Now I'm in Lousiville on a teaching gig. Too tired to think. Too much go, not enough stop.
For your brief entertainment: No. 1 in a recurring series of bite-sized cringe-worthy treats...
Once whilst in bed with a college boyfriend I pretended to be asleep and muttered "I like cheese" in a sleep-stupor voice so he'd think I was adorable and giggle about it in loving and appreciative yet private delight and then share it with me the next morning over breakfast where I would feign complete ignorance and marvel at my own cuteness. It worked.
A few of the more note-worthy moments from our Floridian lune-de-miel...
At the old victiorian hotel where the wedding was held, a water pipe burst above the sweet sun-drenched room where we were to spend our wedding night. So they upgraded us to the "Presidential Suite." Which was, um, enormous? So enormous that when we brought a cousin up to check out our digs, she burst into a fit of giggles every time we showed her a new room. Here's Soph's version of a speed-tour, replete with heavy breathing and sock-sliding.
View from our window.
Free champagne at an oyster bar. We had this idea that if we told everyone we were on our honeymoon people would be compelled to give us free stuff. It only worked this once, but I suspect because the hostess was engaged and hoped to turn some of that free-stuff karma back on herself during her own honeymoon.
And by the way, it is HARD to try to bring up the fact that you are on your honeymoon without a) making people hate you and b) trying to sound casual about it. I actually used the sentence, "Well we THOUGHT about ordering the steak because it's our honeymoon, but maybe we'll just go with the sea bass." Soph's best one was, "Sorry, would you mind repeating the specials, I was having trouble concentrating because I'm a little distracted because you see we're currently on our honeymoon."
Down the street from our B&B in St. Petersburg was this ridiculously swank hotel... we snuck in after midnight and took a little dip in their heated pool, with a full moon looming deliciously above. It was twenty minutes of unadulterated and marginally illicit paradise.
The feather-fucking-canopy bed at our B&B. Our demise. King-size feather bed. We'd make all sorts of evening plans, lay down to take a nap and not move for the rest of the night except to pee. And mornings we'd set our alarm for breakfast, get up long enough to scarf down our eggs and juice, and fall back into the goose-down to sleep the day away. Evil, evil bed.
With the honeymoon package at our B&B came a dozen roses, which started blooming just as we were leaving for Sanibel Island. So we strapped them into the back seat and drove them south with us. Yes, with a seatbelt. One does foolish things when one suffers from post-wedding-mindfrizzle.
This beach was five feet away from our cottage on Sanibel.
And do you know WHY the sunset is so beautiful, Young Grasshopper? As a warning to the earth that something sinister and aqueous is about to unleash within the stratosphere...
Yes, we're wet. AND unhappy. Difficult to enjoy a beautiful tropical island when a HURRICANE is brewing...
Our photos become decidedly less merry.
Note the reflection of a bicycle in the door pane. We rode our bikes to that ice cream store in the RAIN. Dear God were we trying.
These men are boarding up our cottage as we pack our bags inside. The entire island had evacuated by the time we finally succumbed to the inevitable.
Just for some context:
We evacuated our asses right back to the B&B in St. Petersburg and got ourselves ANOTHER feather fucking bed.
Dear José,Okay, motherfucker. With your pencil-thin moustache and your fake French accent. We could ignore the fact that you offered us "still" water, knowing we would not realize you were charging us eight dollars a bottle (thinking it was tap water). We could ignore that you acted like wine was only available by the bottle until we specifically asked about getting just a glass. We could even ignore the cheesy glissando-laden piano versions of "Imagine" and "Memory" playing earnestly above, and the blindingly dim mood-lighting. But FUCK YOU for not even INTIMATING that the one item you nearly begged us to order (the "special") was FIFTY DOLLARS MORE than the most expensive thing on the menu. Did you not notice that my pearls were fake, that my husband's shirt might have been (and was) bought on the street for a dollar? Did you not notice that we were the only couple in the restaurant under 50? Did you also not notice that we didn't even FLINCH at the idea of spending one third of the money we had saved for our vacation on a piece of second-rate meat? That's because perhaps WE HAD NO FUCKING CLUE YOU MOTHER FUCKING DICKWEED BALL OF SHIT. And maybe you shouldn't take advantage of two giddy gullible honeymooners just so you can get a better fucking tip. WE HATE YOU! WE HATE THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU! YOU MASTURBATE WITH YOUR FEET AND DREAM ABOUT HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MOTHER'S FRIENDS AT THE NURSING HOME!! Oh god do we hate you.
Hatefully yours,
Sheila and Sophocles
(The Honeymooners)
Anyhoo. Florida, man. Geez.
The good news is that since we had two weddings, we are officially entitled to another honeymoon. And this time we're doing it like the two travellin' badasses we are. New Zealand, here we come...
Off to marriage #2, Greek style. Let's hope this one sticks!
See you in two weeks.
When I was younger I wore the worst clothes. We would get lawn bags full of hand-me-downs from neighbors and friends and for some reason, we wore them. I wish I knew why. They were ugly. Cotton shirts with tiny hearts. Baggy pleated jeans. Dresses with little white polka dots and big lavender sashes across the rib cage. We could have protested. We may not have had the most acute fashion sense but I can't believe we didn't have a vague idea that there were better clothes out there. But inexplicably we resigned ourselves to our recycled wardrobes.
One shirt in particular rings in my memory as the most egregious. It was a bright red number with three pockets on the front. Each pocket had a word stitched on it. GUM. CANDY. BANDAIDS. Perhaps the shirt would have been delightful on a toddler. I was no toddler. And I wore this. To SCHOOL. More than once.
But the foulness of shirt was amplified by what I did to justify the wearing of it. I actually PUT THE OBJECTS INTO THEIR RESPECTIVE POCKETS. Gum went into the gum pocket. Chocolate went into the candy pocket. And so on. I made special trips to the drug store to purchase these items so I could wear the shirt with confidence. When the kids made fun of me, I was like, "I know it's not 'cool', but at least it's functional."
Have I mentioned I had few friends growing up?
Here is a photo of me wearing said shirt. Note the look of desperation on my face. I am *trying* to have a good time in the shirt. I am dancing in the shirt, probably to "The Reflex" by Duran Duran. I am ignoring the fact that the Cabbage Patch Kid in the background is dressed better than me.
You ever wish you could go back in time and rescue your younger self from a series of unfortunate decisions? If I could I would rescue myself from my entire adolescence.
Getting a lot of mileage from that quote I posted the other day about theatre and magic... how hard can one dinky quote be milked, you ask?
Just watch.
...I'm talking to YOU. Oh yes son. I am IN you. I am WEARING your sunny ass like a velour jumpsuit.
Saw my show at NOTE last night and HOLY CRAP is it good. Large and strange and full of heart and beautiful. Something much more than my little awkward play. The actors are such a special group and my director (the amazing Michael Michetti) like, NAILED it. NAILED that fucker. Gee do I love it. I'm seeing it again tonight, if you want to stalk me. (But please introduce yourself to me afterwards.)
And tomorrow night I'll be at LATC for the Moving Arts show. Come to that too. But don't sit next to me. I have trouble watching sometimes. I shake a lot and mouth the words and literally pull my hair out. Last night I was clapping at curtain call and felt a small pain in the palm of my hand and looked down to find myself bleeding because *apparently* I had clawed my skin off during the last three scenes of my play.
But anyway. Goodness do I feel lucky right now...
I made a short film for this. I titled it Frailty, or The Ablution of a Workspace.
I wonder if you'll think less of me once you've seen it...
Am I a loser for putting a song called Interstate 5 on repeat in my iTunes as I install a font called "Interstate" on my Mac? I think I might be, but I wanted to check.
God I love this fucking song. I'm gonna post the lyrics here because I love it so much. I'm such a loon for tormented-boy songs. You should have seen me when I was first introduced to Bright Eyes, before Conor got all invincible. I was like, "MORE PAIN!!! MORE PAIN!!!!" (Career in theatre, anyone?) And according to my iTunes, the song Arienette has been played at least 103 times since I've downloaded it. Hurt me you sexy sweaty alcoholic little boy.
(To any of my students who might be reading this, that is a COMPLETELY fraudulent request. Please ignore it.)
Interstate 5 by The Wedding PresentI should just get out of here
And start driving south on Interstate 5
But I need to stay near
In case you suddenly remember that I'm alive
But I have this nagging fear
That sex was all you needed
I've tried to persevere
I guess I've not succeededAnd is it sexist to say
That I thought just boys were meant to
Behave in this way?
And though you seemed quite sincere,
Will you even recognize
My face this time next year?
Well I'll remember how your eyes
Sparkled in the moonlight
You can surely sympathize
I just wanted more than one nightAnd yes there was one particular glance
That made me afraid
That you were just seeing me as a chance
Of getting laid
Artistic rendering of last night's performance:
Main problems:
When we finished our set and people caught on that we were done, there was hearty applause... but I think it was one of those "let-me-put-down-my-beer-and-clap-for-this-band-so-they'll-leave-and-I-can-continue-my-conversation" kind of thing. And as we were packing up this bald dude from sound check earlier whom I initially took for an impartial facilitator started shushing everyone for the REAL band. What a dick.
So the spouse and I loaded up our cumbersome stash of gear (computer, two keyboards, keyboard stand, cables, iPod, volume pedal, power strip, disco ball, etc) and took car service home. We got back at around 1:30am and cooked up some cream of mushroom soup and collapsed on the couch in our underwear and watched My Fair Brady on Vh-1, exhausted.
Our band-cherry has been popped. Now we can get to work.
Oh, PS: At the behest of the multitudes, reprinted below is an excerpt from the lost blog entry.
The other day I was re-visiting my original impulses for making a career out of theatre, and I thought of myself sneaking out of class and breaking into the tiny theatre in my highschool and sitting on the empty stage in the darkness and just swelling with joy at all the possibilites to be carved out in that darkness. I still have that feeling sometimes, like the first time I enter a rehearsal room with a stunning group of actors, or when I walk into a theatre as the set is being built, wood sawed, flats painted... it's like falling in love. But that feeling is so fleeting, while this gnawing feeling of low-grade failure is pretty constant.
I'm trying to come to terms with it. The art of this business is not in the making of art, which is chiefly instinctual. It's in the aggressive re-discovery of one's love of magic. Because quite often there isn't much else to go on.-- 9/30/05
I had this marginally whiny post up earlier but the more times I read it the more I wanted to kick myself in the teeth. Which is impossible because I'm not that flexible. If you missed it, here's a capsule:
Reviewers suck. Theatre is hard. The end.
Ah, whoops, I was just informed that Mr. Daisey has quoted some of the lost entry on his blog. Ah well. There it shall live on, I suppose...
On a brighter note, SCAB in Seattle and CRAWL, FADE in LA are both officially KICKING IT. To the casts, designers, directors, producers, and all other associated folk... THANK YOU. Thank you a bazillion times.
And finally. Tonight is the infamous gig I have been warning you all about. We rehearsed earlier and EVERYTHING went wrong, every last thing. SWEET.
Wanna see a train wreck? Check us out, 10pm, the Ohio Theatre in Soho, NYC.
