, freshly killed for the eatin', claws and ears still attached, roasted on its back with a--yes--PLUM TOMATO in its mouth. More horrific than you can actually imagine. This is considered a delicacy, but there is little meat-- it seems the skin is what the moutain folks love. I ate what I could, as not to be rude... it tasted like chicken, if you can believe it. And by the way, I have no idea what that towering salmon-colored object is, or even if it's edible.
A mural on the city walls of Aquas Caliente, the town to which you descend from Machu Picchu. It's a tiny place aimed directly at the pockets of tourists, but it has some lovely hot-springs at its tip (past all the pizza joints and tchotcke stores). And is it me, or is the boy on the right humping the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey?
The next morning we went on a hike that should have been described in our Rough Guide as "terror-inducing". Nearly vertical the whole way to the top, accented with "ladders" made from slippery tree branches with widely-set rungs that one had to HOIST herself onto, each ladder about two stories high. My three most penetrating thoughts during the 90 minute ascent? 1) Health insurance might be a smart choice next time. 2) It would be kind of awesome to die in the Andes. 3) Human knees were never meant to behave this way.
Top of the mountain. Excellent views of Aquas Caliente and Machu Picchu. A shame I was too traumatized to take any other photos.
From the roof of our hostel in Cuzco.
These kids accosted me for money the second after I took this.
The plaza in Cuzco, Sunday morning.
We took a cheapie cab ride to Pisac, known for its famous Sunday market. Incan ruins were scattered on the hillside on the ride there... As we passed one site our cab driver slowed down and started gesturing frantically out the window, shouting "Sexy woman, sexy woman!" Turns out he was saying "Sacsaywaman," which is the name of the ruins. And here I thought he was flirting.
At the Pisac market.
A dessert with the word "leche" in the name. It tasted like fizzy meringue.
A pasture gate outside Pisac.
Peruvians have an intense amount of national pride...
Back in Lima. Cusquena is pretty much the national beer of Peru. It's a little sweet and light, and pretty tasty. The advertisements for it are ubiquitous... stenciled on chairs, plastered to billboards, painted on the sides of buildings...
...printed on umbrellas...
Also ubiquitous is Inca Cola, Peru's answer to Pepsi. It is eye-crossingly sweet, with a strong bubble-gum finish.
At Pucasana, a small fishing village south of Lima. A bit stressful getting there... you sort of jump into a tiny crowded hoopty-van with a few town names painted on its side, and hope for the best... but this blazing little number is a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi that toots you around the village for a couple of bucks.
Some cool-looking wall in Pucusana.
Close-up of said wall. (Is that Ronnie Reagan?)
That child was mesmerized by Kenyatta's hair. She stood there for five straight minutes, just staring at him. This happened everywhere we went, actually. It often does.
Shell.
Another portrait of Kenyatta against a gay-looking building.
Fishing net.
From a little boat on the Pucusana harbor. Seconds after I took this, we heard shouting and turned to see a tiny boat on fire with people leaping into the water. A rescue boat was already there, but we motored over to make sure no one was hurt. Drama on the high seas...
Back at our hostel in Lima, the night before we left for home. :(
I shouldn't be here.
Everything about me suggests this. My size, the shape of my face, my affection for boozy joints and harmless debauchery... even the jerky way I dance.
An ex-boyfriend from college called me out of the blue this week after six years of dead air, ostensibly to broadcast his recent successes. I suppose we're at that age. His news: a fat university position, a huge research fellowship, a smart and sensible wife, and a baby on the way. Of course, he asked me what I was up to.
I don't believe I've spent the past six years doing anything I should feel ashamed of... but when trying to sum up one's accomplishments on the fly to someone with whom you were once fiercely competitive, you may wind up sounding like this:
"Uh... I have four jobs... struggling for money... don't know if I want kids... things aren't awful, really... I can't even believe you're gonna be like, a dad. "
The phone call ended amiably, but I was left with the sensation that things are all wrong. I'm wrong. I've made the wrong decisions. I've chosen the wrong path. I'm in the wrong body. The wrong century, really.
I belong in a cloche hat with 2-inch high ankle-strap button shoes and patterned stockings. I should be surrounded by art deco lampshades and feathers, wearing ox blood lipstick and a flask strapped to my thigh. And when you call me a broad, I'll ash in your drink but you'll know that means I'm inviting you to dance. And I'll have four of you, two girls and two guys. The girls in tuxes and the guys in pearls. And then we'll get jazz-crazy all over that floor, jazz-crazy back at your flat, then at mine, and it won't ever end...
...until it does, of course. And then I will crash hard along with the stock market, and I'll take the whole fuckin' American Dream down with me. And then I'll never have to freak out about having a job that pays loads of cash, or climbing some brutal career ladder rung by rung. I'll be poor as shit but so will everyone else so I won't have to feel like it's my fault... our collective poverty won't be the result of a series of unfortunate personal choices but rather, the inevitable end to a grand, outrageous party that everyone will talk about for years and years.
I'm not even kidding.
SEND ME BACK.
I'll be Louise Brooks.
I'll be Clara Bow.
Whoever you want.
Just get me out of here.
I'm back. Landed at about 6:30pm. I still have Peruvian food in my tummy. One week is not enough for a South American sojourn, FYI. Even our most chilled-out moments were edged with spazzy energy. But all-in-all, a swell time. I dig travel.
I want to give some sort of wayfarer's account, but I am too exhausted and filled with pollution to think straight. Maybe I'll post a few details now and then at inappropriate moments, and over time a crooked picture will emerge. Cubist-style.
But for now, highlights? Soaking in hotsprings in the rain after a dusty trek around an Incan ruin... a near-vertical hike in the Andes involving scaling tree trunks nailed to rocks... tasting a local village dish of roasted guinea pig and french fries... haggling for alpaca hats with local merchants using only three words of spanish... helping a boat in distress after its engine had caught fire at a coastal fishing village... more to come, maybe. Maybe not.
And for all those who asked me to bring them back a llama, I tried, okay... the buggers are too damn fast. Here's a pic of two of them fleeing from my awfulness:
I wanna go back. Tomorrow. Who's with me? (After a long nap and a longer shower, of course. Hot water, please.)
Oh hey, Mike Diehl, if you happen to read this, call again and leave your number this time...
One of my co-horts got nominated for a freakin' Pulitzer Prize this year! And a director pal of mine did a play that also got nominated!
You see what happens when you hang around me??!!
Okay, acknowledging that I have absolutely nothing to do with the success of my friends, this is how I feel when my homeys make good:
(That's Hal and Sarah on horseback. The horse is the American theater. I'm the hat.)
See you in a week.
Reading went GREAT. Louisville shows went GREAT. I'm having a good albeit frantic lead-up to my week-long Peruvian adventure (starting on Wednesday- probably won't be blogging for a week, heads up).
But you don't wanna hear how great things are going... you wanna hear some dirt. Well, I got some GOOOOOD dirt, let me tell you. Good theatre dirt. Torrid affair gossip, crumbling infrastructure gossip, playwrights-talkin'shit-about-playwrights gossip, the works. It's the kind of talk that would make you poop your pants instantly. But I can't tell you any of it because I'm a professional (see earlier post).
FYI, I wish I had made that headshot of me smaller. Each time I check my blog I see my prettier alter-ego laughing at me with condescension and pity in her eyes.
In other news... are you joking? And yes, I mean You, Chelsea...
Louisville good. Flight bad. No time. Rewrites, freelance work, reading tonight. Terrified. Over 100 reservations. Play still clunky in places. Ate four bagels yesterday and never went to bed. Need finished draft in two hours, then rehearsal. Will be in Peru in two days. No pronouns.
2005 SPRING SERIES
The Public Theatre
425 Lafayette St.
Monday April 4, 7 pm (tonight!)
DEAD CITY
by Sheila Callaghan
loosely adapted from Ulysses by James Joyce
directed by Daniella Topol
"New York City. The discovery of an envelope addressed to her husband from his lover sends Samantha pit into her day raw and untethered. After arranging an internet sex date with Brooklyn1448, she begins following a punk-rock poet girl half her age to a chaotic underground sex club."
CALL 212-260-2400
TO RESERVE YOUR FREE TICKETS
Reservation line hours are Sunday and Monday 1-6pm, Tuesday-Saturday 1-7:30pm. Limit of 4 reservations per reading. Reservations are honored until 15 minutes prior to the reading.
This is my professional headshot:
I sent that photo to the marketing people down here, so it's on all the publicity materials. I love it because it doesn't look a thing like me. It was taken three years ago when I was living in Minnesota... I had just gotten rejected for a rather large fellowship and I needed something to cheer me up, so I dumped a wad on something I half-considered a "professional necessity" to remind myself that I am still a professional even when people won't give me money.
I conditioned my hair for the shoot, wore my most subdued shirt, nixed my glasses and applied every ounce of make-up I own to my face. So now it's almost like I'm walking around in a disguise down here, because no one recognizes me from my picture. It's AWESOME. I feel like a spy.
Anyhoo... I'll see all the shows this weekend and give you the scoop... and I'll be INVISIBLE. Mwa-ha-ha-ha.
Oh PS... lookit how loopy folks can get on the first of April... where do you suppose they store all that funny during the rest of the year?
