UPDATE: Forget it. Comments are not back. Comments will never be back. The comment god just wrote me an email that said "I piss on your comments."
COMMENTS ARE BACK. I know you are itching to put in your two cents about my Sherlock Holmes turd post... you've been dying to type "no shit sherlock" or "why is there a lamp-post stuck in his back", haven't you... well go to it, young lad/lass. I'm behind you.
(Lame entry, I know. Forgive. I am in tech-tech-tech... I know not what I post.)
Okay so I bitched at the source and they printed it. Click it... last paragraph.
Though it's not really bitching, more like casually interjecting... And the context is a little strange... it sounds like I'm using the interview as an opportunity to address the ills of society with only a vague relation to the topic. But I'm not sure I mind that so much.
And they printed my dumb joke about the hair band. Oy.
Oh, FYI, my comments are broken. Hopefully they'll be fixed in a couple days...
Okay, graphic-design-oddity time:
- Why is Sherlock Holmes made of turd?
- Where is his left arm?
- Why has the 'O' strolled off the header in a mud storm? (Or a turd storm, to be consistent)
- Why doesn't Sherlock need to bend to inspect the footprints? Are they actually floating in mid-air, as they appear to be? Or are we to understand that, contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was not a full-sized human but a one-armed turd-torso?
- And the most important question... why the hell does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's birthday warrant its own Google header?
- Where is his left arm?
It's a wondrous, bottomless mystery! Sometimes I think they spend all season coming up with ways to confound us (me)...
... and the award for the "Most Winning Title for a Rather Dorky Hobby" goes to this site.
Though to be fair, there wasn't much competition...
So I got interviewed for the theatre issue of TimeOut NY last week, and during the interview I found myself panicking that I wasn't being interesting enough, so when the dude asked me what kind of theatre I liked, my id blurted out "the kind with naked people!" And the interviewer brightened up and said, "good copy!" as my dignity kissed my cheek and tore off down the street.
Now, you all know I have very complicated feelings about nudity on stage... so why this came flying out of my mouth is unfathomable. I suppose this makes me a copy whore...
Note to self: learn how to be a human being when publications ask you questions about yourself. Assemble a list of quirky bands and list them when asked about your influences. Talk shit about other theatre artists, but only famous ones so you won't get into trouble with your peers. Be onery, yet good-natured. Act ridiculously sexy so all the readers will want to sleep with you. And above all, DON'T whine about continually being referred to as an "emerging artist". Everyone's heard it already.
The way I describe this: it's like having someone you've been in love with for years finally propose to you, and then finding out afterwards that he/she is secretly filthy rich.
The moment after I got off the phone with the folks at ND telling me that, after ten years of me begging, they want me to be a member, I saw on my caller ID that Jason was calling. My bestest playwright pal and I are part of the class of 2013 at ND.
I was a little in shock, especially after hearing the other names on the list... after years of solicitous and self-deprecating Statements of Purpose, after my yearly mid-May phone call to Todd London telling him solemnly that my address had changed again so would he mind updating his files so I could receive my rejection letter to my new home... it just seems so odd to finally have something that I have wanted for so long.
And on top of that, finding out that Jason is in my class... what a perfect gift. Aside from being a wonderful cook, a kind and sensitive man, and an indefatigable crusader for the maligned masses, he is a fucking BRILLIANT writer.
I say this because all you New York folk now have TWO opportunities to see his work, and I suggest you don't miss them. One is with Soho Rep on Monday afternoon, and one is at with P73 on May 25. Please go. For your own good. You will probably walk away a little stunned, but you will definitely feel more fortunate for having been there.
I'm gonna talk about about things related/unrelated in a moment... but first...
Have you been Blogger Blasted? It's the newest craze in promotion... press reps have been sniffing out theatre bloggers and offering them free tickets to plays in the hopes that the bloggers will write about the shows on their blogs. Does this creep you out a little? Just a little?
I was thinking about it because of playwright Erik Patterson's strange cyber-encounter with Regina Spektor's people (related), detailed in this post (related)... which lead me to this (related)... which made me cry (unrelated).
Erik's right, it's totally moving... and in greater relief for me right now, partially because of the whole "sanctification of the quotidian" thing I've been slapping about the media (unrelated)... but also I guess I've been a bit tender about familial whatnots, given some recent phone conversations I've had with strangers who have my eyes, my voice, my laugh...
related/unrelated/related/unrelated
YEAH YEAH YEAH!!! A GUILT-FREE BURGER CHAIN!!! FAST FOOD FOR THE EDIBLY-IMPASSIONED!! Why the eff did no one tell me about this before?
Organic beef burgers with chipotle ketchup, folks... tofu-mayo thousand island dressing... and yes, baked french fries. I can't believe this place has just been hanging around out there with no ME inside it, buying stuff. It's absurd.
You might as well get me a gift card now, in case down the road you need to buy me a present and can't remember what I like.
You know, I've swung from a chandelier or two in my day, and I always have the same problem... how does a girl keep her thigh-highs from slipping down to her ankles?
Apparently, the Canadians have the answer. What else is new.
