A Hooker’s work is never done

Last year on my moving day from Asheville to Winston Salem, I couldn’t leave for four extra days because the roads were washed out.  I was literally driving out of Asheville and the road was washing out in front of me due to the hurricane happening, until, 10 miles down the road, I turned around. 

And now, today, the entire city has sold out of gas.  Granted, I was lucky enough to snap up half a tank of gas before it all sold, but still…Twice, I’ve had this feeling like the strange forces of nature are trying to prevent my departure.  Of course this is terribly egocentric, seeing as the earth is most assuredly NOT manufacturing hurricanes to coincide with my moving, but it feels that way today.  Second time’s a charm and all.

How odd to think that New Orleans may be no more.  It is so very upsetting, the broadcasts of elderly women on inflatable air mattresses, floating to safety (?), and the children that don’t seem to know that this isn’t just some fun excuse to get out of school, those kids frolicking in the filthy, diseased, chemically-laden raw sewage that has blanketed the city.  The surgeon general seems to think we may very well need to start worrying about cholera and typhoid epidemics due to the carcasses rotting in the water.  Those poor, poor people that have just lost everything, and now they have to suffer inside of the Superdome without AC or restrooms, and they are comparatively lucky by the looks of it, what with having shelter from the roving bands of armed vigilantes that have looted all the gun supplies they can find.  It sounds like hell down there.  My heart aches for that historic city and all it’s displaced occupants. 

There is a feeling in the air today that I can only compare to the same feeling that vibrated through this city after the terrorists attacks of 2001.  I have heard many draw the same conclusion, and I am left thinking that this might be worse indeed, because there is no one to blame, no one to hunt, no one to hate, and the damage is much more catastrophic, widespread, far-reaching.  This is just a fluke of nature, this is just bum luck, this is just rain and wind without alterior motives. So all that’s left is reconstruction without any satisfaction of vengence for the staggering loss of property, and unfortunately, what will assuredly be a staggering loss of life. 

You can’t blame the wind for doing what’s in it’s nature.  You can’t say no one saw it coming…New Orleans being the large bowl sitting below sea level that it is.  Meterologists predicted this would happen one day…do we shoot the messenger? 

Talk about perspective.  My life is cake.  Moist, rich, seven-layer Dream Cake. 

Spaceballs really IS the Most Quotable Movie Ever. 

The consuming, full-body panic has set in that I have to move in approximately 36 hours.  I, all of a sudden, as if I hadn’t realized this moment was coming for four months now, seem to have so very much to do and no time to do it in.  So many people I want to see one more time, so many places I want to take one more meal from, so many sights I’ve left unseen for months in the knowing that surely there would be time.  But no, no no.  I’ve lazed about for an entire month now (feels good, but I’m ready for some strenuous mental activity), and here I am thinking, ‘Shit, I meant to get up to Black Balsam one more time for a photo shoot’.  Alas and alack, as a dear friend would say, time no longer allows for such. 

I have so much packing to do, and I haven’t even really made a dent, and probably won’t until tomorrow in the early evening when I know I have plans for 9 pm that will, most likely, have me out late drinking.  I figure better to leave Asheville feeling like shit in a chemically related kinda way, and then maybe the emotions won’t kick in until the drive is over. 

I am such a pansy.  I act as though leaving Asheville is the end of the world or something.  I know I’ve said this before, but it’s like cutting an arm off; I feel like I belong here, and I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged anywhere before, so I constantly question my motives for leaving if I’m so damn happy here.  I mean, I’ve got a good, solid friend base at school, I really enjoy the work I do there, but that’s all it is—work—and while that’s not a bad thing, I don’t ever get to escape and relax and go hiking or simply take in a stunning view while driving down the highway, nothing exists in Winston Salem to ground me to the fact that the world existed long before me and will exist long after I’m gone…no reminders not to take myself too seriously. 

Because, believe me, in a couple of weeks, the sun will rise and set on whether or not my drafts are done, whether or not I’m the best (or near it) in my painting and rendering classes, whether my classmates like me (that counts for a grade, if you can believe it), whether or not I’m overachieving in the appropriate fashion.  The School of the Arts teaches alot of things, one of those things being that we are the best in our fields.  And if you aren’t the best of the best, they’ve no use for you…no lienience for late projects, no allowing for sick time.  I’ve been competitive before, but at cards, not art…my career has never depended on it, and that can consume me…the constant ranking among classmates.  We know who’s the best in critiques, and that’s really what it comes down to: you get no points for effort, you only score for being the best, or at least in the top three. 

NCSA isn’t nicknamed NC School of the Attitude for nothing…we are pitted against one another, gaining nothing from teamwork until it comes time for production, and then we are expected to work harmoniously from the hours of 2-6 M-F, 7-11 T, Th.  We are taught to feel no pity when a sick classmate falls too far behind to ever catch up; when they withdraw, we all breathe a sigh of relief that our numbers are down by one more, because that means one less to worry about.  Of course, the real competition never gets sick, they never neglect to turn in projects, they don’t skip critiques.  I mean, I like a bit of competition, it pushes me to excel, but this, this is…vicious.  Sabotage is never out of the question…it happens every year; someone leaves their final draft on a table in the drafting studio, and they come back in and it has a coffee ring on it, if it’s there at all. 

Our freshmen class began as 40…two withdrew on the first day, and eight more trickled away silently during the course of the year.  That leaves us at 30, if everyone returns.  Statistically speaking, of this 30, only 5 to 7 of us will graduate from NCSA, the other 23 or so having caved underneath the 100+ hour a week workload, or simply failing to meet the standards set forth for us.  This is another thing we are told to remember; 80% of us will fail at this task.  They push us and push us and push us until we snap, admittedly giving us more work than it is humanly possible to complete, "just to see how we will prioritize", or "as a test to see how we will fare under pressure".  All this amidst 28 fully realized, main stage productions.  From undergrad to grad, there are only 170 of us to do this.  The shows, we work on them for a month or so at a time, no less than 20 hours a week, and then they go up for three days and three days only, and the same day we have strike, we pull a double (or a triple) to began work on the next show. 

It’s a constant, grinding, relentless situation, and I for one like it.  I thrive in it.  I’ve failed at every community college I’ve ever attended, but give me so much work I don’t sleep more than four hours at a shot, and I’m at my prime.  Apparently. 

One last thing they push on us as supremely important is:  If you have the attitude, you damn well better have the talent to back it up.  And they are training us to have the both.  They say it’s how we’ll survive in the industry.  They say that you had better believe in yourself and be ready to tell anyone why you’re the best pick, or you don’t have a shot at making it.  They say we’re the best, and that we’d better go ahead and get used to it.  I don’t know that this is healthy, this brainwashing, but I do know that they’ve already gotten to me, and I don’t know if I should fight it or just give in and believe it all. 

Come two weeks, I’ll forget that the world exists outside of theater.  Come two weeks, I’ll be so self-absorbed again that the only thing important is that my work is ranked in the top three.  Come two weeks, I’ll get that attitude back, and forget how I ever lived without it.  Come two weeks, I’ll be a different person again, the person they are training me to be for the rest of my life, and I am not so comfortable with who that person might be–cock-sure, coldhearted, competitive beyond need, happy when the people that just can’t hang drop back into the obscurity from whence they came.

Is this really me?

Just when I think I am finally slipping over some edge of emotional instability, that old, reliable, pre-period ache set into my boobs, and I must admit, there is some relief in that pain. 

Because, you know, crying at Spiderman 2 just because, well…I think that’s something to be worried about. 

I have had a headache for two days running, one that is ever so slowly abating as I nap and drink loads of water and nap some more.  Today, I took a six hour nap…didn’t wake up until 9:30, realizing chances for sleep tonight are slim if they exist at all.  I’m hoping this slow rain will lull me back into a state of at least semi-unconsciousness for a few hours. 

Today, I procrastinated.  What I needed to be doing all day long is:

A) Cleaning my car out, and rearranging the boxes in the trunk for maximum storage space.  This, knowing that I will have to ship some anyway. 

B) Begging boxes off of grocery stores, liquor stores, the likes.  I contented myself with the notion that liquor stores get new shipments on Tuesdays, and that tomorrow would really be the day to do all this. 

Instead of doing anything productive, today I:

A) Woke to Jenny walking through Lars’ living room, searching for a phone book so she could get her car out of the hock…it had been towed in the night from a residential street she often parks on…talk about some bitter neighbors with too much time on their hands.  We sat on the front porch and bitched and cried a little and ate leftover wedding food. 

B) Returned Brandi’s cardigan to her.  We ate chicken nuggets and drank pink lemonade with gin in it, then tried really hard not to cry or have sex.  I was successful in both, surprisingly.  I think I am dry inside, after the Cry Fest ‘05 I had last night.  It was so hard to get off her couch that has been locale to many a memorable moment.  She looked so sad when she opened the door, when she hugged me to her and said that she missed me, when she put her head on my shoulder and let the tears run down the bridge of her nose.  Just so sad.  I had to restrain my urge to say something ridiculous like, "Run away with me right now, we’ll go to Merida, Mexico and live our lives making tortillas to sell to the tourists", or something equally cliche’ and unrealistic.  Funny how carried away I can get, and here I haven’t even known her a year.  It feels like much longer to me; it’s hard to remember that we’ve only been involved a very short time, but I suppose when you find someone you can really connect with on every level, time becomes an arbitrary measure of little to no bearing.  Or maybe the problem is all in my head, wrapped up in ‘what’s ifs’ and ‘could have beens’, which are all pointless exercises in over-analysis and self-pity.  Brandi and I could have been something good, but I have to remember that we were, in the time we had, and that has to be good enough. 

C) Then I went home and promptly went to bed.  I kidded myself into thinking I was going to lay down and read for a while, knowing full well when I collected my kitty cat and my glass of water that I was heading for the Sleep of Avoidance.  I positioned Cleecloe in a comfortable spot on my chest and we sacked out, not to arise until it was feeding time for the both of us.  Hollis must think I’m a freak, sleeping the evening away, rising only in time for her to go to bed.  Or maybe she doesn’t care, or maybe she knows sometimes sleeping is the easiest solution to the problem of thinking too much.  Granted, this is how depression happens, but I have only two more days of laziness allotted to me, and then I will be too busy to be sad, and that is of great consulation to me. 

I am looking forward to being back in school.  I am looking forward to moving into my new digs in the posh, antiquated West End of Winston Salem.  I am looking forward to the party at Gypsy Moon on Wednesday night, a gathering of all my nearest and dearest here in Asheville.  I am looking forward to seeing my grandma, my aunt, my mom and dad and stepmom, my little brother, my old friends in Raleigh, my friend Steve, and all my friends from school.  I am looking forward to hearing the stories my colleagues have collected during a summer away from school.  I am looking forward to being a scholastic superstar, once again.

Lots to look forward to. Must.  Remember.  That.  Lots to look forward to. 

It’s safe to say that this weekend’s performance of Asheville Vaudeville went off beautifully.  Friday night’s show in Pritchard Park was packed with a responsive audience that stayed beginning to end, Saturday afternoon’s show was graced with a smaller but still stationary audience (this being an important factor to consider, given that it’s a free outdoor performance, which generally has a much more transient audience), and Saturday evening’s show saw a packed courtyard at the French Bar with an audience that really appreciated what they saw. 

And here I was, terrified at the prospect of singing in front of a crowd.  Not only did it go off without a hitch (okay, one teeny tiny hitch on my part…I flubbed they lyrics and went "uhhhhhh" into the mike for a second until I could find my place again…five seconds or an eternity–you make the call), the crowds were larger than any I’ve ever performed in front of before, and damn if I don’t feel like my balls are the size of my hubcaps. 

This was an excellent confidence booster, this Asheville Vaudeville.  I got to perform again (two years later!), I got to meet a lot of great new people, I got to spend time outdoors, singing and dressed as a pirate, and I got to enjoy the praise heaped on my ’singing voice’, which, until this weekend, I didn’t know existed.  I find it is a good idea every once and a while to do something that scares the everlivin’ shit out of me.  So now, I’ve met my quota for the year and can coast in my comfort zone until I need another boost. 

I am so glad that I had the oppurtunity to work with Scapegoat Theatre Collective; they are such a generous, supportive bunch, and I hope I find myself in their creative company once again, in the future.  Add them to the list of reasons why I prefer Asheville to Winston-Salem, school excluded. 

Saturday evening’s show would have been damn near perfect, had I not gotten dumped by my not-girlfriend (you know the kind, a girlfriend in every fashion except title) fifteen minutes after curtain.  I guess this is a good exercise in taking the good with the bad, the victories with the defeats. 

So now I’m sitting awake at 4 am, resisting the urge to hug her cardigan because it still smells like her, and wondering where in the hell my gold tooth cap wandered off to…  Marinating in this getting dumped business, and reveling in the fact that A.V. actually happened without me taking a rotten tomato to the face.  It’s a funny kind of contradiction I feel inside tonight…so joyous and celebratory, and saddened and somber, all at once. 

I sang in front of people and they applauded heartily.

I lost the affections of a thoroughly decent woman, through no fault of my own.

All of this within a single half-hour. 

My poor brain doesn’t know which way is up.  I ought to just go to bed, but I’ll turn the lights out and wish she was there with me in the dark, warming me in that fashion that can only be achieved with the aid of another body in close proximity.  I’ll wonder if she’ll call tomorrow and say she’s made a mistake, then I’ll cry because I know she won’t.  I’ll replay all of those sweet, funny moments we shared and torture myself with sleeplessness, minus the ‘productivity’ of writing this damn blog.  I’ll wish things were different until the sun came up, experimenting with my (in)ability to will something into existence just because I want it to be so.  And tomorrow morning, when my eyes are crossing because I’ve only slept four hours, I’ll be left with the knowledge that all my wishing was for naught, that Brandi is hundreds of miles away in this small town, that she really did say ‘bye, Suzy’ in a tone of voice that implied she meant it. 

I wonder if I should post this entry…it seems kind of tacky to play out this drama for all to see, but writing makes me feel better.  "I am a writer, writer of fiction, I am the heart that you call home, and I’ve written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones".  Those Decemberists sure know how to pen a poignant lyric. 

In trying to find the silver lining hiding here somewhere, I suppose that this is a better-now-than-later kind of situation, because I was starting to entertain notions that are better left to someone else; someone else that is more equipped to have relationships because lord knows I’ve got no luck with ‘em, someone else that has a thicker skin and can lock their emotions away when the time comes for stiff resolve, someone that doesn’t care so damn much. 

I just never expected to care so much.  I never expected to laugh so much, I never expected to have the best sex of my life, I never expected that the mere sight of her would give me roller-coaster belly, I never expected to discover the kind of woman I believed extinct.  I never expected to feel this much.  I never anticipated that I’d cry when we said goodbye.  I never banked on this turning into anything more than some fun summer fling, in my head, in reality, that detail doesn’t matter because it’s how I feel right now. 

I’m cursed with good taste and bad timing, of this I am certain. 

Tina was right when she told me that attachments only cause pain.  It pissed me off then to think I might love a cynic such as herself, and it pisses me off now because I can see the logic in her statement. 

Stupid attachments.  Stupid stupid stupid. 

Tomorrow night, in the middle of downtown Asheville, I will make my singing debut.  I am slightly terrified. 

Mind you, rehearsals have gone well, until tonight when I dropped the ball and forgot lyrics that have been firmly planted in my brain for about four months…  Of course I can nail it when we are practicing on Hollis’ patio, but then put me in front of a crowd, and fffffffpppt…that was my memory failing. 

I have full faith that all will go well, and that during performance, even if I drop lyrics, I will not do what I did tonight and say "Shit, it’s gone".  Smoove, as usual. 

To add to my nervousness, Holly told me that Tanya and I would be miked for the shows.  I have never sung anything into a microphone unless I am too drunk to remember it the next day, so this will be a real challenge.  I’m scared to hear my voice ring out through Pritchard Park, for all to hear and see.  I’ve never considered myself a singer, and I agreed to do this while drunk, and now…well, now, the performance is tomorrow.  Eight minutes of glory on a mike…

I know that I am just experiencing my normal pre-show jitters…The response to our piece has been very good; Hollis’ interperative dance is hi-larious, and man oh man, both the guitarist and the accordion player rock my face off, plus, Tanya is gonna be right next to me throughout, and she isn’t used to singing in public either, so that’ll help.  Additionally, being dressed as a pirate dulls any horror I may feel once on stage. 

The dude from the Rib Tips keep singing our praises, telling me that I sound great, and the musicians sound great, and I know I shouldn’t care, but this guy is HOT and he’s one of those Asheville staples with a band that actually supports all of it’s members by just being a band, so that boosts my confidence a bit…I’ve watched him sing and dance in the streets for years now, and I guess it just makes me feel good, someone I have liked as a successful local musician telling me that I’m doing just fine.  By all accounts, he’s kind of an ego-maniac, but he’s been nothing but nice to me, so whatevs.  The entire show has all the makings for a success…I mean, who doesn’t like a variety show in the park on a nice night?  Commies, that’s who. 

So, there was an earthquake in lil ole Asheville, NC, last night and I didn’t feel a damn thing!  Secretly, this bums me out.  I’ve never been in an earthquake before, and as there was no serious damage and no loss of life (it was a 3.8 on the Richter), it seems like just as good an earthquake as any to survive.  Most of my friends have stories of momentary terror, hearing a series of loud bangs and then a sensation akin to being caught in a cattle stampede, and maybe I’m a little jealous. 

Granted, I was high up on a mountain somewhere at a luau (somewhere where I had been drinking a decent quantity of coconut rum), so maybe the valleys feel it more, but I’d think that the top of a mountain would be like the top of a tree…little shake at the bottom, big shake at the top.  And, okay, I’ll admit it, the other people at the luau felt the earthquake, too…they asked me about it as soon as I got up this morning (I thought it was a mass hallucination due to the LSD they’d eaten, until I checked my voice mail and had other calls about the quake)…but I was on a trampoline at the time, possibly engaging in other earth-shaking behavior at the precise moment the earthquake happened.  This reflects well on Brandi’s many talents…I thought she was the one that made the earth move for me last night…  Or, perhaps I was in mid-bounce, with no earthly contact to transmit the shakings of the tectonic plates to my rubbery legs. 

Any which way you look at it, I’ve heard Carole King’s song, "I felt the earth. move. under my feet, I saw the stars tum-bulin down, a-tum-bulin down…"  more times today than I count.  And the only earthquake story I have is one that isn’t fit to tell my grandmother. 

I guess this is one of those true marks of impending adulthood (I’m 27…will I ever fully feel like an adult, for cryin out loud?), when all your friends start getting hitched.  Lars and Emily are the next to go, this Sunday.  Brandi is accompanying me to their joint bachelor/bachlorette party in the woods in Canton tonight.  L and E’s friend Jenny has a big ole piece of land up on the mountain, and she, last year, got a bug up her ass to go to the beach, but couldn’t get away to actually go, so she created a beach on the lake on her property.  It’s huge, by all accounts, and she is throwing a chi-chi luau tonight.  I’m stoked.  We’re gonna camp out so there are no thoughts as to driving later in the evening, so to fully enjoy the party.   Because anyone who knows Lars and Emily know that they can party unlike many others, and that I will assuredly be thoroughly intoxicated before the sun goes down.  Plus, snuggling in a tent is something I haven’t done in a long time, and I do enjoy that ever so much.  It should be fun. 

I can’t say for sure that Lars and Emily are gonna last forever, but man! do they love each other fiercely, and make each other completely happy, right now.  I guess you can never truly know if forever is a good promise to make, but I suppose sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and trust that things will work out right in the end.  Lars and Emily are good together, and I think they’ve got just as good a shot as anyone else at making it last.  At least I hope they do, because I really love them together…such a fine balance.  Is that what marriage is all about?  The balance? 

So much of life has turned out to be about a delicate balance of some sort or another.  What if I prefer akimbo some days? 

Betsy and Ben are following down the wedding trail in two months…soon, more of my friends will be married than not.  I like this.  I like to see my friends happy, bathed in love, content in that oddly domestic way that married folks take on.  I think it must be nice to know that you are going to wake up next to the same person until you’re dead.  There is a comfort and stability in that reliability that I often envy. 

Of course, I enjoy being a free agent, but I know the day will come when I just want to know that someone knows how I like my coffee and will perchance deliver it to me in bed.  I think the woman I’d settle down with would be a lady that could perfectly understand why I sleep best on dark sheets.  It’s a mystery to me; if someone could unravel that, I might just propose. 

So here it is:  I love Boston.  Yes, as in the-band-not-the-city.  It was relatively recently that I realized this fact, when I bought a tape at a truck stop somewhere between here and Raleigh.  My cassette choices were Robin Williams Live at Carnegie Hall (already had it…sigh), Jeff Foxworthy, Slayer, Boston, and loads of slow jamz, which, while tempting, don’t help sleepiness on a tired night of driving.  I chose Boston, thankfully.  All those songs on the radio that fell somewhere into the Journey/Boston/Air Supply era that I had been hearing for ages (and jammin’ to for ages), it turns out that was Boston.  Rock n’ Roll Band is one of my top five favorite driving songs EVER.  There’s just something about how that song builds until the singers voice jumps an octave while he’s telling us about signing his first record company contract…it just gets me every time. 

I guess that means me and a whole lot of 50-ish men have something common. 

I was sitting in my car waiting to pick up Brandi, smoking a stogie and rockin’ the fuck out to that song, and I guess the volume was up a lot louder than I realized, because this guy—white hair, tucked-in salmon colored polo, khaki sorts, sandals with socks—he gives me the thumbs up and bobs his head a couple of times, sharing The Moment of Rock with me.  I was partially mortified (I never knew my taste in music ranged there), partially amused, and wholly certain that I need to learn to contain myself a bit more when Boston comes on the radio.  I mean, I’m all for unashamed rocking, but in that instant, I felt the internal street cred index dip dangerously low. 

I’ve got an image to maintain here.  Damn. 

In this heat, and semi-boredom, I can’t think of a damn thing to except keep writing. 

Today, I got a birthday card from my mom.  Yeah, it’s twelve days late, but I think that is due in large part to the fact that Hollis and I don’t check the mail often, and my mom had expected to see me around my birthday. 

The card is lovely…it depicts a woman standing next to a peacock, holding its head in her hands as it’s tail feathers splay behind and around her, in an oh so very art noveau kinda way.  Mom knows how I love that art noveau (my favorite artistic movement). 

I was moved by the card, and it took me until just a few moment ago, as I half-watched Pump Up the Volume, to realize why I feel a great sense of emotion tied to my receipt of this card.  Inside, she wrote, "When I saw this card, I was reminded of you.  I think it has to do with the pride in the woman’s stance–the good kind of pride.  Also, she is beautiful, just like you".  Wow, I’m crying again as I write this.  I am crying because this is the only time in my memory that my mother has told me that I am beautiful.  And I’m not crying because I feel wronged in the realization that this is a first, I’m crying because I suddenly understand so much of what she was trying to tell me as a teenager, when I shut her out and was so bad to her.  She’s always thought of me as beautiful; it’s only recently that I agree.  She’s always been proud of me; she was just waiting for me to catch up with her. 

I remember a conversation my mom tried to have with me when I was sixteen.  She was (and still is, I’m sure) concerned about my weight.  This time, she tried to talk to me about it, not from a health standpoint, but from an emotional standpoint.  She tried to tell me that I wasn’t missing out on the dating and the dances, that guys were generally jerks until around age 30, that I shouldn’t let other people’s opinion of me effect my outlook.  And I wouldn’t say a word to her, not one single word in response.  I guess today I realized that all those times when I thought she was nagging me because she was somehow disgusted by me (she was a ballerina and I always thought she was secretly mortified having a fat daughter), or ashamed of me, it all came from a place of trying to show me what she already knew; that I have worth that shines from a place deeper than the skin, and that the surface aint so bad either.   A bit rounder than the norm, yes, but I’m certainly not the hideous creature I felt that I was in high school.  I suppose that is the status quo for some high schoolers, though…depressed and steeped in self-loathing.  And I thought I had been hiding it good. 

I think what I am angling around to here is that my mom has been telling me that I am beautiful for my whole life, and today was the very first time that I let myself hear her, because just recently, I have begin the process of knowing it, owning it, believing it. 

There is something very liberating and life-affirming in this, for me.  I traditionally have a hard time taking compliments, usually believing that it is politeness and not honesty that moves people to tell me that I’m cute, beautiful, whatever.  My lack of self-esteem effectively ended several relationships that coulda been good, because I just couldn’t believe that I was desirable or attractive to anyone. 

You know what I have to say to that these days?  Yah, FUCK THAT. 

And, thanks, Momma. 

I can’t seem to stop writing on this thing.  I hope that anyone who receives friend notifications isn’t sick to death of seeing ‘Suzanne has updated her Friendster blog’.  I don’t mean to clog anyone’s inbox, truly.  I’m just digging the writing these days (it comes and goes in spurts…hehe that’s what she said). 

I have been unemployed for three weeks now, and it is officially driving me batty.  I mean, geez, when did I forget how to enjoy doing nothing?  Okay, so I’ve read, like, 800 books this summer, and that’s all gravy, but I’m borrrred.  I’m tired of reading, I’m sick of watching movies, my car can’t handle the long drives in hilly terrain to get me to the outdoorsy places I’d like to wile away time, I’m broke from not working so I can’t afford to finance any of my time-consuming hobbies, and I still have three weeks left to go before school.  Meg told me I can’t do anything right anymore, not even being able to relax about relaxing.  I guess this is what school and theater have done for me; I’m happiest when I’m insanely busy. 

Of course, I will kick myself for bemoaning too much free time, because, come three weeks, there won’t be a lick of it for a long, long time.  Here is what I have to look forward to (and I do!!):

Monday and Friday–scene paiting 1

Tues and Thurs–stagecraft (building flats, road boxes, etc.)

Tues and Thurs–stage properties (building furniture, mainly, but also learning how to make fake wood paneling and the likes, any prop you can imagine)

Wed–drawing and painting for the designer; scenery  (a six hour long class with the world-renowed Franco Colavecchi–so excited!!)

M, W, F–theater history

M, W, F–art history

Mon and Fri–drafting for the designer (this course terrifies me, there’s sooo much math and it’s one of those ‘weeder’ courses that most people took as freshmen, but since I changed majors…)

M, W, F–2 to 6 p.m., at least–production

T, Th–7 to 11 p.m., at least–production

That is a revised schedule, down from the 24 hours I was initially slated to take on.  I have decided probably it would be best to take five years to get my degree so I don’t have to kill myself these next three years.  Jesus God, four more years, but hopefully that just means I’ll be that much more educated and prepared when I get out.  Right?  RIGHT?!?!?!

T-minus 21 days and counting…That White Snake song ‘Here I Go Again’ is in my brain right this second.  I think I will go drink a beer to rid myself of that horrible ditty.   Cheers!

Tonight, Wes asked why the Wizard of Oz is a cult classic.  Amanda replies, because it is so gay.  It struck me for the first time that this IS a movie that is seriously homo-friendly…I mean, one, it’s a musical.  Two, in retrospect, ALL of the men in the film (Lion, Scarecrow and the Tin Man) are almost undeniably gay; poofy, I dare say.  Three, when they get to the Emerald City, they are greeted by a man with a shiny green phallus on his hat–watch it again, you’ll see–and then they make him cry in under a minute with the tale of insufficiencies and woe.  Gay, gay, G A Y!  I never even realized it until this very night.  Thems were some revolutionary filmmakers, kickin’ it back in ‘34.  Side note…the leader of the Lollipop Guild is also the main character in a movie titled Freaks, which has plagued my dreams, subtly and constantly, since my viewing of the film ten years ago.  Scary shit, that movie Freaks.  There is a living jellybean that worms around in the dirt with a knife clenched between his teeth…ey yai yai…

Here is my confession of the day:  I do not watch, read or listen to the news.  Period.  At all.  I am uninformed, and more than a little ashamed of this fact.  The last time I watched a newscast on television was the three days following the terrorist attacks back in ‘01.  I was glued to the TV like white on rice, just waiting for Peter Jennings to make some sense of The Big Mess.  Instead, I watched my beloved Peter Jennings (R.I.P., baby) come apart at the seams, from lack of sleep and the same stress and sadness everyone else felt.  He got downright goofy by 4 a.m. on Sept. 13th.  Peter Jennings giggled on air, can you imagine?  During these three days, I fostered a serious love for The Jennings, and a serious hate for any form of news broadcast in the US of A.  And I have not once waivered in my boycott.  Okay, once I did, but it was the BBC on Steve’s supercable, so it doesn’t count.  Foreign news, okay.  American, no way.  I broke down and watched the debates before the last presidential election, hoping to boost my morale with the poor debating skills of W.  To no avail, though.  I saw then that there was no hope, and have shut myself off ever since. 

I know this hurts no one but myself, that I am doing myself and my country a disservice by not being in the know so as to take action when action is needed, but I rely on my politically atuned/motivated friends to call upon me when the need is real and present.  Could ya do that for me, folks?  Because I can’t seem to will myself into becoming  more involved than I am now, which means that I read the News of the Weird every week. 

So this week, the top story was one about a grandmother suing Rock Star Games, makers of Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, because there is a cheat on the internet that, when uploaded, allows players to engage in graphic sex as well as the usual graphic violence.  The grandmother wants retribution, in the form of money of course, for her 14 year old grandson’s "trauma" at witnessing pornography.  Now, mind you, she purchased the game knowing that it depicted realistic gang violence, which includes, but isn’t limited to, the murder of police officers, brutal carjackings and the ability to beat to death any pedestrian you desire.  What I’d like to know is exactly when in the fuck sex became more offensive than gang violence? 

I am aware of the fact that sex is a dangerous game these days.  I know that people are poorly educated about the dangers of sex, and the ways to protect themselves from said dangers.  I know that the difference is that sex won’t kill you right away.  But sex CAN still be an act of love (while I’m sure the video game makes no mention of the L-word…relying heavily on a lingo closer to ‘bitch’, ‘ho’, and ‘jimmy-hat’ (if that…) but I am saddened that people have become more sensitive to a nipple than a Crip. 

Alls I’m sayin’ is this: I hope that old biddy doesn’t get a cent from Rock Star Games, because she knowingly purchased an ultra-violent video game for a child, and raised a stink only when she realized sex came in the package. 

You know, they sell thongs at Abercrombie and Fitch, sized to fit 6-11 year olds, with graphics like cherries, or slogans like ‘Sugar Daddy’ and ‘Eye Candy’ on the crotch.  So the sexualization of children is a-okay with America, but the education of the same children to respect sex as the healthy, respectful, SAFE thing it can be is absolutely forbidden.  It just doesn’t make sense.  I’d much rather my 7 year old brother accidentally catch a soft-lensed sex scene in an 80’s movie than any scene of gang violence from Boyz in the Hood.  Sex is part of the natural order; violence doesn’t have to be, dammit.   

And this concludes part 15 in a never-ending series as to why media, TV in particular (reality TV in particular particular), is one the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.  For those of you wondering, the other three horsemen are:  processed sugar, dependence on foreign oil, and Joan Rivers.  Thank you, and goodnight.