Force be with me

I'm babysitting nowadays, and let me tell you honestly-- there is no perspective-giving life event like child watching. I'm all about development, both in life (general) and specifically in childhood.

Now, on a couple of unfortunate occasions, I've had to force this 20 month old baby/kid I'm watching to do a couple of not-at-all-unfortunate tasks-- like eat, take a bath, stand STILL for two seconds. Simple. Tasks that even if they felt boring or like a waste of time, any normal adult told to do them would be like "Sure. Ok. Whatever." But for an almost two year old, it's like THE FUCKING LAST THING THEY WANT TO DO.

So I have to force her. And hopefully if I do it gently enough, it's a positive learning experience (although it doesn't seem like one when the result nine times out of ten is screaming, kicking or tears all over the goddamn place).

That being the analogy I want to set up-- I don't feel like writing at all right now. I am classically blocked, completely uninterested in writing at the moment. I want to eat and run around the house and watch television. I have to pick myself up and force myself to write something.

But I don't WANNA WRITE!

You know you have to turn in a scene to class tomorrow.

DON'T WAAAANNAAAA.

You haven't written all week. It couldn't hurt to just try writing a little bit now.

NO!

Come on.

NO!

Just write a little bit. You'll forget you didn't want to in the first place if you just do a little bit.

NO! WRITING! NO!

Okay, I'm just gonna pick you up and we're gonna go write for a little bit whether you want to or not.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHHHOSAAAAAOSHFAOISJLEKSFOOOO (just screaming, now, no words)

Shhhh, it's okay. Calm down, shhh now.

(Quit halt to screaming/sobbing)... no writing?

No, you're going to write.

(Beat. Screaming like lemon on a wound. The neighbors are gonna call the cops on you.)

Prom and Conversations I'll be a part of someday but not today

Okay... optimism is a fickle bitch and can't decide whether it's in abundance or a rarity. In my life, at least. So tonight, I write with an ambiguous "things are... things" kind of mentality. Not good. Not bad. Just things.

My friends Matt and Frank are throwing a birthday party prom for their 26th birthdays this Saturday. I'm all ABOUT this, as high school prom was a complete debacle in the majority of my remembrances, and a do-over is definitely in order. Plus, I'm not planning too far in advance. The planning is all-too-often where prom goes horribly awry-- expectations almost always blow the entire event out of proportion.

And another way this prom is already better than the first one-- I have a real date! I asked him over G-Chat and it's no big deal, but still, he's a real live guy-date*.

*Not that going to high school prom with Emily Roberson wasn't a slice of delightful. She was just a she.

In secondary news, today at work I was a part of a discussion that placed me in terrain so clearly out of my league. To explain-- a group of playwrights got together for bourbon and discussion. I happened to be working, sat down and joined in.

I spoke maybe three times over the course of two hours.

They talked about politics and playwrighting and theater and America and ALL THIS SHIT I'm CONSTANTLY thinking about. The difference being-- oh, I don't know, their legitimate status as playwrights? Their intimate knowledge of the topics we were discussing? The big, deliberately chosen words they used to express pertinent, edgy ideas? One of those.

So while I was overwhelmed and felt totally under-qualified to so much as express my opinion, it was huge just to be in the room. It was like hearing all my college professors get together over booze and shoot the shit. I'd be SO interested and listen with unwavering attention-- but I'd be scared out of my fucking mind.

Attrition! Attrition! .... Attrition!

Sing the title to "Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof and it's way funnier.

I've been blog-absent for years now, it seems. I only honestly admit this because I just spent the past hour or so reading old entries and getting lost in the alleyways of memory lane. ("I was still friends with people from high school in my junior year of college! And I wish I still was! Oh my god how detached I feel now by comparison!")

There's this idea that got introduced in my playwriting class that seems a little daunting. It's what makes "All My Sons" a fucking virtuousic dramatic work-- indicative of what theater should be able and IS able to do. It's the concept that dramatic actions build upon every dramatic action that's come before it-- the attrition of emotion/information is cumulative, and pressure builds until the drama has stuffed itself into too small a space and something has to explode in a cathartic release (CLIMAX!).

That being said, I have a bit of a problem with attrition in my own life. I think it comes with my ability to completely forget the past and live completely in the future. (This is a recent development... ironically.)

I love progress. And I love thinking that the version of myself that I am at the moment is more advanced and evolved than previous versions of myself. But reading old entries makes me realize that old me wasn't the senseless, underdeveloped me that I always pretend she was. Granted, reading old entries is a bit like hearing a stranger talk (and what a clever, attractive stranger she was). But I wasn't completely retarded, and certainly not so less sophisticated than I am now. Less well-read, perhaps. But not unintelligent and not completely incomprehensible.

Speaking about completely incomprehensible behavior, I had a point about "attrition" that may have been thrown to the wolves of a slightly inebriated mind. Blame it on people at work deciding that Thursday night is the best possible night to throw a Bourbon party.

Oh man I wish I had written this:

This is from another guy's blog (arguably, a better guy's blog, but give me time). Here he is, in all his glory.

And here's what he wrote to make me fall in love with him:

Dumb Things Stupid People Say About… (#1)
September 23rd, 2008

Vegetarianism

If you were a Martian visiting the planet Earth, you could easily be forgiven for believing that vegetarians were a bloodthirsty, militant sect, positively armed to the teeth and prepared to make war against the helpless and peaceful denizens of civilisation. Judging purely by what the other ninety four percent of the population has to say about us that is.

Yes, yes, I can already hear the words coming out of your mouth:

“Oh no! He is one of those militant vegetarians about to jump on his soapbox!”

Well yes and no. I’ve never considered myself a “militant” veggie, in fact, I’ve always found the term somewhat mystifying, never having encountered one. Most of the vegetarians I know are reluctant to speak about their dietary choice, unless talking to another veggie, or pressed into conversation about it by an omnivore.

But I am about to jump up on my soapbox. Sorry folks, but this has been building for some time. It’s strange, but vegetarianism has been the only thing I have ever experienced any form of prejudice over, yet I’ve never tried to “convert” a non-vegetarian, and tend always to shy away from debate on the subject. Despite the fact that I would eat most omnivores alive in such a debate, and despite the fact that virtually every omnivore I have ever known has at least once tried to convince me of the merits of their diet, and furnished me with unrequested justifications for their murder of other species.

I get treated like a nuisance and a chore at meals and trips out, have been verbally abused by staff at restaurants, and am expected to endure any number of jokes at my expense with good humour. If any vegetarian should dare to answer back to the standard barrage of bigotry, they are instantly labelled a wild militant proselytising veggie.

I need to get this off my chest, so here it comes. My normally unspoken response to the stupidest things I hear said about my diet.

The Myth of the Militant Veggie

Every omnivore will talk about these people as though they cannot even get out the door without having to fight one off. Odd, since we don’t even constitute a tenth of the population in most western nations. They will roll their eyes and tut about how much they loathe them.

Here is some news for you:

There. Is. No. Such. Thing. The so-called extremist veggies, are usually just people you have cornered at a meal table. Every time my diet has been discovered by an omnivore, I have been expected to defend it, as though the very fact of my existence is a challenge. Every such discussion will mean having to endure the standard of effluent mush from self-appointed diet and ethics experts explaining their half-baked theories of why my diet is wrong. Most people that get pigeonholed as militant veggies are simply people that are sick of this shit. We just want to eat our meals, so please don’t take offence when you decide to pounce on us, and we reply in a manner that is less than obsequious.

What annoys me most, is that the smug critics of “militant veggies” are usually equally militant about their own moral qualms, it’s just that they aren’t forced to defend them every lunchtime.

Imagine if every time you tried to sleep with someone over 18, someone barged in and said “Oh my god, you don’t believe in fucking twelve year olds? Why?” And proceeded to explain why you should (twelve is the legal age of consent in more than one country you know…) and you might understand why some veggies start to feel a bit touchy on the subject of their diet.

So someone is a tad sensitive about having to defend their ethical stance against murder every meal time?

Well gee-fucking-willikers! What a surprise.


"Humans Are Designed to Eat Meat…"

Don’t you love it when people use superstitious anthropocentric teleological brain-farts in place of logical discourse?

Right.

Humans are not designed to do anything, you fucking imbecile. Keep your absurd religious beliefs to yourself, and then maybe I’ll keep my diet to myself. Humans evolved, from monkeys. Early human diets probably got their protein from small insects, not great lumps of cow flesh. Yes, human evolutionary history certainly includes the eating of meat, it also includes rape, living in trees and throwing shit at one another. This does not present us with a teleological imperative to eat meat, it is not a justification, it is simply a fact about the past. Trace our ancestry back far enough and you’ll find fish, should modern humans breathe underwater? The only “fact” about our diet in this regard is that we require protein and certain vitamins, all of which are attainable through a vegetarian diet without supplements. Meat is one way of getting those things, but it is not the only way.


"You’re as bad as us! Cos you kill plants and plants might be able to feel pain!!!"

This argument does genuinely does make me reconsider my stance on vegetarianism. Because I think “anyone stupid enough to try and field that as a rational argument, clearly needs to be removed from the human gene-pool for our good and theirs” and fuck it, if we’re killing them anyway, we may as well eat them for tidiness sake.

Now, I appreciate that you were probably never told this in primary school. This was because most primary school educators assumed it was self evident, that not even a lobotomy victim would fail to grasp the startling fact… Plants do not have brains. They do not experience life the same way that we do. Yes, there may well be some plant equivalent to displeasure, but to claim that their experience is analogous to ours, or even comprehensible to us, requires a special degree of mental ineptitude. Oh yes, you can invoke rhetoric and intellectual dishonesty, and point out that I don’t know what it is like to be a plant, and they might well feel pain and unhappiness at being eaten, but this argument could quite easily be applied to anything. It has the same degree of intellectual substance as claiming that eating shrimp may well upset Jehova.

Yes, Plants may well feel pain, and the invisible pink unicorn may well punish us for eating corn flakes. The simple fact is, we cannot possibly know, so as a statement it is entirely without meaning or content. However, we do know what physical pain is like, we do know what fear of death is like, we can clearly see that animals experience physical and emotional distress just like ours when confronted with pain and death.

We also know that an omnivorous diet is not a nutritional necessity, but simply a meaningless lifestyle choice.

Oh I know the “plants feel pain” defence was your favourite, I know, I know, it was a beautiful theory ruined by an ugly truth. Get over it. It wasn’t a valid argument when you spewed it up, it isn’t one now, and it won’t ever be. The only thing it provides evidence for is the possibility that you aren’t a thinking intelligent creature.


"Well you aren’t saving any animal lives by not eating meat…"

Well, aside from being an outright lie (the meat industry is a good 6-7% smaller than it would be if we ate meat, simple logic, give it a try sometime) this statement is based on an extremely shaky ethical assumption.

The point isn’t that we are saving all the cows, the point is that we aren’t killing them. Would you apply the same logic to abortions or the holocaust? No? Of course not, because it’s fucking ridiculous.

If a woman is going to be raped anyway, would you join in?


"Vegetarianism is a luxury, what if you were starving to death and had nothing but a cow/sheep/duck/kitten/etc?"

If there was a famine, and people were starving to death, why the fuck would they waste the bulk of their edible resources raising an animal, that will provide them with barely a quarter of the same amount of food in return?

When you produce meat, you are throwing away food because meat is a secondary food source. The idea that hard times would force people to adopt meat-eating diets is patently absurd. Why don’t you take a trip to the third world, and ask them how many times a week they have steak?

Meat is a luxury product, ecologically unsound and wildly inefficient to produce. If you were starving in a desert, you wouldn’t eat a cow, you would tuck into your grain like everyone else, imbecile. Sorry to break the illusion for you.

And if for some reason I were forced to kill an animal to survive, well what of it? It’s a completely different ethical situation to our current one. We don’t have to kill animals to survive. We have a choice. And one of those choices leaves you less prone to cancer, is better for the enviroment, less expensive, causes less heart disease…


"But we stun the animals, so they feel no pain…"

And I drugged your sister with Rohypnol, so she won’t even remember…


"But it isn’t wrong to kill weaker beings for food…"

Good, I’ll eat you.


"But…but… but"

Shut up already. I’m done (exhales). So next time you’re at a meal, and about to abuse the veggie with the usual line-up of flaccid inanities, please, just think back over this, see if it has already been covered. You might just spare yourself an encounter with a militant veggie.

Our diet is better than yours, morally, ecologically, medically and economically. But if you don’t bother us, we might just keep it to ourselves.

A surprising revelation: I like yoga

I'd be the first to admit that I always hated yoga. In high school, I thought it was pretentious. In college, I thought I wasn't built for it. And now, here I am, about to profess my love for something I used to genuinely think was ridiculous. (Oh Ignorance, you sly bastard. I keep forgetting I still have so much of you!) YOGA, you guys. My hippie-ness steadily increases the further I get into my twenties-- and I LOVE it.

But yes-- Yoga at 10am every Friday is starting look like my new personal version of church at 10am every Sunday. As far as habits go, this seems like a pretty sensible one to make.

The woman I'd most aptly describe as my new spiritual guide is named Vanessa. And she is a total genius.

I've always shied away from yoga because I'm inflexible, and most classes I've taken in the past have been populated by super-stretchy aspiring actresses and equally-stretchy German dudes, so I've gotten pretty intimidated and I don't generally enjoy myself. The class I started taking last week, though, added a very important ingredient to the regimen of simply too-hard-for-Carly poses: Spiritual Enlightenment. And not just like "close your eyes and focus your energy"-type spiritual enlightenment. Actual life wisdom in the form of yoga-inspired insight.

There's a ritual structure to these classes that appeals to me the way I'm sure church appeals to most people. Vanessa begins the class with a sermon of sorts-- anecdotal thoughts from her own life, followed by what she sees as the universally shared weekly energy state of, literally, humanity (even as physiologically obvious as: "it's getting colder, our lungs (which we all have) become slightly more dried out and brittle, I'll focus today on warmness and certain types of breathing). And it's never anything so hokey that I'm pulled out of the legitimacy of the practice-- which is AMAZING.

Today's sermon was an oddly-serendipitous analogy: Getting your computer fixed. Vanessa had recently taken her computer to the Apple store (like OH HEY I had to this weekend). They told her something in her computer was "corrupted," which meant her hard drive needed to be completely wiped clean (like OH HEY mine had to be). Our bodies and our souls oftentimes corrupted-- maladaptive schemas, incorrect posture, bad diet, hurtful belief systems-- some that we may not even know about. And when our body-computer stops working or isn't working as efficiently as it can, it's not as easy as it is with a computer to wipe the slate clean. But in the practice of meditation and realignment and all this great yoga-bullshit I'm starting to love, we gradually come closer to a clean slate.

And it's the effort that we put into the practice that makes the rewards all the more special. When you drop off your computer, come back a couple days later, and it's suddenly fixed, you lose that crucial, behavior-rewarding feeling of achievement. And it's a blessing in disguise that bodily and spiritual realignment is the pain-in-the-ass, sometimes-too-hard commitment that it actually is.

Another reason yoga class kicks ass: she talks about "honoring" your body in the most conversational way. And it's true. If you are stubborn to a pose (in the same way that you could be stubborn to a person's wishes) you are not honoring your body (or that person). It's really cool to make this realization when you have your heel in your face.

We were asked to envision ourselves taking items off a table throughout the course of the 1 1/2-hour class. By the end of the session, our table was to be cleared and totally au naturale. I came upon an interesting conundrum that I think actually gives interesting insight into my character: my table couldn't decide what it looked like. It alternated between a plain, unvarnished, rectangular blonde oak table-- very simple, very structurally solid-- and a varnished, maple, round table with artfully crafted legs-- very crafty and beautiful.

I'm still not that flexible, but it's nice to be humbled once a week. To be grounded into my own body and to feel like I'm chipping away at the over-calcification that plagues my hip-sockets. I feel like I don't always honor my body... so it's refreshing to get a taste of what it feels like to do so.

The ongoing battle against shit that gets me down

Well, if my lack of writing lately hasn't been testament enough to the fact, September gave me little to complain about. A quick summary includes my getting hired at the best internship ever, seeing a bunch of shows, reaffirming and pretty much cementing my desire to be a playwright, and a serene, happy feeling that followed me everywhere I went. Sometimes my brain clicks on, and my thoughts come quickly and the world is rose-colored.

And, to balance out, sometimes my brain clicks off and I feel like a big, big retard and the world is shit.

I'm pretty sure I just began the slow descent into the latter.

I felt pretty depressive all day-- lethargic, pessimistic and oh yes SO HUNGRY. For some reason, when I get depressed, all I physically desire is ice cream and a nap. And I had planned on going to the gym today...

But even when things aren't going that bad at all, when I've got a case of the downer, I still manage to perceive good things as
shit-tinted. Like, for example, tonight I saw a free 80's rock musical. At the outset, I expected it to be fun but bad (like "The Holiday" or a whole bunch of other movies my mom really likes). And surprisingly, as the night went on, I realized "Oh wow... this is bad... but not -that- bad." It was a juke-box musical, but the book wasn't entirely moronic. Some jokes were so over-the-top that I had to commend the show's commitment to it's own ridiculousness. And ultimately, I was having a really fun time watching it. At one point during the first act, I was unable to keep from singing along (it was the "Waaanteeed" in between "I'm wanted" and "Dead or Alive," just to clarify).

Only something managed to tarnish even my ridiculous fun. I realized at intermission that my boss from when I worked at The Public was sitting behind me.

Which was fine. I'm civil and try to be genuinely friendly, even though the internship ended pretty badly. I joked about the ridiculousness of the musical (my friend literally admitted that she was having more fun than she did at "The Seagull") and I was successfully behaving cordially, until I realized that she was gathering her things to leave at intermission.

Now, I mean, please. It was the first preview, the audience was seeing the show for free, and even I (who despise juke-box musicals SOhohoHO much) have to admit that it wasn't the actual worst thing I'd ever seen.*

*"Strippers and Gentlemen" takes that prize. Edinburgh 2008. I left half-way through and I've never regretted it.

But honestly, I'd be lying if I said I got over my indignation for her pretention anytime soon. It bugged me all throughout the second act-- which, by the way, was even MORE FUN. In fact, it wasn't until just recently (while writing this) that I found a positive spin on what was essentially a non-important event anyway. The positive spin being this:

Thank goodness that I'm not so stuck-up that I can't enjoy myself when things are far less than earth-shatteringly important. Obviously I really enjoy good, legit art as well, but I consider myself lucky to enjoy an especially wide spectrum of entertainment. My tastes aren't always so discerning that I can't see the specific kind of value in well-executed buffoonery. (An example of well- versus poorly-executed buffoonery being the difference between "Tropic Thunder" and oh, say "Epic Movie" or any of those painfully unfunny spoof-movies). As long as a retardedly fun show doesn't expect to be received as anything more than retardedly fun (and succeeds in being retardedly fun)-- I'm on board.

That being said, people who saw "The Trailer Park Musical" at Edinburgh will understand when I say this-- Bad musicals can be fun.

And this one was WAY more fun than "The Trailer Park Musical," just saying.

The Living Age

The Living Age: "We do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life it would be like hearing the gross grow and the squirrel's heart beat and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence As it is the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity Vol i p 351"

another post: super-sad in its delayedness

Dedicated to K-roll.

I feel old this morning (I almost phrased it "I'm having one of those mornings where I feel old," but I'm 22, and frankly, I actually feel old quite infrequently).

I started out my morning internet routine by looking up as much as I could on The Signature Theatre Company, where I have an interview this afternoon for an internship. That quickly turned into a sprawling bout of Wikipedia exploring, specifically playwrights. Then, Arthur Miller. Avid readers will remember that I met him freshman year of college (prior to his death in 2004). More avid readers will actually be checking this blog after three months of silence.

And reading about Mr. Miller reminded me that I was yes, once enrolled in Dramatic Writing as a course. And that, no, I didn't take full advantage of that situation. In fact, until a couple minutes ago, I couldn't remember my professor's name.

Arnold Weinstein.

He has a Wikipedia page. And rightfully so, he was accomplished and fascinating. Stupid 19-year-old Carly had no idea of this fact, though, and therefore often dozed off during class (which had 3 other students total).

So that's one reason I feel old, if not just significantly wizened.

Another is that, to remember my professors name, I had to sift through the archived entries of my now extinct blog. Now, I had this thing and updated regularly for seven years (sophomore year of high school to senior year of college). And re-reading it is exhausting. (Kind of like reading large portions of any stranger's blog is.)

But hey, I wasn't bad. I stopped blogging for a year and going back now, I think that may have been a mistake. In my non-blogginess, I think I began to believe that blogger-Carly only wrote about retarded and meaningless things. Which, to be fair, I did, but not exclusively. If anyone wants to mine for gold, be my guest.

art is expensive, yo

So I've been trying to manufacture some colorful clutter in my little basement abode lately. Which means going to flea markets and thrift stores around New York, keeping an eye out for interesting art work. Paintings, prints, stuff in frames. It sounded easy. I thought it would be.

But then I realized.

People want MONEY for their art!

Like a lot. Not twenty bucks, which is what I wrongly assumed the going rate was for a framed print or a canvassed painting. The worst part is, I assumed I would find some cool shitty art that just happened to strike a meaningful chord. NOPE. Shitty art is shitty and it only truly succeeds in striking a shitty chord.

I went to a flea market in Chelsea yesterday that was RIFE with prints and paintings and the good stuff. I found a painting of a ship and a painting of Don Quixote, both of which I would have bought if the going price on both hadn't been fifty bucks (literally five bucks shy of what I actually had on me). The stuff I could have afforded was either moth eaten or just really really ugly.

Right now I'm sitting in Think Coffee (this cafe near NYU that is hip, artsy and no doubt environmentally conscious). There is art ALL over this place, and some of them have price tags. A quick glance over my shoulder informed me that for only $300 I could be the proud owner of a black and white series of animal sketches.

Recently, I've been thinking about amassing a series of my own paintings. (That's right! I paint now!) If I could get together like 20 little guache pieces (of harmless kitschy subjects like "dogs and their owners") I could totally set up a table in Union Square. If I charge $30 for each painting (i.e. what people actually WANT to spend on a harmless piece of art) I might make some money.

Sometimes I get too high-falutingly bohemian for my own good. The day I set up an art table in Union Square is the day I start working on my dreadlocks. (Something I've always secretly considered...)

it's not always about me

Stop Making Movies About My Books

On the fourteenth of March, in towns nationwide, In every cinema, multiplex, on every barnside, Gleamed another adapting of...

to update the impossible update

Hunh. A month has gone by and I haven't written a word on this guy. I officially have a blog again!

I promise I'll try to really exhaust the inexhaustible amount of shit there is to update you guys about. I've gone on a fair amount of adventures and gone through a fair amount of mood swings since I last wrote (I'd say at least 2 peaks and 1.5 valleys).

Maybe one explanation for why I've been writing so little is that I've been reading like a friggin maniac lately. In keeping with my constant desire to culturally enrich myself, I've been a regular Pagemaster (starring Macauley Culkin) lately. It's been mostly plays, since as soon as I'm done being fascinated by one playwright I realize there's someone else I have literally never even heard about who is totally worthwhile (Sarah Kane and David Greig fall into that category with a vengeance). Including those two, I've gone through phases of obsession with Wallace Shawn, Steve Martin, Chuck Mee and Sarah Ruhl. And those are just the ones I've liked.

Allowing for this sudden surge of curiosity was my rediscovery of the New York Public Performing Arts Library (cue heavenly fanfare). Seriously. Free plays. Free DVDs of plays. And every play or musical ever recorded, available for viewing. It's the kind of overwhelmingly expansive resource that makes you feel lazy any moment you don't spend reading a book.

That being said, I'm excited about spearheading my own development as a playwright given the likelihood of not spending next year in Graduate school. Actually, to be totally upfront in light of really recent events, the battle was half lost this morning when I got my Columbia rejection letter in the mail. (Oh well, I figure. They accepted me once.) I'm not totally discouraged, though, since my big push was for NYU and since perseverance in the face of failure seems to be a useful skill in this particular line of work. I might as well start developing my thick skin now. (God grant me the grace to cope without resorting to apathy or bitterness. God also grant me a kickass day job for next year.)

Speaking of jobs, I recently decided to go back to camp. Which is funny, since a year ago I'm pretty sure I said (and I quote), "I'm never going back to Camp Shane." Isn't it funny how eight months of boring stresslessness and ample free time will cause one to throw themselves back in the lion pit? I've thought of a million reasons to look forward to camp. They are:

* I actually miss working with kids. It was hard, but I think I actually might be good at it. And directing the development of little brains caters to my more power hungry sensibilities (say that at a babysitting interview).

* People, some of the. I had a conversation with my friend Carol this morning, who despite being in the Netherlands for another year I am determined to convince to return to camp. It's probably impossible. Or is it IMPOSSIBLY PROBABLE!?!?! (I'm so awesome, it might just work.)

* I get to do more theater stuff.

* I get to be creative.

* I get to be self-directed.

And those last three... wooh. They are doozies. I looked at pictures of Seussical from last summer and got all tingly thinking about doing sets and costumes and choreography again. That being sad, I'm open to suggestions for kid-friendly musicals you folks think a ragtag group of pudgy starlets could put together in three weeks.

AND we have a new project runway winner

Only on a Wednesday (I really gotta cut this shit out; I'm starting to sound like a reverse of Garfield's lame Monday obsession).

This glorious day began with a hearty (vegetarian, still) breakfast with my roommate. The matinee I picked this week was "Passing Strange," a musical that got it's start at the Public Theater and was such a hit that it moved to Broadway. And THANK GOD, because it might be my new favorite musical currently running.

First, it had a concept that, while not shouting "oh my god come see this musical RIGHTNOWGODOIT," I found intriguing. It's a pretty simple plot as a whole-- a boy ventures far from home in the all-too-relatable search for "the real." Marsha Norman said it best last week when I snuck into her playwriting class: "Write a good story about the search for home [identity/understanding/love], and you've got GOLD on your hands." I personally stick to the credo: "Write a good story about learning important life lessons from pharmaceutical experiences, and you've got GOLD on your hands."

I honestly can't say that I remember being so simultaneously intellectually and emotionally stimulated by a musical. The narrator, a rockstar named Stew, might be a total genius. Nay, IS a total genius. The music was exuberant and the lyrics were brilliant. I realized partway through that I couldn't just buy the soundtrack. I have got to see this musical again. And I need to start a grassroots campaign to keep it on Broadway long enough for everyone I know to see it too.

22 good to be true

I totally settled with that title. But it's late and I've been meaning to write for a day and a half now. I came really close this morning, but being a wee bit hungover I opted for spooning with my dog on the couch for a couple hours instead.

I have enjoyed a very good past couple of days. I'll work backwards, like Memento.

At work tonight, I didn't have to do anything. So I read and tried not to look to hungover.

This afternoon, I gave myself a grace period in which I generally lazed about the house, accomplished nothing and felt superb about it.

This morning, I woke up in time to see my roommate off to work and promptly fell back asleep on the couch with my dog (who is soft and smells better than ever after getting all her hair buzzcut off recently).

Last night, I had a dance party at a neighborhood bar with friends. Much credit is due to alcohol, but the dancing was really absurd, completely out of control and oh so much fun. Birthdays are a nice excuse for friends to remind each other constantly why and how much they love one another.

Yesterday evening, after skipping out on class after an hour, my mother took me bowling. We had had a big day, and while the bowling was fun, we were a bit cranky.

Yesterday afternoon, I took my mom to see "The Farnsworth Invention" after a crisis of Broadway faith in which we almost saw "August: Osage County." Being that my mom is the Aaron Sorkin fan that she is, I came to my senses and we got TKTS for the history-laden (but still dramatic and funny) play. We both enjoyed the hell out of ourselves with the play alone, but as we were leaving we were in for a humongous surprise that I'll probably always associate with this birthday. Aaron Sorkin was giving a Q&A session with some high schoolers, and being that we are slow ass theater leavers, my mom and I got to hide out and listen. Afterwards, emboldened by my birthday adventure seekingness, I went up to Sorkin and said a bunch of words I don't even remember. My heart was beating and I was visibly shakey, but unlike my mother I was able to come within 10 feet of the guy. Honestly, he was really cool and the whole experience smacked of good luck. Afterwards, between our frustrated realizations of "what we should have said," mom and I came to the conclusion that we just couldn't believe that we didn't ask him to dinner.

Yesterday at lunch, we went to John's Pizzeria and had a killer lunch. I sorted through the dozens of fabric swatches that I had collected for my fashion design class (a hobbie I might continue even when I don't go into making clothes). In Wednesdays past, I'd really always missed my mom the most during lunches by myself. So free of spectacle as it is, lunch might have been the nicest part of my day.

Yesterday morning, I woke up much earlier than my BAC the night before could have predicted. Mom and I got Starbucks and confirmed that no, my debit card hadn't been stolen.

Two nights ago, I met up with my roommates to celebrate the countdown to CJBday (I just made that up now... keep it in mind for next year). We had had a couple of birthday shots and by 1am I was absolutely convinced that I was getting a tattoo. (The bar was on St. Marks and it would have been entirely possible.) Adding to the debauchery, the bartender was a bit of a "cute guy" (as they say) and I was having fun flirting with him. Now, there's no element of surprise to this post because I don't even want to try to build suspense to satisfy the UTTER bewilderment I felt when my mom showed up at the bar.

I had absolutely no idea that she was coming or what was going on. All I knew was that that night was the most pleasantly surprised I have ever felt (it continued when we cabbed home and I discovered presents and a cake which my roommate had set up).

So, to end a long descriptive post I will say this: Good birthday. Things are looking good. Goodnight.

Of course I'm posting on Wednesday

Because Wednesdays are amazing. Wednesdays are a refresher course in why I love life. Wednesdays are consistently, extremely, hyperbolically amazing.

Today I saw "The 39 Steps," a play based on the Alfred Hitchcock movie. Of course, while the Hitch thriller was completely serious in its twisty turney-ness, the play was a complete farce (intentionally). There were four actors playing all 30-something roles, and truthfully this led to some creative and visually hilarious staging. Yes, it was funny. Yes, it was clever.

That being said, I wanted to personally elbow everyone in the theater in the esophagus. I've never seen a play get this much laughter for what was really just cute and clever. I switched seats at intermission because the woman next to me in the mezzanine kept musing (ALOUD!) that "This is so clever." Tragically, the woman I ended up sitting next to during the second act was incapable of normal human laughter. Instead of a chuckle, or even a snicker, she would substitute saying (ALOUD!) the phrase "That's funny" whenever something remotely funny happened.

Now, I hate it when people vocally and emphatically praise a mediocre play as they leave the theater. Just imagine my steam-blowing-out-my-earedness when my two neighbors did it DURING the show.

It really kills me because I'm sure the play was good enough for me to be able to say I just enjoyed it. I love Hitchcock. I love visual humor and clever staging. But forevermore will I have to remember "The 39 Steps" as the play that was good, but not that good.

To return my heart to an upright and happy position, I'll end on this note. Tonight at Fashion Design, we did (more) live model drawings. Taking my teacher's advice (proof that I've improved my ability to swallow my pride, considering she began her criticism with "If you want your drawings to look less cartoon-y), I drew a really stunning figure. Which the entire class was going apeshit over. I'm trying to stay humble, but I need to emphasize this fact so that later this week when I feel worthless (it happens once a week, at least) I'll remember back to Wednesday night when I was a fucking ace talent, superartist extrordinaire.

I'm a fucking ace talent, superartist extrordinaire.

Post-yoga and feeling fine

Okay, this post is going to make people think I'm a big effing hippie. And you know, maybe I am-- my hair and fingernails certainly attest to it.

But yes, I'm not eating meat for a little while. For at least a week, to test the dolphin-safe waters. I read up on the benefits of a vegan diet somewhere (I know where, I'm just too embarrassed to disclose), and it actually made enough of an impact that I'd give it a shot. Why not? I have the whole rest of my life to chow down on animal carcass if I decide that my diet was lacking without it. Otherwise, I feel like I'm making a political statement that worldwide veganism would, YES, be an insanely positive thing. (My favorite fun fact is actually that the collective farts and burps of animals raised for slaughter are releasing enough methane into the air to punch a hole in the o-zone. In hindsight, I'm a bigger fan of sensation than fact, and it is for this reason that I'll never be a journalist.)

No meat. No dairy. Just whole grains, fruits, vegetables and (ohlordy) soy. Which isn't too far a cry from what I manage to eat anyway (I didn't say I was eradicating fried food, afterall). If in a week I feel as good as coughskinnybitchcough says I will, maybe I'll look into a longer trial. But really, after this morning's yoga (I sucked, but I feel great) and Jamba Juice, the endorphins alone are convincing me that I could get used to this bright and shiny vegan feeling.

Give it a week.

Blahblahblahandthen OHMYGOD Wednesday matinee day

That's what life feels like lately. Wednesdays are the shit, contrary to popular belief. Given my work schedule, Wednesday at 2pm is the only reliable time I can see a Broadway show (and for student rush prices, no less!). So the past couple Wednesdays have been joyous, old-fogey filled afternoon theater adventures.

Today, I saw "The Seafarer," by Conor McPherson. At first, it was just a delightful banter-fest (those Irish accents SLAY ME). Somewhere in the second act, it became the Broadway play where I (seated cheaply in the front row) almost got hit square in the middle of my forehead by a piece of flying set. It's a fight scene, and a chair gets thrown into a dresser-- which in this ill-fated performance, starred an air-borne drawer handle that chipped violently off. Towards the audience. Right at me.

Thanks to my ninja-esque reflexes and a readiness at all times for shit to try hitting me in the face, I ducked. It actually would have hit me if I hadn't. And later, when the show had ended and it became acceptable, everyone in my section of the audience was like "HOLYSHITDUDETHATWASAWESOME." Which is funny to hear when a retiree says it.

Otherwise, I had a pretty boring week.

Other than the fact that I'm not eating meat anymore. We'll talk about that soon. I'm shleepy and I plan on waking up early to do some fuckin YOGA.

I cyciclical

In the course of one week I have
- been outrageously optimistic
- experienced a brief bout of productivity
- gotten sick
- gotten sicker
- lost hope (hyperbole intended)
- healed, so to speak
- thrown a Superbowl party
- regained my optimism

I'd call that "about par."

And to thank for my optimism returning, I'd call it a three-way tie between
- seeing "A Chorus Line"
- being one of the top three sketch-artists in my fashion design class (self-appointed)
- Ricky's all-too-late expulsion from Project Runway

I like
- lists, apparently
- ice cream
- when Stephen King writes the back page article in Entertainment Weekly

I don't like
- ending on a positive note, apparently
- Ricky
- when Diablo Cody writes the back page article in Entertainment Weekly

Confession

Did anyone else switch back to the Democratic debate during Lost commercials (and not the other way around?).

To be fair, I recorded both.

Mmm, that's some good Wednesday

First of all, burgeoning cold be damned, right now I'm eating ice cream. Baskin Robbins is my new addiction (coffee didn't go anywhere, it's just my old one). I had legitimate mint chocolate chip cravings as soon as I got home and realized the only sweet food in my cupboard were packets of Splenda. After one of those bad boys, I had to get out of the house and just indulge already. So here I sit with a double scoop (less is not more when it comes to ice cream, incidentally).

I had a decent day. Days like this make me wish days like this were every day.

I used a defunct Columbia ID to buy crazy cheap tickets to a matinee of "The Farnsworth Invention," the Aaron Sorkin play on Broadway. It starred Jimmi Simpson and Hank Azaria. Their performances must have been pretty killer, because it wasn't until way afterward that I was like "Goddam, Hank Azaria is Apu. And Jimmi Simpson is a McPoyle brother [on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia]." So like, good for them, for being able to suspend my disbelief effectively enough to calm my ever present celebrity giddiness.

I thoroughly enjoyed the play, and I'll tell you why. I like edu-tainment. I read Wikipedia for fun and watch "How It's Made" often. I like that, walking out of the theater, not only did I have lots of questions to ponder that I'm sure Sorkin intended, but I was Google-bound to learn more about The Great Depression and the stock market crash (you know, just to expand on the body of knowledge I gleaned from being in "Annie").

But edu-tainment is only as successful as the story that propagates it. Aaron Sorkin, I tip my hat to you. Pretty soon we'll be teaching our children American history by playing your movies in chronological order. And by "our children" I mean my children. That clearly I'll be adopting. Because I'm a loser.

Capping off my day, I started my Fashion Design basics class at The New School. Like a good like New student, I got New spiral notebooks and a New student ID (and probably the best ID picture I've gotten in my entire life). Class was short, largely spent introducing ourselves (my ice-breaking interesting fact was that I spent the summer Theater directing at a fat camp-- people eat that shit up, pun intended). Afterward everyone had to re-cap everyone and what their fact was. I felt bad for the girl whose interesting fact was that she's pregnant, and subsequently got to hear half the class be like "That's Brit," awkward face, "she's pregnant."

Cut to now. And ice cream. Good day.

Brunch is a reason to get faced at noon

My friend Addison and I like to get brunch together. We tend to meet up on a Sunday afternoon, having picked a place from the results of a Google search for "Unlimited Mimosas Sunday Brunch." Typically, we end up in Chelsea.

I encourage this kind of experimental and adventurous spirit when it comes to getting drunk way to early in the day. We are exploring the city, embracing our weekend, and sharing good conversation over a cost-effective, bottomless glass of champagne (with a touch of OJ).

Afterward, we stumbled from Flea Market to thrift store. I bought a bitchin' leather jacket (as one does at flea markets), and he got a pimp fur coat (as one does when they are drunk). All in all, I have had a wonderful Sunday, and I have hours left to go.

Speaking of Sundays, next week my roommates and I have decided to undertake a Superbowl party. The prospect of a day long Superbowl marathon party is intimidating, but potentially extremely satisfying. I'm open to any ideas on how to keep people entertained for hours on end, if you have any suggestions.

Yeah, but Chef Gusteau is REAL fat

The past two days have been about how good it feels to be inspired again. That manic, frenetic potential energy that just comes out in beams and squiggly lines. But today the theme was that potential energy is nothing if it's wasted. Not that I 'wasted' it, per se, but I haven't ended the day with a marble statue of David sitting in my living room or anything.

I did, for the sake of exciting discoveries, have a culinary kick this afternoon. It takes a person with tons of time on their hand to really appreciate how long, involved cooking is especially fun when done without the help of a recipe (or many ingredients, for that matter). I made a crepe with broccoli and cheese (seasoned with sauteed garlic and pepper) and nearly died when I realized what a good idea that was. End of the day, I made a broccoli pancake, but oh how fun the journey was (and how delicious the destination). I want to say I stopped thinking about Ratatouille once while I was cooking, but sadly, I didn't.

Also, I watched a four episodes of "Talespin" in a row. They were all one episode, though-- a four-parter called "Plunder and Lightning," which Wikepedia tells me was nominated for an Emmy (and rightly). Several things about that show were actually brilliant. One is Don Karnage-- he might be one of my favorite animated bad guys, but of course he went largely unappreciated in my childhood. Direct quote: "Take your hands off me and slap yourselves!" Who knew this show was actually funny? Another great discovery-- Sally Struthers voices the very petite Rebecca Cunningham. That's just ironic.

...said 350 mgs of caffeine

It's day two of a feel-all-good-and-accomplished marathon. I won't go into detail or specifics about the rejection I recently suffered, but I will say that I'm becoming a professional rebounder. In fact, I can only hope for more upsets in the future, because frankly, I'm a collector of chances to start from scratch and a fan of nowhere to go but up.

Yesterday, I picked up "The Phantom Tollbooth" from Strand (the famous 'mile of books' discount bookstore just south of Union Square) for a delightfully criminal five dollars. Everything I remember from that book, I remember because of the cartoon (no real shame there, as the Chuck Jone's classic is just that). But everything I don't remember (namely the whole middle section of the book and a couple of really amazing characters) is blowing MY FUCKING MIND.

Appropriately, the entire Doldrums bit left me jaw dropped and amazed by it's cleverness, not to mention it's applicability to my life when I'm feeling particularly shitty. After detailing their day-to-day schedule (including five naps), the Lethargarians tell Milo, "As you can see, that leaves no time for brooding, lagging, plodding or procrastinating, and if we stopped to think or laugh, we'd never get nothing done."

Cut to me, sitting in my pajamas with hummus all over my expressionless face. It's like in "The Neverending Story" when the kid realizes the book is talking about him, only in this case it was like the book wanted to hold an intervention. Thankfully, Milo gets saved by the watchdog, who tells him that all he needs to do to get his car moving again is think. OH, METAPHOR.

So yeah! My car is moving again, and things just keep happening that are making me optimistic and enthusiastic about life (either that or this is what they call the "manic" phase of Bipolar... one of the two). Sitting in a Starbucks, reading, writing, drinking copious amounts of coffee and contemplating leaves me feeling like I just ran a couple miles.

Which, I'm re-affirming now in the hopes that I don't forget it later, is so important. My enthusiasm and well-being depends on a constant influx of information and activity of my imagination. When I become stagnant and passive (as excessive TV is wont to make me), I get all depressed and chubby.

Last night I saw "Charlie Wilson's War" and after reading an article in Script Magazine by Aaron Sorkin, I've never been more convinced in my life that I need to be a writer. Plays, movies, or TV-- it has to happen. The gigantic self-concocted illusion, however, is that my feeling necessity to become a successful writer is going to magically translate into it happening, without all the effort and years of practice.

That's why I hope this is just "Day Two" of a habit that I'm about to form. A strict regimen of reading, writing and contemplating are now my day job. Television is okay (even Sorkin suggests "seeing a lot of movies and watching a lot of television") but to prevent slipping back into my doldrum-esque unemployed coma, I vow to make watching an active activity.

Bitches and bummers

So today was supposed to be the kind of day where I woke up, got to the gym, met up with some girls and saw 27 Dresses followed by chocolate desserts at Max Brenner. And you know what? It totally was. But then the second half of the day took a turn for the depressing.

First of all, Heath Ledger died. And you can't act like that's not a little upsetting. Even I, who would never turn down so much as the corners of my mouth at a celebrity death, was a little upset.

Second, guys are depressing. I can always count on coming home and watching TV with my roommate. So that should be satisfactory, right?

I could have been so much more witty if I had just posted 6 hours ago, but apparently the doldrums are a night-feeding species and I just don't feel like being quippy. (It took everything I had left in me to make a "Phantom Tollbooth" reference just then.)*

*I know what will make me feel better. Reading "The Phantom Tollbooth" tomorrow. Holy shit. I'm brilliant. "The Brothers Karamazov" will still be there when I'm done.

Zit, get off of my chin

I just saw that my summer camp blog had 22 entries. I'd have put it at like 9 if you asked me to guesstimate, so I'm pleasantly surprised.

Tonight at Joe's, I met a reggae flutist. We befriended one another, exchanged numbers and I discovered that a) when it rains, it actually does pour and b) sometimes you'll go out with a guy because he's a REGGAE FLUTIST. Needless to say, I'm going to stop criticizing "Lipstick Jungle" and "Cashmere Mafia" because they're just lame repeats of "Sex and the City," because apparently now so too is MY life.

I'm distraught at the fact that I'm hearing two movies are very good: "There Will Be Blood" and "Teeth." I didn't plan on and actually didn't really want to see the former, but now people are VEHEMENTLY into it. So I feel pressure to shuck off my initial off-puttedness and just see the damn flick. The second ("Teeth" to save you a scan-back) seemed like a joke the first time I heard about it. (Vagina dentata? Really?) But feedback has been positive-- proving to me that even a scary movie about a VAGINA with TEETH should be taken seriously. (...)

I want: a bagel

Why don't I use colons more often? It puts a funny pause in just about any sentence where the predicate could elicit many different responses. I am: nerdy.

I saw Cloverfield last night. In the third row of a gigantic theater. My eyes still hurt. (For those of you who aren't familiar, Cloverfield is a movie where New York gets destroyed by a monster, as documented from street-level on a handheld camcorder. It's jarring, upsetting and extremely cool.) There was also a preview for Star Trek: Under Construction. I was sitting with someone I wanted to not hate my geeky guts, so I managed to stifle my excited response to "SPACE."*

In music news, I got Kate Nash's album because I heard from a friend that she's like a British version of Pink. Since I adore angry chick pop-rock (and I've recently decided that is just fine, even a near-decade out of middle school) I decided to give her a listen. Check out "Foundations (Full Explicit Version)". It's been stuck in my head for the past day, and I'm going around singing what lyrics I can remember in a ridiculous British accent. She also has this slow song where the lyrics are literally "What are you being a dickhead for?/Stop being a dickhead." I dig it, even if it's crude.

*"THE FINAL FRONTIER."

I'm not wasting the day, I'm reading a book

It's "Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life," and being that I'm so suggestible voice-wise, everything I say for the next week will be short and irreverent (but charming).

For example, just now. I got to 'B' in the book, to an entry about birthmarks. The author talks for a bit about her birthmark and how much she loves it. I remember that I have one. But I don't think I've actually noticed-noticed it for a couple years. I freak out-- Why haven't I seen my birthmark lately? What if it's gone? Could I have possibly lost my birthmark from some freak circumstance of tanning?

So I stand up, pull down my pants, and breath a sigh of relief that I still have a birthmark on my left leg.

Moments like this are wasted by being private.

No more gmail-facebook-gmail

I haven't kept a reliable log or diary in my entire life. That's a huge hyperbolic lie for the sake of introduction and I have no idea why I wrote it. There was the not-insignificant blog I kept from 2002-2006, not to mention each year I have a bound diary that I fill at least three quarters.

Every once in a while I'll write by hand in my book-diary (recently I've been making it a habit to do so every night before bed, as a faith-healing belief in the benefit of good old fashioned "brain drain"). But I have never written diary-esque observations with the frequency, or with the same attempt at quality, that I did when I thought people were checking my website.

So tonight, in a spontaneous and unimportant decision, I think I'm going to start writing more shit that people can read if they wanna.

Because lately, and not to get bleak all a sudden, I've been suffering from a lack of motivation. I have days all to my lonesome, and unless I get my lazy ass out to Starbucks, I spend all day on the couch, bonding with my dog over the complete series of "Freaks and Geeks." Worst part is, that show's good. So I kid myself into thinking I've done something not sick and pathetic by sitting all day and watching it.

Occasionally I'll have a flash of sudden motivation-- I'm gonna read now! I'm gonna download some new music! I'm gonna reorganize my room! And I live for these moments. My to-do lists are starting to look a little ridiculous, but now that I'm not toiling for grades and striving for anything in particular, I guess I just gotta be content with the satisfaction that comes with cleaning a sink full of dishes.

So this is for the thought-equivalent of those moments where I want to go do something RIGHT NOW. It's that feeling I was obsessed with in high school-- rehearsing a thought in my mind over and over so that I would remember to get online first thing when I got home and blog about it. When you start to live for ideas like that, it makes everything more interesting. You eavesdrop. You remember what you read. You get more ideas in general.

Time to pay attention to shit again. I won't just be a passive observer of other people's work. Call it a resolution if you will-- I'm officially unattaching from my television. Which is a relief, because my soul was starting to feel obese and sweaty.