A Hooker’s work is never done

It’s officially August, and guess what happens in August? I get to come home! Now that the countdown has begun, I’m embroiled in a mess of extremely mixed feelings. On one hand, I can’t f’ing wait to take a shower in a regular sized shower, where I don’t have to be pressed up against a mildewed shower curtain or spider webs to “get clean”, and sleep in my own bed, clothing optional. On the other hand, I’m already getting nostalgic for the friends I’ve made here…a few of them are really, truly great, and I might not Ever See Them Again. That’s a bit fatalistic, I know, but I know, too, that there are some people here that I do like quite a bit, and we will simply never cross paths again. It’s bittersweet already. I’m sure I’ll be a wreck when I’m driving away, having said my goodbyes and packed all of my moldy belongings into the car I’ve hardly driven all summer long (I’ve only filled my tank ONCE since I’ve been here!!), to begin the thousand mile trek down the eastern seaboard. I mean, I’m Real Excited to get back to NC, but I’m vaguely saddened by the notion that some of these folks won’t continue to be in my Daily World.

In other news, we had our second (my third) official day off yesterday…it was truly wonderful. The day began with a lavish spread of food, served at the home of one of the guest actors that is a year-round resident, Mr. Lou Malouf and his lovely wife, Carol. They have a sprawling home on the shore, and two big-headed golden retrievers, and they prepared quite a feast for us. Lou is Lebanese, so there was taboule and that’s pretty much all I needed to know. The homemade black raspberry ice cream that topped the orange spice cakes shaped like sandcastles was pretty wonderful, as well. It was lovely to brunch on a huge deck, soaking in the sun with my buddies and coworkers, talking about anything but theatre. Miss WV regailed us with tales of her shotgun-toting mother, and her scrappy sister while we ate our eggs…I laughed all morning long.

THEN…everyone except me went out on The Boat, to the little deserted island I’d visited earlier in the summer, which left me All Alone on The Compound…and it was glorious. I did all of my laundry, while lying in the hammock (which someone may or may not have drunkenly pissed on the night before…rumors), eating peaches and getting a tan on my legs. I didn’t see a soul for three hours, and I found that this place is quite lovely when there aren’t so many people around to fuck that up. I watched a rabbit and it’s teeny baby bunny hop about and eat Hint of Lime Tostitos from under the picnic tables, and then the fox chased them off and ate the chips himself. An old WW2 fighter plane flew overhead twice during those three hours, flying very low, and I was struck by how loud it was, and how accustomed I have become to not hearing the noise of commercial air traffic…there’s very little of it in the skies overhead, and there’s not airport anywhere nearby…I’ve gotten spoiled.

After my laundry was done, I went over the the Artistic Director’s house, and took his kayak out for a solo spin. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to operate the boat with ease, since it’s built for two people, but it was actually easier with just myself than it was when Preston and I went out. It was a gorgeous day, sunny but not too hot, and I timed it perfectly…most of the boaters were coming in for the day when I went out, so I had the estuary All To Myself. I paddled out to the Atlantic, past all the shellfish beds and the Nature Preserve (gorgeous!), and there wasn’t a soul on the big ass strip of ocean beach (there was a couple on one of the beaches on the estuary). I adore having a beach all to myself. I think these two months of constant interaction have really brought out the need for solitude inside of me. I took some great pictures, and found some sea glass, and some cool rocks, and got grossed out by the massive quantity of creepy seaweed that had washed ashore with the high tide. On my way back in, I moved to one side of the canal to let a motor boat pass by me, and I started smelling something funny…paddling towards what I thought to be a buoy, I nearly vomited as I realized it was no buoy, it was the Biggest Dead Fish I’ve Ever Seen. The thing had had it’s head ripped off, by a fisherman or a larger fish, I’ll never know, but my lands, it was Huge! It’s head alone was three feet long, it’s eye ball was at least as big a pool cue ball, and it’s gaping mouth had huge black teeth protruding in a truly awful fashion. I didn’t know fish like that existed in shallow waters, and what the hell it was doing in a boat parking pond, I can’t even hazard to guess. What I do know is that it smelled worse than anything I’ve ever smelled, and when the truth of it’s nature dawned on me, I got so freaked out, I had to block my vision in that direction with my hand, and paddle as fast as I could with the other. Even though I could smell the death, I was immediately terrified that it would wriggle to life and come eat me. It was big enough in life, I’m sure, that it could have. Eaten me, I mean. There will be no swimming for me in those waters, I assure you.

Upon return to The Compound, I spent two hours filling up approx. 150 water balloons, in preparations for the Monolympics.

Monolympics is a tradition, as are most things that occur here, wherein, competitors sign up in teams of two to battle it out with our friends, roommates and coworkers, in truly ridiculous games, all in costume. I was teamed up with Kurt, the tall blond youngun of the group. All of the technical staff had decided that we’d throw the games and stage a gigantic water fight at the end…we went so far as to create a stencil of a skull and crossbones, except the bones were subbed out for a hammer and a threaded needle…it was awesome. I got to bring the rhinestone eyepatch out of retirement, and we all swaggered about in jangly chopped off pants and striped socks and bandanas. Quite a crowd of spectators showed up, including some locals and Friends of the Theater, all eagerly anticipating our drunken antics, apparently (it is not only allowed but encouraged that we get Loaded! before competing). I only had one whiskey before the games, but that was my competitive edge. Kurt and I did well…we survived through the water balloon toss, and the three legged race that was made trickier with cups of water placed on our heads…a balancing act with our legs tied together, if you will. We made it to the third of four games, when we were finally eliminated in the Blasted Relay Race. We had to run to our partner, spin around with our forehead on a baseball bat, and then run back to our starting point carrying the bat, when our partner would then do the same thing. I took off running in the wrong direction due to the dizziness, and Kurt forgot the bat the second time, so we lost, but that’s a good thing, because the next and final event was horrid. A piece of bubble gum was placed in the bottom of a punch bowl, and the punch bowl was filled with mayonaisse, whipped cream, mustard relish, mustard, ketchup, chocolate sauce, and sour cream. Without hands, the bubble gum had to be located, chewed, and a bubble had to be blown for the victory. It was disgusting and one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long long time. Poor Laura Frye and Bill Diggle. Bill won, and after the victors were awarded their spoils, the MC had one final thing to say: Poodle. That was the code word to commence the water fight. We whooped up on those silly actors… We had six stations, armed and ready to fire, including two posts on roof tops (one with a hose) and one post on each side of the courtyard. They were sitting ducks. It was a superb shang-hai sabotage. I tagged SM three or four times…that’s what she gets for wearing a wife beater to the games…full-on pandemoniun ensued…there were no loyalties, no friends, only Targets, and that included all those Rich White Spectators, in their Cape Cod best (meaning khakis and pastel shirts). While I take no responsibility, it is highly likely that I am responsible for the three hits that spectator crowd took…I Was launching the balloons straight over the heads of my peers, into the crowd. They (the spectators) all commented afterwards that it was the best Monolympics they’ve ever seen, and that’s quite a feat, I have to say. These people turn out for this event every year, like clock work. We did it up right! Everyone belly-laughed all night long. It was great. And I tagged the second most book selling author in the UK, behind only JK Rowling, with a big fat pink water balloon, right in his arrogant neck. Brilliant.

THEN…after all the spectators went away, we cleaned the courtyard, and a game of Beer Pong began…I was Not Involved. Instead, I sat with P-Funky, K, and SM and played a dangerous game called Who Would You Rather. SM talks about sex every time we get near each other, and the funny thing is, I’m so uninterested in her that it doesn’t even faze me. However, once the Lebanese popped up in the game, she caught on to my interest in That, and started using her as the lithmus test for everyone else, until she had effectively figured out that I Have The Hots For This Other Girl. And then she proceeded to Block Me All Night Long. The game went on until we’d been through every possible pairing in the company, and then someone had the bright idea to go down to Oyster Pond to go skinny-dipping. I wasn’t going to go until the Lebanese appeared out of nowhere, and convinced me it would be fun. So talk about awkward…here’s seven of us, trekking through Chatham late at night in our costumes, drunk, and the whole time SM is walking inappropriately close to me, switching sides so as to keep me away from The Lebanese (who I will henceforth refer to as Labneh, because it has a better ring, and I like Lebanese food alot). So we get to the pond, and I walked to the edge to test the water temp, and immediately remembered the Worst Thing That Could Ever Crawl Out Of The Water—-an aqua-zombie midget clown with razor blade teeth and chimpanzee hands, wearing a tiny business suit, covered in seaweed—-and then I couldn’t get in the dark water. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. Labneh suddenly had no interest in getting in either, as I shared the aqua-zombie image with her, and so we retreated to the sea wall, got cozy, and watched everyone disrobe. I have to say, I Did accomplish one summer goal last night…I saw SM naked. It wasn’t nearly as thrilling as I hoped it would be, but I was comfy where I was, and I had better company. Labneh and I had a good talk, albeit a frustrating one, but I truly like her…as a friend, I mean. I had to chant in my head, She’s Straight, She’s Straight, She’s Straight, the whole time we were out there, or I woulda put the moves on her. I can’t know if she would have resisted. Something is beginning to tell me the answer is no.

I’m still an idiot.

But my moral victory of the evening: SM got out, and came over to where we were sitting, and asked me if I’d walk back with her. I said no, and immediately returned to my conversation with Labneh… didn’t even bat an eyelash at her soaked wife beater, no bra. I’m much more attracted to this other one, and while I’ll never have her, at least my mind has been taken off the Ridiculous Two Year Itch.

It was a great day.

Thank you, iTunes, that’s all I have to say. For the past three weeks, I’ve eagerly been awaiting the arrival of the new episode of Project Runway in The Music Store, for purchase and upload, so I could feel like a Real Person that can watch TV, once a week, for an hour. At first, the new episodes didn’t show up until Sunday, but I guess the iTunes people caught on to the fact that loyal fans Have To Have It, and they got a move on. So here’s what I’m sayin’:

That crazy that almost got kicked off this week, with the bizarre shiny purple skirt, needs to go. I can’t remember her name yet…it always takes me at least four or five episodes before I have all their names. I just can’t deal with her sensibility…it’s always so busy, like it’s an amalgam of too many different styles to mesh soundly into one all of it’s one.

I Loved Uli’s and Kayne’s work this week, and the arrogant guy (who didn’t construct a single thing for the dog) had a sassy dress, but needed to get over himself Real Quick. Nina Garcia was giving attitude, as usual…and I love her for it. What I’d like to know is, Where Is Michael Kors? He’s my favorite–but then, he’s a bitchy queen, and they usually are…my favorites, I mean.

I was sad when Kathryn got kicked off. While I agree her dress was a bit plain and the hem was kind of jangly, I didn’t think it sucked more than the outfit where the dog wore just a collar. The top had such an odd silhouette..I thought it wasn’t flattering.

Today was One Of Those Days, where I woke up in a strange mood and I couldn’t really shake it all day long… I think it’s the isolating factor of this place…there’s just no escaping anyone here, for better or for worse. This enviroment Brings Out The Crazy, that’s for sure. Everyone wanders around these two acres, looking for Something New or Quiet, and there’s nothing new or quiet, and it’s bound to drive a person crazy after a while. We can’t even really wander around town at night, on late night walks or whatever, because the cops are bored and this is a small place…People can’t shit here without somebody else knowing if they ate corn. I am enjoying certain aspects of small town life (especially given that the ’small town’ is extremely priviledged and well-equipped with fancy restaurants and high-end fashion boutiques), but the intimacy of daily life is claustrophobic. I can’t walk to Dunkin Donuts without seeing three or four people that are regulars at the theater…all looking bored and hungry. Or drunk and fat, one.

Also, I’m starting to get nervous about MacBeth… I’m fairly superstitious, I guess; no walking under ladders, I knock on wood alot, you know… I keep hearing things, from the actresses who portray the witches, about the Authentic Research they are supposed to do for their roles, finding real spells, using words people vehemantly believed in to call the spirits…it just seems like playing with fire to me. One of the make up artists at school said ‘MacBeth’ inside the theater the night the lead died, the night before Orpheus opened. Coincidence, probably. But there’s that tiny voice inside of me that gives me goosebumps, all the same. I mean, they’re using real swords on stage, and they’ve been training all summer for the combat scenes. I dunno…I’m a little freaked, but I won’t be going outside, spitting over my left shoulder, walking around the building twice, and knocking to be let back in, if I do let a MacBizzle slip while I’m in the theater. Cuz those are the rules, ya know… Crazy actors.

Things that happened today:

—Paula and I finished Marvelous Party, and it opened and was well-recieved. I ended up with a seat next to one of the directors and he punched me in the leg repetitively when things started to derail. I enjoyed it, though.

—I hit my head on That Fucking Bell so hard that I had a bit of a gray-out, and had to sit down for a hot second when things got fuzzy on the edges. Good thing I had been reaching into the ice bucket when I hit my head…the swelling never had a chance. I have felt a bit out of it all day long…I hate hitting my head. It’s such sharp, blinding pain. Tender ole brain container.

—I bought a pair of cute! Birkenstocks sandals for only $25. The best part is, they’re bright teal AND completely waterproof! I’m in heaven. I can look stylish while I’m slogging through mud and then I just hose them off for quick and easy clean-up.

—My name made it to the Production Staff section of the program…I know it’s silly, but it’s an honor…The only other people with their name in the bold black box are the directors and designers. It feels good to know that they value my role in the team so much that they are putting my name out there alongside the designers. Old Joe Twinkletoes, the bored multi-millionaire that likes the idea of Theatre might remember me next time they decide it’d be fun to Produce…because they saw my name in bold print five times this summer. There’s a tech staff of fifteen here, and it’s very nice to know, to be able to infer, how much my work is appreciated, enough to make sure I’m remembered (when the poor, talented, overworked carpenters are hardly given a second glance by Upper Management here). It’s an ego boost, I won’t lie. I am grateful that I have found a place where I feel like I really Give Something Back. What? I’m rambling.

—Jafar got me fuuuuuucked up this evening. I mean, woah.

—SM said something again about how it’s a shame she has a girlfriend that she loves. I’m so over it. This lust that we dare not speak it’s name, it’s growing tiresome and only frustrating, instead of enjoyable. The teases are driving me crazy up in here. The Lebanese looked ravishing this evening, as usual. I had to leave the conversation when it rotated around to the fact that she’d never gotten off from oral sex, and she doesn’t like it. This breaks my heart, on many levels. I have to quit on the straight girls…

We had final dress tonight for Marvelous Party. It’s still pretty, um, rough. I’m happy that it has a long run, because that means I will have some days free coming up shortly. Unfortunately, my favorite costume in the show was altered to show Less Leg (and it wasn’t even close to inappropriate to begin with) and the Stripper Heels aren’t visible anymore, not at all. How disappointing!

An ant just bit me on my ass and I’m in my goddamned bed.

I have finally cozied up to Jafar enough that we are a chatty Gay/Fagnet combo, and as such, I mustered up the courage to ask him to say something to me in Jafar’s voice. We were sitting together after lunch, smoking my cigarettes, and he looks down at me (he’s a tall man) and says, in Jafar’s voice, “Motherfucker, what do you want to hear?” I thought I had died twice. It was thrilling, and frightening, and hysterical. Aladdin can never be the same again, not that I’ve seen it in ten years, but I will rewatch it, I’m sure, just to giggle at the fact that I Know The Real Jafar, and how he likes to make his entrances, most often, by bursting through doors and yelling, “What’s up, motherfuckers?” He’s got a potty mouth, that Jafar. He’s also a diva, but I have impressed myself several times this week by answering No to his unreasonable requests. I don’t care if he Has won a Tony, I can’t make miracles out of day-old poo.

I can’t turn off my crush on the Straight Girl. I don’t even really look at SM anymore…we don’t eat lunch together, there has been no hanging out at night, I’m not salivating every time she walks past in a wife beater…it’s bizarre. Two years I couldn’t keep my eyes off this girl, and into my awareness prances Miss Resident Alien USA and I can’t stop thinking about a woman I’ll (possibly) never get to see naked. She’s either Being A Tease, or she’s vaguely interested and curious, or she’s feeling as crazy as I am about Not Getting Any This Summer.

Speaking of feeling crazy, my roommates are all gone right now. What am I doing typing on this damn blog?

Tonight is the first dress rehearsal for our fifth show, “A Marvelous Party”. At this juncture, it is nothing more than a Strictly Mediocre Party, but hopefully, by Thursday, when we open, it will at least be something close to a Decent Party. The costumes are mostly done, and we have two more days…there’s that. And the Lebanese ‘looks flawless’, in her own words, with which I wholeheartedly agree. She truly is the best part of the show…a fabulous actress that’s easy on the eyes. What I can’t understand is how it’s been more than a year since she’s seen any action. I’m sure she’d die and then kill me if she knew this blog existed and I’d told her Celibacy Secret, but it’s some kind of amazing feat. I’m just enough of a fool to think that might play in my favor.

I’m starting to slip, and she’s definetly noticing and she doesn’t seem to mind a bit. There was a supremely awkward moment in K’s truck this afternoon, when K and P-Funky and the Lebanese and Miss W.V. and myself piled in and snuck away for a two hour lunch break. It was the best lunch I’ve had all summer, simply because it’s the only lunch I’ve had Somewhere Else. And the company was about as good as it gets ’round these parts. Five catty women rolling around Cape Cod in a big ole truck, talking shit every way to Sunday. Good times, man. But I digress…Alicia Keys came on the radio, and the Lebanese, with her three and a half octave range, started singing along Perfectly, and I couldn’t help but stare. She turned around in her seat and stared back at me, where we maintained eye contact for an uncomfortably long time, before she asked, “Why you lookin’ at me like that?” I just shrugged and gave her my best cockeyed smile. Had we not been sandwiched into a truck with everyone’s collective Best Friends at Monomoy, I probably would have said something witty and suggestive, but alas, not in front of a crowd. Straight girls don’t go for that shit. Not unless they’re drunk and the lighting is dim. I thought surely that That Was That, for some odd reason, but no—she showed up at the costume shop a while after we returned to help out and chat. I’ll say this: She always has the best gossip.

I’ll say this also: I am a fool, and an idiot, and a sucker, and I have been here before and I may have my hopes dashed, and I might just have to settle with being friends with a fierce, wonderful, hilarious Rising Star. I have this damnedable weakness for the Ethnic Ladies, especially when they’re fiery and sharp-witted with Bond Girl Hair and incredible eyes. If they’re straight, just That Much Hotter. And if they can wear heels like this woman, it is simply a foregone conclusion that I’m A Goner.

Enough of that.

I’m ready to come home, back to NC, back to my kitty cat and my friends and my work and, mostly importantly right now, my family. My grandma is really sick, the treatments are having very damaging side effects, and I am struck with a very foreboding feeling that I need to get home soon. It’s troubling me alot recently, and my mom’s accounts aren’t easing my fears any. Not that they should; she’s simply telling me the reality of the situation, but it’s hard to be away, and not be able to talk to Grandma on the phone once every week and a half, like usual. It’s a blessing to be as close with my grandma as I am, and that makes it This Much Harder to be in a place where I can’t talk to her at all. I’ve been writing her letters every week, but she can’t write back…she’s too weak and spends most of her day sleeping, once the nausea has passed. It sucks. I want to be there so badly, but I don’t necessarily think that would be a good idea, either. She doesn’t want anyone to watch her suffer, and it’s hard enough for her to accept the help of her daughters, much less her granddaughter. She told my mom to tell me I’m her favorite. That makes me feel good. I believe I am Her Favorite, out of anyone. She’s my hero, so I guess we’re on a level playing field.

North Carolina has never looked so good. Cape Cod is nice and all, but I don’t have the time or the money to Really Do It Up.

I’m gonna head back into tech rehearsal and try really hard not to sit with the Lebanese. SM has been lookin’ lonely down in the front…

In a moment of perfectly sober idiocy, I revealed to the Lebanese that I have the hots for her. She handled it very gracefully, didn’t even really bat an eye, but still…I ate lunch with her today, and all was well, no awkwardness or strange silences, and in fact, she said she’d come find me after her rehearsal, for reasons unknown, but we clarifed last night that there is no chance in hell. Which is fine. Which is what I expected. But damn. Me and my big mouth. In hopeless situations such as this one, I find it best to keep my mouth shut, and for some odd reason, I spilled it. She’s just so hot and so funny, I couldn’t help myself. I guess I ought to be aware that my defenses grow weak when I’ve been working for 16 hours and it’s 1 a.m. in the morning and she’s in the costume shop, dropping it like it’s hot, looking over her shoulder to make sure I’m watching. There’s a small degree of torture there, I recognize that. Maybe just another woman that likes the ego boost…

Speaking of women that like ego boosts, SM came looking for me last night at 3 a.m. She had a beer in her hand and she was soaking wet (it was pouring last night during strike) in a lil red tank top, and I couldn’t Not thank the heavens for such a late night gift. She hung out with me in the costume shop for a while, and then we migrated to the Bull Pen and smoked a doobie, where she then revealed that “all of the paint shop girls are just too cute not to stop anf flirt with any time she passes by”. At least there has been an admission that she thinks I’m cute. As if I didn’t know that already…

Funny story: The dryer broke yesterday, and I had to dry a whole slew of costumes, so the Artistic Director sent me to one of the rental houses, which I’d been to before…the one where the failed party was to be held. I sat in gum at some point on my way over there, and I didn’t want to sit on the nice furniture with gum on my ass. So….I put the clothes in the dryer downstairs, went to the living room, and took my pants off in order to pick the gum off the ass of my pants. And THEN, in walks the new visiting director and his wife. Here I am in my underpants in their living room, we’ve never met, and I have to spring up and say “It’s not what it looks like, and Hi, I’m Suzy”. I shook their hands with my jeans bunched in my lap, half bent over. I was mortified. They seemed amused, or at least they faked it well.

Oh, Monomoy.

Tonight, I ate dinner with Jafar. It was bizarre and entertaining to eat chicken pot pie with this man whose voice I’ve been familiar with for more than ten years. He doesn’t talk exactly like the character, but every now and then, he’ll say one sentence every now and then, and it comes out clear as bell. We were talking about bats, and where the hell they were to eat up some of those mosquitoes that were biting us, and he said, “They had the misfortune of being born very ugly creatures.” and it was as if I could see the facial features Disney had borrowed from Johnathan’s face to use in their illustrations of Aladdin. I’m not exactly star-struck, because it’s not as though I feel uncomfortable talking to him or being around him, there is no awkwardness, but it just doesn’t feel like Real Life. We talked about possibly going to the fair in Barnstable to ride the largest travelling roller coaster in existence, but we’ll see if that happens. I dunno…riding a roller coaster with Johnathan/Jafar…I don’t really have words for that. All I’m sayin’ is, if you ever happen to see that movie again, ponder for a moment that The Bad Guy is really a big ole queen with the chunkiest-yet-stylish glasses the world has ever known.

I went and hung out in the Lebanese bedroom tonight…and finally drove it home to myself that She Is Straight, and I Want To Be Her Friend, so I can no longer have a crush on her. Nope. Not at all. I’m vaguely horrified to think that she might run across this blog and read this shit, but I don’t care That Much…I’ll tell her she’s hot to her face, if pushed in a corner (or closet, as it were). The Lebanese is my friend and will only ever be my friend and we will never kiss, not once, so I can just put that out of my head. It’s tricky when so many past experiences have taught me that no one is rigidly straight…Most of my exes were ’straight’ when we met, and most of them went back to being ’straight’ when we broke up. But I have to put those thoughts out of my mind. This is a Conversion-Attempt-Free summer, dammit. Now that that has been stated in writing, I can sleep easier.

Today, I took another step into the Age of Technology and downloaded TV shows off of iTunes. Project Runway season three, episodes one and two, and the entire first season of Weeds, to be exact. All for less than twenty bucks. The Lebanese and I hunkered down on the couch and plowed through the PR before dinner tonight, and then Mikey and I watched eight of ten episodes of Weeds later in the evening. It’s amazing how many 26 minute episodes one can feasibly watch in one sitting. It felt good, to totally zone out and watch TV, even if the picture quality demanded that the screen size be no more than eight inches across. Even So. Mikey had never seen Weeds before, and she totally got into it, immediately. It was nice to hang out in the dark and quiet of the Bull Pen, just me and Michelle, not talking, just smoking and drinking beer and watching TV, as this tropical storm Beryl rages around us. It’s only really starting to pick up now, a little after 3 a.m….I can’t sleep for reasons unknown. Maybe I don’t wanna miss the Big Storm or something. Sometimes when there is too much electricity in the air, I can’t fall asleep. Sometimes when there’s too much electricity inside of me, I can’t fall asleep.

This place is getting to me. I feel like I’m getting a little crazy, quietly, in my head. My temper and attention span and tolerance for bullshit all grow shorter every day (is that life or Monomoy doing that? I don’t know.) and the number of people I actually want to hang out with grows smaller every day. I’m a cranky, mildly antisocial bitch these days, that’s what I’m tryin’ to say.

I’m interested to see what Beryl does to Chatham tonight. I am vaguely uneasy being 35 miles out to sea and sleeping (literally) eight feet above sea level with a class 5 tropical storm roaring over top of us. The eye is going to go right over top of Monomoy Theater, along with the rest of Chatham…I’m not nervous that anything extreme is going to happen, but even so…I’ve never lived 35 miles out to sea before, and this is Baby’s First Big Storm of the season. Hopefully, it’s the last.

So, on the roof of my mouth, there is this painful red spot that the Camp Doctor swears is ‘just like a canker sore, only on the inside’, due to a food allergy (my guess is lobster…I hadn’t eaten it since my 13th birthday, and the Issue started the next day after I tore one apart at midnight). Her prescribed treatment is this: 1 part Liquid Maaolx, 1 part Liquid Benadryl, which I have to combine in my mouth, and then gargle. It is Awful. Imagine the flouride Swish from elementary school, only imagine it’s chalky, too, and that’s what was just in my mouth. And I wonder why no one here will make out with me. Sheesh.

I had a funny moment today…I was standing in the kitchen, talking to the cook and his Brazilian assistant (after throwing a sweat soaked dance belt–aka jock strap for actors–in the wash) and she’s all flirty, talking about What Happens When We’re All Drunk and The Power Goes Out, and then she bent over directly in front of me for an extended period of time. I stood there in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, smiling at the lovely Brazilian ass that was wagging in my face, when finally it got to be Too Much, and I turned to walk away. When I turned around, who is standing there, staring at me staring at the Brazilian, but SM. She laughed at me, indicated that she’d seen me staring, and then starting talking about this crushed velour, sequined, fuschia fabric she’d bought to cover a couch. I said, accidentally, A Woman After My Heart! and then she went and got all awkward and left, taking her dinner outside, so I ate dinner inside for the first time in weeks, and of course, there was the Lebanese when I turned again…in all her gonna-be-famous, wise-cracking, doo-rag wearin’ glory. I wish someone around here had Balls Enough to administer a good slap in the face. I can’t seem to clear my head enough to think right about all these women.

I don’t know what to do…Do I keep playing it cool? Do I make a bold move? Do I risk losing a friendship with a straight woman that seems extraordinarily interested in me suddenly? Do I tell SM what I’m thinking? Do I grab the Brazilian and duck into the pantry for a Hot Second? Do I fucking forget about the fact that this Not Getting Laid bit is driving me close to the edge? Do I find another outlet? Do I just close my f’ing eyes and get some f’ing sleep before I have to do alterations all day long tomorrow (supposing there’s power to run those machines)? I know the answer to one of those questions is yes.

So, the visiting director of “Marvelous Party”, who is my Temporary Main Gay and my same age, decided to have a little get together for Project Runway this evening. Naturally, some of us are beside ourselves that we actually get to watch PR, and Michael and his roommate Max are amped to have the house to themselves again (another director and his family left this morning) so they invited a couple folks over, BYOEverything, but the grill is fired up! and whatnot. The Lebanese runs offstage after the show ends at 9:55, jumps in my car, and we walked in the front door to the opening credits of Project Runway and a platter of brie prepared by a gay man…who know that shit was good. I haven’t even taken a seat when we are told we have to leave immediately. There’s a total of five of us there, and apparently the managing director overheard that people were going over to M&M’s house, and has promised that if there is a party, ‘whoever’ threw it will be fired immediately. So, as Heidi Klum walks onto the runway looking fierce, we have to turn the TV off and walk out the door.

I am only a little ashamed to say that I had a piece of a tear in my eye, with that Most Collosal Cock Tease.

Twenty minutes later, as I am inexplicably Really Pissed Off, I realized that I was also really offended. I get it, that this is a rental house and Alan doesn’t want it trashed, and that he probably doesn’t want people driving drunk or whatever (two blocks…) but I don’t like being treated like a child, instead of the seven adults we are, simply trying to enjoy a quiet evening of good TV, some wine, some cheese–you know, Be Civilized like adults that aren’t living at a summer camp. I had so looked forward to this evening, sitting on a couch and watching My Favorite Joint away from all the people here that make my eyes and ears tired. It was exactly what I’ve been needing and wanting, and I tasted it for less than a minute before I had to turn around and come back to The Compound. It sucked. It coulda been so good…

I know it’s ridiculous, but I could be aptly described as Crestfallen. I mean, whatever, it’s only a damn TV show, but that felt like Real LIfe for minute…chilling out at someone’s house, watching PR with a good group of people like I do at home, relaxing and chatting easily and not having swarms of Other People all over the place, fuckin’ up the flow.

That was an inappropriately long rant. I was upset. I still am, a little bit.

SM came and found me in the hammock once we had returned and had two glasses and a bottle of red in her hand, asking if I wanted some. We chatted for a while, she told some story about this Friend who never told her how she felt about her until years later through a letter and what a shame it all was…at which point, I got up and left and went to the beach with Preston and Mikey and Jim. I’ve tired of The Game, and I’m cranky because I’m just tired in general and need a day off more than I’ve ever needed a day off in my whole friggin life…it’s been weeks and weeks and weeks and I’m getting claustrophobic because there is Just No Getting Away from anything or anyone.

Laying on a dock on my back and looking at the stars certainly helped calm me some, but I can’t shake this edgy feeling.

I finally had to walk back to The Compound, not because I was tired or cold, but because I had freaked myself out so badly, thinking about Jason Voorhies white hand snaking up through the dark water and grabbing my ankle. Thank you, producers of Friday the 13th movies… It was funny, though…we came to the decision that the worst thing in the world that could ever emerge from murky water in the dark is a slimy, sea-weedy, midget-zombie-evil clown. Can you imagine a water-logged clown crawling out of the water to eat your brains? No thanks! This conversation led to another, which was kind of eye-opening for me…it is apparently not normal for someone outside of the medical/military/morticians industries to be able to say that they’ve found two dead bodies. But I have. I don’t even think of those moments, and that struck me as bizarre, that I never, not once in the past five years, have I thought about those two moments of my life. I guess that’s a blessing, because one shouldn’t dwell on life’s unpleasantries, but it seems unhealthy, too, to completely block out memories. For better or for worse, those memories contribute to who I am, how I deal with complicated emotions and nasty upsets, and, probably, my recently acknowledged fear of death.

I don’t know why I’m vomiting all this here, but there it is.

Zombie midget clowns and death…I’m a real upper tonight. My apologies.

That is a quote straight from a conversation about the Signals Women Send and How Simple Men Can Be. No offense to any of the fellows…I know you can be complex and layered like an onion, but there’s not nearly as much analyzing and over-thinking or Imagined Moments based on eye contact or meaningless casual touching (if there is such a thing…). The Lebanese is witty and wise, it turns out. She has apparently decided I’m her new bf, and that is all gravy, because I need a good excuse not to hang out with SM in these social situations we all find ourselves in, frequently, on The Compound. It’s good that I have a nice buffer these days.

A Servant of Two Masters opened up tonight, to a pleased audience. The cast is great and the play is short and funny; at points, I felt like I was watching a Three Stooges-esque slapstick routine, and it was successful. The movement of the show was so fast that I often felt like I was watching a rousing game of ping pong…back and forth back and forth back and forth… The sound effects provided by the asst. director sitting in the orchestra pit with a One Man Band set-up were laugh out loud funny, and the dialogue, interspersed with ad-libbing, or current references to people and places in Chatham made for an entertaining evening. I was captivated by Miss West Virigina in her well-fitted costume (an old Victor/Victoria twist…Beatrice is in disguise as a man…Hot.) and The Lebanese in her bar-wench costume, complete with heaving breasts that doubled as a convenient storage facility through the show…money, lollipops, letters, whatevs. She’s f’ing hysterical in the show…a captivating stage presence, no doubt.

After the show, we came out of the theater to a Gigantic Punch Bowl full of very strong sangria, and some homemade funnel cakes. Needless to say, most everyone got pretty lit. It’s the fruit you have to pay mind to; you can drink five glasses of the liquid and get to feeling Crunk, but when you start plowing on the fruit, you know you’re gonna see double at Some Point. I had three glasses, mostly fruit, and finally turn my cup upside down to remind myself to stop drinking that Poison. There are recipes at this place designed specifically to Go Down Easy and Fuck You Up, large quantities for cheap.

The drinking here is fun, but it’s starting to grow wearisome. Lots of free alcohol, I think to take the edge off of what we are in fact doing here, with the 8 shows and the No Days Off thing. It’s rough to open a show that we just busted our asses on, get tore up on some strong sangria, and know that tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., it’s back to the shop to start hauling ass on the next show. No rest for the weary… I get the whole Making Contacts thing, and Living Breathing Eating Sleeping Theatre thing, and the Work Ethic Exercise, and Test of Dedication bit, and those are all big bonuses, but damn…this place is kinda making me crazy.

Take, for example, the fact that I was physically violent to two people in less than a week. Once, I kicked the Loud One off of my bed when she was climbing into it drunk after I warned her with, “Don’t get on my bed, I will kick you down”, and then again, with a drunken stage manager that made the mistake of laughing too hard at my last name…I pushed him, not too savagely, about the gut, and he simply didn’t have the facilities to balance himself. I laid him flat on his back.

Who is this person doing these things? I am NOT a violent person, and I don’t have a terribly short fuse. I don’t let people push me around, walk all over me, or get away with offensive behavior without nary a word said, but still…Still. It doesn’t feel like me that would do that. The weirdest part is, it felt Really Good both times. I was satisfied when the Loud One, who we’ll call Stephanie Spano (or Spano, for short, if I ever have cause to write about her again) hit the floor hard enough to vibrate the bunk bed. I felt light-hearted when the Tall Stage Manager couldn’t immediately stand up, instead rolling on his back like a turtle, upside down, for just a moment until I helped him up. It concerns me slightly that I have no real moral objection to either of these instances. In my head, I keep hearing the phrase, They Had It Coming. But that’s no good! People think that kinda shit after they blow up abortion clinics or commit hate crimes. Am I slowly turning into a vigilante? Or would that be a sociopath? I can’t tell. I don’t know.

There is a raging storm on, and I need to go stare out a window and watch the air whip around out there.