Really really. It's the light. And the people. If you live in NY he'll make you love your life. If you don't he'll make you wish you did.
Clicky, babies.
[and I'm the supreme freak]
[why won't someone medicate me already]
[I mean seriously]
here's what I want to tell you:
someone almost ran me over in a Bronco last night
he was going 30mph backwards
I looked the wrong[right] way down the road
naturally not expecting to find a backwards Bronco hurtling toward me
[and not to say those two martinis didn't dull my reaction time a bit]
but the bottom line is, I didn't get hit
and it's a damn good thing, for your sake anyway
because then all that sordid business would erupt into the air on impact
[you know that sordid business]
[the muddled intentions, the misfires, the false flamboyance
[the warped perceptions, the unexpected squeamishness, the slow slow melt
and all other things brittle and/or flammable]
so yeah, that would erupt
and saturate an already saturated atmosphere
in a big sticky mushroom cloud
and all I could do would be apologize for getting my freak all over you
which I wouldn't wish on anyone.
so.
thank you bronco for sparing the people I love
and for you folks,
consider this a holiday gift:
I'm keeping my freak to myself.
[you're welcome]
In Florida eating some. See you in a week.
From Ted Hughes to Anne Sexton: Why good reviews are bad for poets.
"They tend to confirm one in one's own conceit--unless they praise what you yourself don't like. Also they make you self-conscious about your virtues--just as when you praise a child for some natural charm. Also they create an underground opposition: applause is the beginning of abuse. Also they deprive you of your own anarchic liberties--by electing you into the government. Also, they separate you from your devil, which hates being observed and only works happily incognito."
I want to be this chick.
Just look at that shit. She can simultaneously do nonchalant and severe without popping a vein. She can wear a ribbon as a belt. She looks like she cut her own bangs without a mirror, but she doesn't give a whit. Her champagne is upside-down in the bucket and she's already made you drink more than you wanted to, but she still has that last mouthful in her glass and won't drink it. She doesn't give a crap that she's ruining her carpet-- it was a gift from her father's assistant and it's more comfortable than the couch, and anyway it's only 7pm and you're not quite ready for the bed yet (there's still teacakes and cognac). She's the only one of her friends who can wear leggings without looking like a dipshit. But that's because she has no friends. Just a slag heap of lovers who pretend to like her, to spare their own dignity. Her eyebrows grew that way. She doesn't sweat. One finger points to her temple and one points to her throat, the two places you must consider when she is making love to you. She hates foods she can't eat with a toothpick. She is awkward at parties because she knocks over drinks with her ruffle, plus people keep asking about the eyebrows. And no, she didn't kill that leopard.
I think I want her to flog me. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. Or just slap me in the face. Back-handed.
Help me to be her, dear blogosphere.
(Or just help me.)
Do feminists have a sense of humor?
Really idiotic question. BUT. Those who build a life or ethos out of taking daily issue with the acts of malice (subtle or otherwise) inflicted on women by a male-dominated society (and specifically in the case I am about to introduce, regarding celebrity culture) understandably might have a more difficult time laughing at commentary they view as misogynist designed by other women for pure humor's sake, if the humor itself is playing upon our much-ingrained and male-skewed ideas of how women should look in public.
I came across this recently, regarding a post on a blog run by a feminist law professor at the University of South Carolina. The subject in question was the popular celebrity fashion-disaster website Go Fug Yourself. The debate continues on another website, and of course it goes on from there.
I found the debate because I googled the terms "celebrity bloat watch." I was trying to find out if others in the blogosphere had noticed that Luke Wilson (a dude) had gained a lot of weight. I enjoy the GFY website immensely and turn to it often to get that dirty little pleasure one feels when people who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to look fantastic don't quite measure up to snuff.
After reading the debates, I felt horrible. A betrayer, a Judas. A giddy manipulatee. I feel the same way when I admit to my women friends that I am a huge devotee of Howard Stern and they get all quiet.
I want to know what we are talking about here. Something as simple as the ridicule and mockery of people in power? Or further egregious evidence of women manipulated by misogynist forces imagining they have the right to empower themselves by using similar tools of female disempowerment?
I'm thinking about it a lot because I just finished writing this very angry little play that was initially a response to the various women-bashy plays that have been decorating our stages of late, and I have this awful fear that by using misogynist imagery the play will be viewed as further propagating such evils rather than serving as a commentary on them. I don't know how to approach this. But I strongly do not want to apologize for it. And I definitely intend the play to be funny.
I'm not saying that GFY writers have similar concerns, but I am saying that I don't understand the line between propagation and commentary, and I think the compulsion to laugh at insanely wealthy celebrities dressed in unflattering clothing may come from a similarly complicated place.
I wonder.
... about theatre design is a LOT, my little cabbages. Read about it here, along with those far more saavy (like Lucas Krech and Brendan Connelly).
What I also don't know is, why do strangers keep taking my vowels, and why do I feel the need to retaliate with a potty-mouth?
... go to HARVARD and see a little show-ey-poo? All the cool kids are doing it... either that or coke, right? And who likes coke, really?
A "jagged stage poem..." Heck, why not.
But I'm still pissy about the former. I've had more than my share of Bob Saget moments over it.
What a weird job I have.
From a review in a Chicago paper:
"Callaghan is not a playwright to dismiss. If anything, she needs more productions to help develop her voice, which has real insight and a grasp on modernity -- with all its obsessions and melancholiness -- that few playwrights harness with such alacrity."
You hear that, world? In order for me to DEVELOP MY VOICE, I need more productions. That way I can become a true artist. Someday. So please, won't you help a struggling playwright who is trying to FIND HER VOICE?
For any of you who might have a little bit of career envy of me at any time... never fear! I don't actual HAVE a career. I do have potential, however... yippie, wish me luck!
I dedicate the following cartoon to those critics in my past present or future who cannot stop themselves from dispensing career advice in their reviews:
