I haven't felt "sane" in about three months.
Even in that case, sanity is relative.
It will be enormously helpful to leave St. Petersburg this evening and drive to the house, at which point I will collapse on my pillow-lockdown of a bed and finish reading the remaining two hundred pages of Going After Cacciatto.
Woot. Sounds like fun.
In total honesty, I need to read. I haven't detached myself from reality enough in the last few months, and hopefully, a last minute novel cram will provide relative distraction.
I'm trying to think of a list of five things I need to do for myself before school is once again commenced and dominates my existence.
I've yet to make any progress on that list. I'll let you know when I figure something out.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Thursday, July 22, 2004
HOMER SIMPSON: INTELLECTUAL GENIUS OR MORONIC DIPWAD?
You decide.
"Kill my boss?!? Do I dare live out the American dream?"
"ACTION PAUL": NOW EQUIPPED WITH GOATEE-TWIRLING FINGERS.
I guess you could say that it was a nice twist of reality to see Plyler this morning.
A very nice shift. Really.
My shoulders ache, my fingers are taught, and my mouth would rather see me hanging off a cliff than reapplying metal to its many, varied, and unusual surfaces.
God, I would kill to be an eloquent writer. I've been choppy and whiny for the last two months, and it would be a welcome change for a bit of verbal advancement.
I'm going to die in AP Literature.
A very nice shift. Really.
My shoulders ache, my fingers are taught, and my mouth would rather see me hanging off a cliff than reapplying metal to its many, varied, and unusual surfaces.
God, I would kill to be an eloquent writer. I've been choppy and whiny for the last two months, and it would be a welcome change for a bit of verbal advancement.
I'm going to die in AP Literature.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
THIS IS WHAT WE CALL "SPEED TYPING."
I'm off in a few minutes: we're running errands around St. Pete, and then, hopefully, we'll storm back to the Greater Orlando Area for a rousing game of "I Haven't Had Sleep In Six Weeks!"
Fun.
Besides the fact that I'm feeling heavily medicated without the medication, it will be important for me to straighten out priorities. For instance, reading my summer novel at least three days before it's due. That's a priority. And organizing Banquet information before Backel rips my head open in some sort of tribal sacrifice and feeds it to the God of Procrastination, Earl.
I have a bit of work ahead of me, eh?
Fun.
Besides the fact that I'm feeling heavily medicated without the medication, it will be important for me to straighten out priorities. For instance, reading my summer novel at least three days before it's due. That's a priority. And organizing Banquet information before Backel rips my head open in some sort of tribal sacrifice and feeds it to the God of Procrastination, Earl.
I have a bit of work ahead of me, eh?
Monday, July 19, 2004
"THAT WAS THE FUNNIEST FUNERAL I'VE EVER BEEN TO."
They were animals.
It was hilarious.
I spent more time laughing this afternoon than I did "pretending to be serious." It was such a relief to see that no one went ballistic or struck into a fit of tears. I could have been bored out of my mind pending other circumstances, but I realized that being bored would waste too much energy.
And I'm rambling. Good.
The surprise of the day was Diocesan Director of Youth Ministry, Tony Maione, showing up in the local grocery store and asking for directions to the funeral parlor. They thought he was insane. I thought he was insane, but that's a whole other story.
And again, I'm rambling.
You have no idea what I'm talking about. And that's okay, because it's my blog, and not yours.
I'm completely and entirely drained from all of the "family interaction time." There are literally twenty-two people randomly entering and exiting the Bellair house as we speak, and the best I can do is sit there on the arm of a couch and wait for the brilliant incompetence to find me on its own.
They're insane. Like Tony, but with a Smith twist. It's almost too much to handle.
For example, we had dinner on Myrtle's tab last night. All eighteen of us. The bill must have been close to $300, but it was okay, because the dead woman was paying.
Morbid? I think so.
But that's my family.
I can't wait to go to college.
It was hilarious.
I spent more time laughing this afternoon than I did "pretending to be serious." It was such a relief to see that no one went ballistic or struck into a fit of tears. I could have been bored out of my mind pending other circumstances, but I realized that being bored would waste too much energy.
And I'm rambling. Good.
The surprise of the day was Diocesan Director of Youth Ministry, Tony Maione, showing up in the local grocery store and asking for directions to the funeral parlor. They thought he was insane. I thought he was insane, but that's a whole other story.
And again, I'm rambling.
You have no idea what I'm talking about. And that's okay, because it's my blog, and not yours.
I'm completely and entirely drained from all of the "family interaction time." There are literally twenty-two people randomly entering and exiting the Bellair house as we speak, and the best I can do is sit there on the arm of a couch and wait for the brilliant incompetence to find me on its own.
They're insane. Like Tony, but with a Smith twist. It's almost too much to handle.
For example, we had dinner on Myrtle's tab last night. All eighteen of us. The bill must have been close to $300, but it was okay, because the dead woman was paying.
Morbid? I think so.
But that's my family.
I can't wait to go to college.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
OKAY.
I have no idea what I was expecting from my little rendevous with Sir Dork.
Actually, I do. My plan was as follows:
Step 1: I would sit there in the congregation, glaring at him with my beady little eyes, scaring him, and obviously intimidating him to the point of exasperation, in which he'd bolt off the altar in tears like a six-year-old girl.
Step 2: I'd stalk around the church, waiting for him to repeat Step 1, knowing full well that I was still there and ready to attack.
Step 3: I walk up to him in the midst of his adoring public, and watch his eyes grow in magnitude and sheer terror. Finally, repeat Step 1.
Ha. That's a nice thought. This is what actually happened:
Step 1: Pretty much the same as planned, minus the "bolting off the altar in tears" bit.
Step 2: Again, same as planned, minus the famed Step 1.
Step 3: I hid around a pillar, in what appeared to be a line of people (Read: adoring public.) waiting for a handshake and so on. No running and crying, much to my disappointment.
But that wasn't the scary part. He finished schmoozing, walked up to me, and hugged me.
Hugged me.
There is so much wrong with that sentence, and not just grammatically speaking.
Anyway, he continued on, in a much more jovial manner than I was hoping for, and invited me to join the parish. Like, "attend every week so that I have to see Derk constantly, so that he can rub into my face that not only is he a pastor, but he's the pastor of one of the wealthiest churches this side of Norway, not to mention the fact that he has the entire place to himself, including a two car garage."
Like I said: "Invited."
I don't understand it. He was so nice. I had every intention of going in there and systematically destroying his feeble little mind, yet I was left with a null and void reaction of "nice."
Not funny. Really.
Actually, I do. My plan was as follows:
Step 1: I would sit there in the congregation, glaring at him with my beady little eyes, scaring him, and obviously intimidating him to the point of exasperation, in which he'd bolt off the altar in tears like a six-year-old girl.
Step 2: I'd stalk around the church, waiting for him to repeat Step 1, knowing full well that I was still there and ready to attack.
Step 3: I walk up to him in the midst of his adoring public, and watch his eyes grow in magnitude and sheer terror. Finally, repeat Step 1.
Ha. That's a nice thought. This is what actually happened:
Step 1: Pretty much the same as planned, minus the "bolting off the altar in tears" bit.
Step 2: Again, same as planned, minus the famed Step 1.
Step 3: I hid around a pillar, in what appeared to be a line of people (Read: adoring public.) waiting for a handshake and so on. No running and crying, much to my disappointment.
But that wasn't the scary part. He finished schmoozing, walked up to me, and hugged me.
Hugged me.
There is so much wrong with that sentence, and not just grammatically speaking.
Anyway, he continued on, in a much more jovial manner than I was hoping for, and invited me to join the parish. Like, "attend every week so that I have to see Derk constantly, so that he can rub into my face that not only is he a pastor, but he's the pastor of one of the wealthiest churches this side of Norway, not to mention the fact that he has the entire place to himself, including a two car garage."
Like I said: "Invited."
I don't understand it. He was so nice. I had every intention of going in there and systematically destroying his feeble little mind, yet I was left with a null and void reaction of "nice."
Not funny. Really.
101 THINGS THAT CLASSIFY AND DECIPHER KELLEY.
By Kelley.
Of course.
Of course.
- My name is Kelley, which makes sense to me: in Gaelic, it translates to "female warrior."
- I am sardonic. Really, really sardonic. Dumbass.
- I have a blatant obsession with showtunes and the people that perform them.
- I hate the way I write, but strictly grammatically speaking. I actually like my handwriting.
- I have a desperate fear of biscuit cans that are peeled open and then explode in front of you.
- I feel like I'm twelve. Constantly.
- I actually enjoy school, just not all of the people that happen to be enrolled.
- I have a birthmark on my left arm that looks like...nothing.
- I am Catholic, and probably always will be.
- I've attempted four times to remove every item in my room and subsequently donate each and every one to charity.
- None of these attempts succeeded.
- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is my favorite novel, and has been for the last eight years.
- A Man For All Seasons is my favorite play, but for unknown reasons.
- I love pre-20th Century works far greater than any other literature.
- I am anal-retentive and largely compulsive when it comes to grammar. Period.
- The last time I cried was during the intermission of a performance of The Phantom Of The Opera.
- I was an Honor Junior Thespian, but never received my certificate. I haven't gotten over that.
- I can't stand Tofu.
- I could easily live off of Ginger Ale and crunchy peanut butter.
- I've never been "in love" before.
- I started writing in all capital letters on August 14th, 1998. I still don't know why.
- I can type 40 words per minute.
- Four-Square is the greatest game known to mankind.
- I have played Dance Dance Revolution only once in my life.
- Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" is the single greatest song ever recorded, closely rivaled by Cat Stevens' "Peace Train."
- Bernadette Peters is my least favorite person to ever perform on a Broadway stage.
- Gene Kelly is one of my idols. I would kill to dance like him.
- My CD collection includes close to 300 different artists. And I enjoy them all.
- I have met Richard Karn, host of Family Feud!, among other prime celebrities.
- Not having anything to cover my lap makes me uncomfortable to a great degree.
- Dr. Pepper tastes nothing like Mr. Pibb.
- I have survived cancer.
- I don't know what my natural hair color is. Was.
- I love driving in the rain.
- If I ever have children, I will be the worst parent ever.
- I'm best described as a liberal, but lump myself into the Democrat category.
- I'm fascinated by Judas Iscariot, and find his betrayal a twisted study into human interaction with spiritual guidance.
- I'd like to be on an episode of Sesame Street one day, just for kicks.
- Before I die, I demand to learn how to juggle five balls.
- My favorite color is green, closely followed by orange.
- I've never felt as if I had a home, but more as if I was just bunking for extended periods of time.
- I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up.
- My favorite quote ever is from Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman: "Attention must be paid."
- Don Jones will forever be my hero.
- Ever since Donald Rumsfeld revealed his secrets for staying fit, I've worn a pedometer.
- Well, at least "carried in my bag" a pedometer. Specifics.
- The story of Giovanni the Juggler scared me in kindergarten, and haunts me to this day.
- If I ever started a cult, I don't know what we'd follow, but we'd be called "The Brotherhood Of Unconstrained Verbosity."
- I've always dreamed that I'd marry either an Italian, or Edward Rochester. I can't explain the first, but the second is rather obvious.
- I've kept journals of some sort since the age of five.
- My favorite article of clothing is a shirt that I bought at an Unsung Zeros concert. (I don't know anything about the band.)
- People either take me far too seriously or not seriously at all.
- My face appears to be a perpetual frown, but I'm rarely trying to look upset or angry. I just have no muscle control.
- My favorite album is Cat Stevens' Teaser and the Firecat.
- The greatest memory I have is of performing in front of 25,000 people as Dorothy Day.
- I love the Laundromat. I just do.
- I've never been kissed, and I'm okay with that.
- If I could speak and write in only Olde English, I wouldst.
- I could watch the Gene Wilder version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory every day of my life and never grow bored of his performance.
- I've never had an infatuation over someone of my own age.
- I had a quarter-life crisis at 16.
- Supposedly, I'm rumored to have a great stand-up comedy routine built up over the years of familial material.
- I'm still not sure I know what a Louie Vatton bag is.
- I once stayed awake for two days and seventeen hours in order to finish a project for my 4th grade gifted class. It was on architecture.
- I got an A, and slept for two days.
- I can't speak in French on a conversational level, but I can write it out like no one's business.
- At age 7, I stole a Pound Puppy from Big Lots.
- I collect odd, funky, differently-shaped, colored, freakish, and eccentric ties.
- I spent a full day in solitude and mourning the day after the 5th Harry Potter book was released and I had finished reading it.
- I don't understand death.
- Logic is the only word in my Lexicon.
- My favorite letter in the alphabet is "E."
- Some people say that I'm quiet; others claim that I'm loud. But...
- ...I'm actually a solid introvert with extrovertial qualities.
- I like making up words, but only when they make definite sense.
- I often feel like I tell more lies than I do truths.
- My favorite city in the United States is Washington DC.
- I've never been outside the United States.
- I've always wanted to be the Pope.
- As far as I'm concerned, if I can't write it in less than an hour, it will be crap.
- I don't enjoy the color pink. It makes me uneasy.
- If I could have one cartoon character exist in real life, it would be "The Cheat" from HomestarRunner.com or "Rosie" from The Jetsons.
- The one night of television worth viewing is the Tony Award Ceremony, but just to see who wins. The ceremony itself is either hokey (Hugh Jackman) or just plain stupid (Hugh Jackman). But I still love it.
- When I was five, I named my cat Alaneta after the dog, Perdita, from "101 Dalmations."
- I've never broken a bone in my body.
- However, I am missing 2 1/2 ribs. Ooh.
- The one role I'd kill to play is Tommy's mother in The Who's Tommy.
- I have a wicked laugh. Sort of.
- Black beans and yellow rice make up my favorite meal.
- I attempted suicide once when I was 15. Needless to say, it didn't work.
- "Zazzle" is quite possibly my favorite word.
- My favorite musical is...I could never decide something like that.
- When I was younger, I dreamed of being either a dancer or a secret agent. Either way.
- I have a chronic habit of biting my nails.
- "3" has been my lucky number for the longest of times.
- When I met two of my closest friends, I hated them.
- I've always wanted to live in Europe, preferably England.
- I want to go back in time to see three odd pieces of history: The dawn of existence, Abraham Lincoln's assassination, and the collapse of the Berlin wall.
- I am cowardly, shy, and undeniably trepidatious.
- I would love to be a director someday.
- I am not perfect; but sometimes, I come very, very close.
Friday, July 16, 2004
OOH.
PRETTY.
This new text editor thingy is nice, I suppose. A bit distracting, perhaps, but resourceful for all who deem it necessary.
Agh. What do I care?
I got my license yesterday, which was more than a relief, I must say.
And then, I bashed Bush for two hours!
Horrah!
I think I'm going to go relax for a bit. Watch some TV, cook dinner for the three remaining Smiths, purge my body of all intelligent thought.
You know, "Friday Stuff."
This new text editor thingy is nice, I suppose. A bit distracting, perhaps, but resourceful for all who deem it necessary.
Agh. What do I care?
I got my license yesterday, which was more than a relief, I must say.
And then, I bashed Bush for two hours!
Horrah!
I think I'm going to go relax for a bit. Watch some TV, cook dinner for the three remaining Smiths, purge my body of all intelligent thought.
You know, "Friday Stuff."
Thursday, July 15, 2004
WORTH A FIVE MINUTE WAIT? THIS BLOG THINKS SO.
Forget the fact that the sound and footage aren't synchronized.
He's freaking GORGEOUS.
And the little gasps at the end?
AHHHH.
He's freaking GORGEOUS.
And the little gasps at the end?
AHHHH.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
IS THIS THE END, MY SHALLOW-YET-GOOD-LOOKING FRIEND?
Sorry. Someone was rhyming and it just sort of popped out.
I promise not to do that again.
Nonetheless, I'm off to St. Pete for the evening (in about two hours), and---
Ooh. Um...
My grandmother just died.
Okay.
Someone call me.
I promise not to do that again.
Nonetheless, I'm off to St. Pete for the evening (in about two hours), and---
Ooh. Um...
My grandmother just died.
Okay.
Someone call me.
Monday, July 12, 2004
OUI, JE PARLE LE FRANÇAIS.
We went by Bonbini's Burgers and as some sort of weird trial-process logic, grabbed a menu and sat down.
Luckily for me, the chain is linguistically deprived.
Their version of French Fries are "Pomme Frites," which would be acceptable and dandy, except for the minor factor that separates potatoes and apples. [Editor's Note: Not to mention the fact that the French word, "frites," satisfies fully the idea of French Fries, without the additional vegetable adjective.]
[Editor's Note: Whoops. I mentioned it.]
Apples, of course, fall under the French word "pomme."
Potatoes, which I'm sure they were leaning towards, fall under "pomme de terre."
Poor, moronic fast-food chain.
I heartily enjoyed my potato-ish "fried apples," thank-you-very-much.
Luckily for me, the chain is linguistically deprived.
Their version of French Fries are "Pomme Frites," which would be acceptable and dandy, except for the minor factor that separates potatoes and apples. [Editor's Note: Not to mention the fact that the French word, "frites," satisfies fully the idea of French Fries, without the additional vegetable adjective.]
[Editor's Note: Whoops. I mentioned it.]
Apples, of course, fall under the French word "pomme."
Potatoes, which I'm sure they were leaning towards, fall under "pomme de terre."
Poor, moronic fast-food chain.
I heartily enjoyed my potato-ish "fried apples," thank-you-very-much.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
"I REFUSE TO DIE A MONSTER."
Sure, Mr. Molina.
I gave in. I went to see SpiderMan late last evening, and honestly, I enjoyed it.
Not the horrible, God-forsaken acting, mind you. For example, Willem Dafoe's two-minute appearance was easily the highlight of the evening. And despite the fact that Alfred Molina is a self-described "old, fat guy," he did a relatively okay job as Octavius.
Fiddler: Not so great.
Maguire and Dunst, of course, were wretched. Harris was brilliant, but mostly because she's too aged to be much else.
And Franco; Let us just say that if James Franco was just a little bit better at keeping his mouth shut and not pretending to act, he would be the most gorgeous man alive. But, like some know-it-all beauty, he has to pretend he has talent.
No, James. No.
Technically, the film was bounds beyond the first. Not amazing, mind you, but a relief from what I expected. Of course, every possible plot direction has now been drained and exposed, leaving nothing but a bitter taste and Franco in Dafoe's costume to fill the void of "3."
So excited about that one.
Ehh, not so much.
I did, however, enjoy screaming the few lyrics of "Vindicated" that I actually knew. It was permissible, simply because I was one of four people in the theatre.
Poor burnt-out Winter Park Village.
I gave in. I went to see SpiderMan late last evening, and honestly, I enjoyed it.
Not the horrible, God-forsaken acting, mind you. For example, Willem Dafoe's two-minute appearance was easily the highlight of the evening. And despite the fact that Alfred Molina is a self-described "old, fat guy," he did a relatively okay job as Octavius.
Fiddler: Not so great.
Maguire and Dunst, of course, were wretched. Harris was brilliant, but mostly because she's too aged to be much else.
And Franco; Let us just say that if James Franco was just a little bit better at keeping his mouth shut and not pretending to act, he would be the most gorgeous man alive. But, like some know-it-all beauty, he has to pretend he has talent.
No, James. No.
Technically, the film was bounds beyond the first. Not amazing, mind you, but a relief from what I expected. Of course, every possible plot direction has now been drained and exposed, leaving nothing but a bitter taste and Franco in Dafoe's costume to fill the void of "3."
So excited about that one.
Ehh, not so much.
I did, however, enjoy screaming the few lyrics of "Vindicated" that I actually knew. It was permissible, simply because I was one of four people in the theatre.
Poor burnt-out Winter Park Village.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
DAMN YOU, CORPORATE NAZIS.
I've realized by this point that the true beauty of my new phone is my inability to functionally utilize it.
I can take pictures, but can I distribute them?
No.
I'm still grappling with the idea that I'll have to slide another $25 under the gigantic table of commercialism in order to find the USB cable I'm in need of. But what's even more disconcerting is the fact that I've yet to find a suitable ringtone for le Sony Ericsson T616 of Death.
[Editor's Note: "Yet to find a suitable ringtone" denotes "too cheap to pay for one."]
I may have to give in at some point...Pay for some crappy, upbeat pop tune that everyone in the room will instantly recognize, bob their heads and snap their fingers to.
Or, better yet, gorge their eyeballs out at!
Here are a few of the top possibilities (All submitted by people with no lives):
* "Baby Got Back"
* "Ice Ice Baby"
* "Copacabana"
* "Try A Little Tenderness"
* "I Shot The Sheriff"
* "Cotton Eye Joe"
* "I'm Too Sexy"
* "We Built This City"
* "My Heart Will Go On"
* "Invisible"
I think I've listed all of the awful songs I humanly can without keeling over into seizures. At this point, at least.
Feel free to throw some in.
Coming up next: A longer, more detailed list of the worst songs in history.
[Editor's Note: And by "next," I mean "later. Long, long time from now."]
I can take pictures, but can I distribute them?
No.
I'm still grappling with the idea that I'll have to slide another $25 under the gigantic table of commercialism in order to find the USB cable I'm in need of. But what's even more disconcerting is the fact that I've yet to find a suitable ringtone for le Sony Ericsson T616 of Death.
[Editor's Note: "Yet to find a suitable ringtone" denotes "too cheap to pay for one."]
I may have to give in at some point...Pay for some crappy, upbeat pop tune that everyone in the room will instantly recognize, bob their heads and snap their fingers to.
Or, better yet, gorge their eyeballs out at!
Here are a few of the top possibilities (All submitted by people with no lives):
* "Baby Got Back"
* "Ice Ice Baby"
* "Copacabana"
* "Try A Little Tenderness"
* "I Shot The Sheriff"
* "Cotton Eye Joe"
* "I'm Too Sexy"
* "We Built This City"
* "My Heart Will Go On"
* "Invisible"
I think I've listed all of the awful songs I humanly can without keeling over into seizures. At this point, at least.
Feel free to throw some in.
Coming up next: A longer, more detailed list of the worst songs in history.
[Editor's Note: And by "next," I mean "later. Long, long time from now."]
THE APPLICATION OF DOOM.
Actually, this is just the funny portion of the application. The rest, I daresay, was a resume, and largely exaggerated.
Or not.
It was.
Not.
*Smiles.*
FAVORITE ATHLETE OR SPORT:
In my household, football is a mandatory course of existence. Perhaps not for my younger brother, who prides himself in the athletic exploits of Legos, but that’s an entirely different story. As the oldest child, I am my father’s only resource for athletic entertainment, and therefore, the “watching buddy.” And despite the fact that I’m female, seventeen, and medically forbidden from playing the game where tackling, rushing, and “sapping” threaten the human existence of two teams full of men who look as though they’re really into the pain thing, I enjoy it to a wordless degree. I grew up in St. Petersburg, where the motto is “Our Bucs Are Still Losing, But They’re Ours!” My grandfather, a season-ticket holder since the moment the team officially began its long trudge into losing, spent his game days chasing either me, my little brother, my father, or a combination of all three, up and down and up and down and sideways and down through the stands of my beloved, yet now desolate home, the Tampa Stadium. Watching the games, although thoroughly uneventful for the majority, sparked an excitement that I thought only Twinkies could provide. No, indeed: the spark was Football.
Years later, I sit at the stands of my own football stadium, the Lyman High School track, where the past year has brought joy and excitement of its own, as our Greyhounds took a little Buccaneer victory of their own, forcibly stealing the District 5 title from all of the good teams. We at Lyman were beside ourselves- Us? Winning something? It was far too good to be true, but in the end, we lost. So, it wasn’t that difficult to grapple with. All but three games this year, I sat on the sidelines, occasionally looking at the field, but primarily shielding myself from the torrential rain and/or fans. But honestly, covering some of those unceasingly emotional games for The Growl was possibly the greatest immersion into the sport of football I could have ever asked for. The forcible drive of the players, the commitment and devotion they epitomized on the field, and of course, watching them beat the living crap out of each other. That’s what I love. Not the points, or the moron quarterback, or even his slightly-less-moronic second-string quarterback; it’s the stamina, the visible and ghastly sweat, and the feeling that can come only through merciless overtime. That is why I love football.
WHAT YOU HOPE TO LEARN THROUGH THE SPORTS INSTITUTE:
Besides a mere expansion into my sports and journalistic education (Duh.), I feel that an opportunity such as the Institute will guide my personal and journalistic assertiveness. By thrusting myself into the faces, stories, and lifestyles of the athletes, coaches, and competitive community at large, I feel that my writing will become more personal, my approach more professional, and my journalistic foundation increasingly concrete.
Twenty minutes. I wrote it in twenty minutes.
And it's still awful.
Or not.
It was.
Not.
*Smiles.*
FAVORITE ATHLETE OR SPORT:
In my household, football is a mandatory course of existence. Perhaps not for my younger brother, who prides himself in the athletic exploits of Legos, but that’s an entirely different story. As the oldest child, I am my father’s only resource for athletic entertainment, and therefore, the “watching buddy.” And despite the fact that I’m female, seventeen, and medically forbidden from playing the game where tackling, rushing, and “sapping” threaten the human existence of two teams full of men who look as though they’re really into the pain thing, I enjoy it to a wordless degree. I grew up in St. Petersburg, where the motto is “Our Bucs Are Still Losing, But They’re Ours!” My grandfather, a season-ticket holder since the moment the team officially began its long trudge into losing, spent his game days chasing either me, my little brother, my father, or a combination of all three, up and down and up and down and sideways and down through the stands of my beloved, yet now desolate home, the Tampa Stadium. Watching the games, although thoroughly uneventful for the majority, sparked an excitement that I thought only Twinkies could provide. No, indeed: the spark was Football.
Years later, I sit at the stands of my own football stadium, the Lyman High School track, where the past year has brought joy and excitement of its own, as our Greyhounds took a little Buccaneer victory of their own, forcibly stealing the District 5 title from all of the good teams. We at Lyman were beside ourselves- Us? Winning something? It was far too good to be true, but in the end, we lost. So, it wasn’t that difficult to grapple with. All but three games this year, I sat on the sidelines, occasionally looking at the field, but primarily shielding myself from the torrential rain and/or fans. But honestly, covering some of those unceasingly emotional games for The Growl was possibly the greatest immersion into the sport of football I could have ever asked for. The forcible drive of the players, the commitment and devotion they epitomized on the field, and of course, watching them beat the living crap out of each other. That’s what I love. Not the points, or the moron quarterback, or even his slightly-less-moronic second-string quarterback; it’s the stamina, the visible and ghastly sweat, and the feeling that can come only through merciless overtime. That is why I love football.
WHAT YOU HOPE TO LEARN THROUGH THE SPORTS INSTITUTE:
Besides a mere expansion into my sports and journalistic education (Duh.), I feel that an opportunity such as the Institute will guide my personal and journalistic assertiveness. By thrusting myself into the faces, stories, and lifestyles of the athletes, coaches, and competitive community at large, I feel that my writing will become more personal, my approach more professional, and my journalistic foundation increasingly concrete.
Twenty minutes. I wrote it in twenty minutes.
And it's still awful.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
IS THIS WHY WE LOVE JAMES BARBOUR?
Yes.
"When you're doing the same show night after night, how do you keep it fresh?"
"I try to think of a play much like Oedipus’ predicament. Oedipus was doomed to his fate no matter what he did to try and prevent it. So taking that idea I put a play in a box. There are parameters, boundaries, if you will around what I can do as an actor and still reach the ultimate goal (which in this case is to tell the story of the character I am playing). Those boundaries include dialogue, the other characters (actors) on stage, the lighting, music (if it’s a musical), the blocking, as well as all the things that were created in rehearsal to make the show come to life. Now, within those boundaries I can move anywhere I want so long as I do not step outside the line. To do so would be break the structure of the play. In essence, my character is fated to reach his destiny at the end of the show and my choices (as an actor) must remain within the walls of that show. Yet, the key is to make it look as if I were actually living it for the first time, each time I took the stage. Oedipus, raging against his destiny yet fated to reach it…make sense?"
Yes, oh, God, yes.
It does, James.
It does.
Yes.
"When you're doing the same show night after night, how do you keep it fresh?"
"I try to think of a play much like Oedipus’ predicament. Oedipus was doomed to his fate no matter what he did to try and prevent it. So taking that idea I put a play in a box. There are parameters, boundaries, if you will around what I can do as an actor and still reach the ultimate goal (which in this case is to tell the story of the character I am playing). Those boundaries include dialogue, the other characters (actors) on stage, the lighting, music (if it’s a musical), the blocking, as well as all the things that were created in rehearsal to make the show come to life. Now, within those boundaries I can move anywhere I want so long as I do not step outside the line. To do so would be break the structure of the play. In essence, my character is fated to reach his destiny at the end of the show and my choices (as an actor) must remain within the walls of that show. Yet, the key is to make it look as if I were actually living it for the first time, each time I took the stage. Oedipus, raging against his destiny yet fated to reach it…make sense?"
Yes, oh, God, yes.
It does, James.
It does.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
SUMMERTIME.
I've had the genuine "opportunity" to take a few weeks this vacation to sit and think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
Alright. Enough thinking.
My point is this: ---
Ugh. Why can't I just find the words to allow me to process that which is streaming through my head, screaming without invitation or welcoming, possessing my every thought, my every movement...
It's like waking terror. There are words seated just beyond my eyes that might become apparent if the right person would simply take a few minutes to search for them.
Search. It seems a ghastly concept, to search "through" someone to find that which you're looking for. Yet, as pretensious and unforgiving, it seems remotely seductive, destructively and undesirably satisfying.
Unhinged.
That was the only word I could think of to describe myself to a colleague when he asked me how I was feeling.
Unhinged: To remove from hinges.
To remove the hinges from.
To confuse; disrupt.
Informal. To derange; unbalance: He was unhinged by his wife's death.
"Aren't you always 'unhinged'? More often 'dehinged' is my guess."
"'Dehinged'? By what or whom?"
"By life."
It's too bad that 'dehinged' isn't a word. I fear I like the sound of it better.
Hinged: To be contingent on a single factor; depend.
Does my life hinge on one thing or another? I'd like to think so. Jumping from one instance to the next, hanging on whatever shed of diligence I still boast upon, clinging to existence itself.
"Maybe you should try to 'grease' yourself up so that you won't be 'dehinged' anymore."
"And how would I manage to do that?"
"Well, it's like WD-40. It'll keep you swinging."
So, I'm searching for my grease: My oily mixture that promises a squeak-free ride through wherever this and the following years take me.
It sounds so easy.
All of it seems like it should be so simplistic, so possible and real and eccentric, definable and actual.
But it doesn't look that way.
I've had the genuine "opportunity" to take a few weeks this vacation to sit and think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
Alright. Enough thinking.
My point is this: ---
Ugh. Why can't I just find the words to allow me to process that which is streaming through my head, screaming without invitation or welcoming, possessing my every thought, my every movement...
It's like waking terror. There are words seated just beyond my eyes that might become apparent if the right person would simply take a few minutes to search for them.
Search. It seems a ghastly concept, to search "through" someone to find that which you're looking for. Yet, as pretensious and unforgiving, it seems remotely seductive, destructively and undesirably satisfying.
Unhinged.
That was the only word I could think of to describe myself to a colleague when he asked me how I was feeling.
Unhinged: To remove from hinges.
To remove the hinges from.
To confuse; disrupt.
Informal. To derange; unbalance: He was unhinged by his wife's death.
"Aren't you always 'unhinged'? More often 'dehinged' is my guess."
"'Dehinged'? By what or whom?"
"By life."
It's too bad that 'dehinged' isn't a word. I fear I like the sound of it better.
Hinged: To be contingent on a single factor; depend.
Does my life hinge on one thing or another? I'd like to think so. Jumping from one instance to the next, hanging on whatever shed of diligence I still boast upon, clinging to existence itself.
"Maybe you should try to 'grease' yourself up so that you won't be 'dehinged' anymore."
"And how would I manage to do that?"
"Well, it's like WD-40. It'll keep you swinging."
So, I'm searching for my grease: My oily mixture that promises a squeak-free ride through wherever this and the following years take me.
It sounds so easy.
All of it seems like it should be so simplistic, so possible and real and eccentric, definable and actual.
But it doesn't look that way.
DOES JOHN HEFFRON REMIND US OF BRAD FARMER?
This Blog thinks so.
I'm starting to side with Brett Butler: this year's Last Comic Standing "competition" on NBC ("We Still Haven't Recovered From Losing Friends") is prime-time sham material.
I mean, Gary!? Still on the show!? I'll pick any gay man in America over Gary and his German Shepard jokes...
It just brings me to convulsive fits that we can't have one honest show on television that's willing to let the really, truly talented people shine through, versus the young, muscular, and thickheaded of the nation.
Now, excuse me. I have to go do my sit-ups.
This Blog thinks so.
I'm starting to side with Brett Butler: this year's Last Comic Standing "competition" on NBC ("We Still Haven't Recovered From Losing Friends") is prime-time sham material.
I mean, Gary!? Still on the show!? I'll pick any gay man in America over Gary and his German Shepard jokes...
It just brings me to convulsive fits that we can't have one honest show on television that's willing to let the really, truly talented people shine through, versus the young, muscular, and thickheaded of the nation.
Now, excuse me. I have to go do my sit-ups.
Monday, July 05, 2004
HALT.
I just read something that I feel will haunt me for the rest of this evening, if not my following existence.
I've been cheated out of something wonderful.
But I was the one that cheated.
Cheated is such a demanding word. And I don't think I can legitimately use it. But for some demeaning reason, it fits. This. Right now.
I denied myself something for the right reasons, but was it the wrong thing to deny?
Is this how it ends?
I just read something that I feel will haunt me for the rest of this evening, if not my following existence.
I've been cheated out of something wonderful.
But I was the one that cheated.
Cheated is such a demanding word. And I don't think I can legitimately use it. But for some demeaning reason, it fits. This. Right now.
I denied myself something for the right reasons, but was it the wrong thing to deny?
Is this how it ends?
Sunday, July 04, 2004
"WE'RE INDEPENDENT!" OR SO SAYS MY CALENDAR.
I don't believe much of it.
I haven't been able to take more than a few meager steps without blaring patriot music and whoop-did-dee-doo-dah patriot pride.
It's sickening.
The fact that we exist in a nation that allows monkeys to rule the White House, a quintuple bypass surgery candidate to pull the nation's strings, and an electoral college to determine what the country really wants, just makes me want to shoot off mini-rockets in my own backyard.
Fireworks, if you will.
But, here's the twist: Directly into the monkey's head.
Happy Birthday, America!
I love you, Alexander Hamilton!
And Thomas Jefferson, that hottie!
I don't believe much of it.
I haven't been able to take more than a few meager steps without blaring patriot music and whoop-did-dee-doo-dah patriot pride.
It's sickening.
The fact that we exist in a nation that allows monkeys to rule the White House, a quintuple bypass surgery candidate to pull the nation's strings, and an electoral college to determine what the country really wants, just makes me want to shoot off mini-rockets in my own backyard.
Fireworks, if you will.
But, here's the twist: Directly into the monkey's head.
Happy Birthday, America!
I love you, Alexander Hamilton!
And Thomas Jefferson, that hottie!
Saturday, July 03, 2004
"SO, LET ME SLIP AWAY," AND MANY MORE FUN TEENAGE LYRICS FROM CHRIS CARRABBA.
It's a very disillusioning experience to wake up on your own in the morning.
And I mean that in a very non-hooker-ish sense.
I spent the last week sharing very minimal space with twenty-two other people, some of which disgusted me, most of which annoyed me, and some of whom adored me.
I miss them. I don't know how further to express it, but I can't handle the "encompassing" presence of my four other family members, compared to the casual nature of my, dare I say it, more compelling week with twenty strangers.
God, I miss them.
What else can I say?
I despise myself for feeling lonely.
It's a very disillusioning experience to wake up on your own in the morning.
And I mean that in a very non-hooker-ish sense.
I spent the last week sharing very minimal space with twenty-two other people, some of which disgusted me, most of which annoyed me, and some of whom adored me.
I miss them. I don't know how further to express it, but I can't handle the "encompassing" presence of my four other family members, compared to the casual nature of my, dare I say it, more compelling week with twenty strangers.
God, I miss them.
What else can I say?
I despise myself for feeling lonely.
Friday, July 02, 2004
CYNDI LAUPER IS HOME.
This may very well have been the week to end all weeks.
It was draining.
Wet.
Swampy.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. I reconnected with two ridiculously close friends, led two workshops on my own, drove for twenty minutes down a dark, marshy road with six kids piled into my backseat, fought viciously with a Derk-ish seminarian, discovered the beauty of minor food poisoning, and actually played a swamp monster named "Ooga Booga", who looked remarkably close to Satan.
I am minimally exhausted.
Luckily for me, I met some very interesting people. Some of the kids we were leading were absolutely hilarious, though I daresay that none could compare to the supreme wit of Kelley. I worked my arse off. Seriously.
The seminarian, José, was quite possibly the most intriguing aspect of the week. He's originally from Puerto Rico, with a minor in Acting, and speaks a mangled, garbled, yet very correct form of English. He'd get deeply into conversation with someone, and suddenly turn to you and repeat the last word he'd said to make sure it fit correctly into his thought.
Total geek.
He was funny, but in a rather proud, bold sense; a sense that simply demands for me to retort the only way I know how: Demeaning cruelty. But a funny sort of demeaning.
So, we clashed. We also happened to be very, very much alike, which, thankfully, allowed for some amazing conversation in-between the violent, bloody sparring. We shared some really compassionate moments, actually. We had a Taizé prayer service on Wednesday night, during which we handed out letters to the kids from their friends and family. José had mentioned earlier that all of his family lived back home (PR), and that he hadn't seen them in close to a year. I decided it would be a nice opportunity if I were to accompany his family letters with one of my own. Little did I know, he had no family letters. In realizing this, and recognizing the fact that the only letter he would read that evening would be mine, I tore into the upstairs portion of the house the service was set in, and hid in a chair, praying to remain undiscovered for a lack of embarrassment, if not the overwhelming need to take the letter back while the opportunity still existed.
[Editor's Note: It would have mattered little if the note were given at a different time, when reaction would be inappropriate or inaccessible, due to my absence. All of the letters given out were from people back home, who were immune from emotional ambush as a result of kind words and compassion. But I was very much there, very much accessible, and very much vulnerable to anything that might be thrown out in reaction to a note the caliber of the one I gave him.]
Minutes later, I heard footsteps trotting upstairs (Nora, one of my co-workers, had been kind enough to tell him I was hiding in the fetal position upstairs- Thanks, Nora. Or not.). José made his way across the upstairs "bedroom" setting, pulled me out of my chair, and embraced me. It was a nice, if not horrific moment. I wasn't sure how to react, but I think I handled the situation appropriately, staring blindly like a deer, and then leaping down the steps, plowing through candles and young teenagers. Smooth.
Last night, we were required to give a "witness talk," formulaically a rambling speech about the special and godly things we'd experienced during the week. I was horrendously funny, and managed to squeeze in that I thought José was a "hyperactive ball of seminarian energy, but in a good way."
His talked widely about the group, and then specifically about each of the team members. I sat next to him, solely for bathroom and hallway control of the cabin, and was the second-to-last person he spoke about. [Editor's Note: Paul, the final victim, had spent the week building "trust" and other crappy elements of personality with José. Plus, they spent time rubbing Icy-Hot on each others' shoulders. They went to Wal-Mart together. It was the kind of relationship that demanded final-speaking rights.]
To me, the little foreign man said (and this is a rather crisp quote, if I may say so myself):
"Cyndi Lauper-"
[Editor's Note: At this, there was chuckling by Paul, sitting to the left of me and José. He retorted: "Just you wait, Paula Abdul. I talk about you next."]
"Kelley- you are an amazing girl. Awesome. We fight. A lot. But our temperaments are so alike, it is alright, because you and I know it is. You are very, very talented. You are an actress with power. You have the gift to lead others and to take control. And your letter- it touched me. You are so beautiful. You will do so much. I pray to God that you get everything you wish for. Because you deserve it. I love you."
I've probably forgotten the majority of what he said, but I know I remember those fragmented, Spanglish sentences. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, and I was shivering, but not from temperature. I could hardly stand to look him in the eyes as he was speaking to me, yet I could hardly pull them from his own glare. It was a really difficult two minutes. Too much emotion. Too much concentration. Too much.
But, we ended the week pouring root beer floats over each other, and arguing, and teasing. It was rather back to normal.
Obviously, as aforementioned, the week was one of oddities and obscurities beyond all belief.
And I'm exhausted.
This may very well have been the week to end all weeks.
It was draining.
Wet.
Swampy.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. I reconnected with two ridiculously close friends, led two workshops on my own, drove for twenty minutes down a dark, marshy road with six kids piled into my backseat, fought viciously with a Derk-ish seminarian, discovered the beauty of minor food poisoning, and actually played a swamp monster named "Ooga Booga", who looked remarkably close to Satan.
I am minimally exhausted.
Luckily for me, I met some very interesting people. Some of the kids we were leading were absolutely hilarious, though I daresay that none could compare to the supreme wit of Kelley. I worked my arse off. Seriously.
The seminarian, José, was quite possibly the most intriguing aspect of the week. He's originally from Puerto Rico, with a minor in Acting, and speaks a mangled, garbled, yet very correct form of English. He'd get deeply into conversation with someone, and suddenly turn to you and repeat the last word he'd said to make sure it fit correctly into his thought.
Total geek.
He was funny, but in a rather proud, bold sense; a sense that simply demands for me to retort the only way I know how: Demeaning cruelty. But a funny sort of demeaning.
So, we clashed. We also happened to be very, very much alike, which, thankfully, allowed for some amazing conversation in-between the violent, bloody sparring. We shared some really compassionate moments, actually. We had a Taizé prayer service on Wednesday night, during which we handed out letters to the kids from their friends and family. José had mentioned earlier that all of his family lived back home (PR), and that he hadn't seen them in close to a year. I decided it would be a nice opportunity if I were to accompany his family letters with one of my own. Little did I know, he had no family letters. In realizing this, and recognizing the fact that the only letter he would read that evening would be mine, I tore into the upstairs portion of the house the service was set in, and hid in a chair, praying to remain undiscovered for a lack of embarrassment, if not the overwhelming need to take the letter back while the opportunity still existed.
[Editor's Note: It would have mattered little if the note were given at a different time, when reaction would be inappropriate or inaccessible, due to my absence. All of the letters given out were from people back home, who were immune from emotional ambush as a result of kind words and compassion. But I was very much there, very much accessible, and very much vulnerable to anything that might be thrown out in reaction to a note the caliber of the one I gave him.]
Minutes later, I heard footsteps trotting upstairs (Nora, one of my co-workers, had been kind enough to tell him I was hiding in the fetal position upstairs- Thanks, Nora. Or not.). José made his way across the upstairs "bedroom" setting, pulled me out of my chair, and embraced me. It was a nice, if not horrific moment. I wasn't sure how to react, but I think I handled the situation appropriately, staring blindly like a deer, and then leaping down the steps, plowing through candles and young teenagers. Smooth.
Last night, we were required to give a "witness talk," formulaically a rambling speech about the special and godly things we'd experienced during the week. I was horrendously funny, and managed to squeeze in that I thought José was a "hyperactive ball of seminarian energy, but in a good way."
His talked widely about the group, and then specifically about each of the team members. I sat next to him, solely for bathroom and hallway control of the cabin, and was the second-to-last person he spoke about. [Editor's Note: Paul, the final victim, had spent the week building "trust" and other crappy elements of personality with José. Plus, they spent time rubbing Icy-Hot on each others' shoulders. They went to Wal-Mart together. It was the kind of relationship that demanded final-speaking rights.]
To me, the little foreign man said (and this is a rather crisp quote, if I may say so myself):
"Cyndi Lauper-"
[Editor's Note: At this, there was chuckling by Paul, sitting to the left of me and José. He retorted: "Just you wait, Paula Abdul. I talk about you next."]
"Kelley- you are an amazing girl. Awesome. We fight. A lot. But our temperaments are so alike, it is alright, because you and I know it is. You are very, very talented. You are an actress with power. You have the gift to lead others and to take control. And your letter- it touched me. You are so beautiful. You will do so much. I pray to God that you get everything you wish for. Because you deserve it. I love you."
I've probably forgotten the majority of what he said, but I know I remember those fragmented, Spanglish sentences. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, and I was shivering, but not from temperature. I could hardly stand to look him in the eyes as he was speaking to me, yet I could hardly pull them from his own glare. It was a really difficult two minutes. Too much emotion. Too much concentration. Too much.
But, we ended the week pouring root beer floats over each other, and arguing, and teasing. It was rather back to normal.
Obviously, as aforementioned, the week was one of oddities and obscurities beyond all belief.
And I'm exhausted.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Saturday, June 26, 2004
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF STUFF DONE SO FAR TODAY:
--Finally squared away the phone problems. [Editor's Note: Funny story. Well, actually, it's not. It's gut wrenching, emotional, and verging on suicidal. But that's relatively humorous in its own light. Let's see: We started out on June 16th, trying to switch cellular phone companies. The companies screwed up. Let us call them "B-Hobile" and "KC&C". They dragged us around (particularly my line) for two weeks. Today, we are finally finished, and I am on the new company, with a new phone, and supposedly, a new lease on life, although I've yet to see any kind of "Lease" agreement.]
--Went to Long's Christian Bookstore. Found a card that says, "God Bless Ewe." Had a sheep on it. I found it rather clever.
--Bought a hat from another store, a hat which I fervently refuse to wear, simply because it has the brand name, Adidas, on it, therefore advocating exercise.
--Stepped into Party City. Pretty boring for a "party city," if I do say so myself.
--Went to Sam's, and tried to trick the clerk into paying us a dollar for not addressing my mother by her first name. It almost worked.
--Found Bob the Tomato on the side of the road. Turned out to belong to someone. Put him back down.
--Rented another Christopher Guest film from Blockbuster. That was pretty much the crowning moment of the day.
--Bought some food from Panera's. Saw Melissa Benson. Bordered on scary.
--Sitting here, typing, waiting for the day to end, and tomorrow to begin. Or the other way around. That would be kind of okay.
Tomorrow starts the week at Dayspring, which I could be happier about, I suppose, but lends to unexpected stuff.
"Stuff," because I have no idea what will come of the week.
--Finally squared away the phone problems. [Editor's Note: Funny story. Well, actually, it's not. It's gut wrenching, emotional, and verging on suicidal. But that's relatively humorous in its own light. Let's see: We started out on June 16th, trying to switch cellular phone companies. The companies screwed up. Let us call them "B-Hobile" and "KC&C". They dragged us around (particularly my line) for two weeks. Today, we are finally finished, and I am on the new company, with a new phone, and supposedly, a new lease on life, although I've yet to see any kind of "Lease" agreement.]
--Went to Long's Christian Bookstore. Found a card that says, "God Bless Ewe." Had a sheep on it. I found it rather clever.
--Bought a hat from another store, a hat which I fervently refuse to wear, simply because it has the brand name, Adidas, on it, therefore advocating exercise.
--Stepped into Party City. Pretty boring for a "party city," if I do say so myself.
--Went to Sam's, and tried to trick the clerk into paying us a dollar for not addressing my mother by her first name. It almost worked.
--Found Bob the Tomato on the side of the road. Turned out to belong to someone. Put him back down.
--Rented another Christopher Guest film from Blockbuster. That was pretty much the crowning moment of the day.
--Bought some food from Panera's. Saw Melissa Benson. Bordered on scary.
--Sitting here, typing, waiting for the day to end, and tomorrow to begin. Or the other way around. That would be kind of okay.
Tomorrow starts the week at Dayspring, which I could be happier about, I suppose, but lends to unexpected stuff.
"Stuff," because I have no idea what will come of the week.
Friday, June 25, 2004
"OR WAS HE THINKING, 'WHICH ONE OF THEM SCREWED ME OVER?'"
Thank Allah I'm a liberal.
Fahrenheit 9/11 was a success. It worked. It flowed, it was Moore at his best (hidden, yet vocal), and the reaction from the people sitting around me was nothing short of glorious.
I wish he had just been sitting there, next to me, filling in his own comments here and there, and simply basking in the realization these people were suddenly thrown into: completely unaware of the gravity of their realizations, and compelled without warning.
There was applause.
A full house.
He'd be twirling his mustache.
Thank Allah I'm a liberal.
Fahrenheit 9/11 was a success. It worked. It flowed, it was Moore at his best (hidden, yet vocal), and the reaction from the people sitting around me was nothing short of glorious.
I wish he had just been sitting there, next to me, filling in his own comments here and there, and simply basking in the realization these people were suddenly thrown into: completely unaware of the gravity of their realizations, and compelled without warning.
There was applause.
A full house.
He'd be twirling his mustache.
Monday, June 21, 2004
UPDATE FROM PARIS
My dearest Kelley,
How goes it? Gearing up for school tomorrow? Doing your economics homework? I bet. ;)
Anyway, I'm in Paris right now. Things are going well here and the weather is lovely. So far we have gone to my cousin's dance recital, her piano recital, and Harry Potter 3. Other than that, we haven't done anything other than recovering from jet lag. Tomorrow afternoon we are flying to Moscow and will be there for a couple of days. Hopefully, I will have more to report about then.
Hope you are doing well. I'll call you as soon as I get back so (1) We can hang out, (2) I can give you your tsar, and (3) we can talk about things. . .
Talk to you soon,
Elis :)
You'd think something like this would make me feel distorted and gawkishly jealous about being stuck in Orlando.
No.
It merely brings me hope that there's a Tzar in my future.
Or Rasputin.
My dearest Kelley,
How goes it? Gearing up for school tomorrow? Doing your economics homework? I bet. ;)
Anyway, I'm in Paris right now. Things are going well here and the weather is lovely. So far we have gone to my cousin's dance recital, her piano recital, and Harry Potter 3. Other than that, we haven't done anything other than recovering from jet lag. Tomorrow afternoon we are flying to Moscow and will be there for a couple of days. Hopefully, I will have more to report about then.
Hope you are doing well. I'll call you as soon as I get back so (1) We can hang out, (2) I can give you your tsar, and (3) we can talk about things. . .
Talk to you soon,
Elis :)
You'd think something like this would make me feel distorted and gawkishly jealous about being stuck in Orlando.
No.
It merely brings me hope that there's a Tzar in my future.
Or Rasputin.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
THIS IS THE LIFE; BO BO, BO BO BO.
Or so says Jonathan Larson.
Said.
Whatever.
Today was entirely exhausting, although I know not what from...I'm not sure I was truly weary, but perhaps 'displaced.' Yes. A much nicer word, displaced.
I was busy in compilation mode, creating a photo album online, but only now realized that:
A- I do not have too many pictures of myself.
B- Most of them date back to when James Barbour was 15 years old, and George W. was still caught up in electrocuting people for fun.
C- No one wants to see my ugly mug. Hell, I don't even want to have to look at it unless absolutely necessary.
D- It's so much easier to waste my time toying with my blog. Tee hee!
It's definitely time to go sleep. Or read. Possibly write.
I'm not picky at this stage in my life, where "deep sleep" denotes staying put in my bed for a minimum of twenty minutes.
Boo-yeah! That's called adolescence, baby.
Or so says Jonathan Larson.
Said.
Whatever.
Today was entirely exhausting, although I know not what from...I'm not sure I was truly weary, but perhaps 'displaced.' Yes. A much nicer word, displaced.
I was busy in compilation mode, creating a photo album online, but only now realized that:
A- I do not have too many pictures of myself.
B- Most of them date back to when James Barbour was 15 years old, and George W. was still caught up in electrocuting people for fun.
C- No one wants to see my ugly mug. Hell, I don't even want to have to look at it unless absolutely necessary.
D- It's so much easier to waste my time toying with my blog. Tee hee!
It's definitely time to go sleep. Or read. Possibly write.
I'm not picky at this stage in my life, where "deep sleep" denotes staying put in my bed for a minimum of twenty minutes.
Boo-yeah! That's called adolescence, baby.
Monday, June 14, 2004
SUPERSIZE MORGAN.
Thank Jesus (or George W.) for independent theatres...
Elise, Mary, and I ventured out to the Enzian this evening for an evening of McDonald's bashing. It seems appropriate after hearing story after infamous story about Ray Crock and his devotion to milkshake machines and/or obesity.
(Either way, as far as I'm concerned.)
Besides the ginormous battle with fast-food America, the movie poked generous questions towards the people who control media output, the government subsidiaries, and the corporations themselves. It was honest, humorous, full of insinuation, and largely worth two hours of my time.
And at the end of the movie, we walked out into the deluge of storm water, buckets upon buckets being rained upon us, and found none other than a dead cat.
It was the perfect end to the evening.
[Editor's Note: For the record (and before anyone else bothers to mention it), Morgan Spurlock, creator and "star" of the film bears a striking resemblance to one Gene Monterastelli, but with a goatee. Coincidence? I hardly think so.]
Thank Jesus (or George W.) for independent theatres...
Elise, Mary, and I ventured out to the Enzian this evening for an evening of McDonald's bashing. It seems appropriate after hearing story after infamous story about Ray Crock and his devotion to milkshake machines and/or obesity.
(Either way, as far as I'm concerned.)
Besides the ginormous battle with fast-food America, the movie poked generous questions towards the people who control media output, the government subsidiaries, and the corporations themselves. It was honest, humorous, full of insinuation, and largely worth two hours of my time.
And at the end of the movie, we walked out into the deluge of storm water, buckets upon buckets being rained upon us, and found none other than a dead cat.
It was the perfect end to the evening.
[Editor's Note: For the record (and before anyone else bothers to mention it), Morgan Spurlock, creator and "star" of the film bears a striking resemblance to one Gene Monterastelli, but with a goatee. Coincidence? I hardly think so.]
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Friday, June 11, 2004
"GO TO SLEEP, UGLY," SAYS CROMWELL THE MOUSE.
Mary and I dined at Gator's Dockside this evening [Editor's Note: Although "dined" is an overstatement- we had potato skins, mushrooms, and chicken wings. The correct verb is "feasted."], and as we entered, I spotted a crane machine, which is easily understood as the downfall of my monetary existance...
But he's cute.
Cromwell The Mouse.
Mary and I dined at Gator's Dockside this evening [Editor's Note: Although "dined" is an overstatement- we had potato skins, mushrooms, and chicken wings. The correct verb is "feasted."], and as we entered, I spotted a crane machine, which is easily understood as the downfall of my monetary existance...
But he's cute.
Cromwell The Mouse.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
EVERYBODY'S GOT THE RIGHT TO HEAR JAMES.
So, the cast of Assasins went to the studio on Monday, recording the revival album that will be on my CD shelf come July 27th.
I was worried about this: I bought the original cast album earlier this year when the revival surfaced, but all the time fearing that a successful run would bring about a new recording, featuring my one-and-only. And who can possibly compete with James? No one.
Except for Victor Garber. He's one nice-looking old guy. And, hell, he's not a sucky actor either.
[Editor's Note: Unless you glance towards Alias. Then, we have a problem.]
But I digress...With very little to digress towards.
I'll complain and bask in the glow of the internet a bit later, perhaps?
So, the cast of Assasins went to the studio on Monday, recording the revival album that will be on my CD shelf come July 27th.
I was worried about this: I bought the original cast album earlier this year when the revival surfaced, but all the time fearing that a successful run would bring about a new recording, featuring my one-and-only. And who can possibly compete with James? No one.
Except for Victor Garber. He's one nice-looking old guy. And, hell, he's not a sucky actor either.
[Editor's Note: Unless you glance towards Alias. Then, we have a problem.]
But I digress...With very little to digress towards.
I'll complain and bask in the glow of the internet a bit later, perhaps?
Monday, June 07, 2004
STOLEN MERCILESSLY FROM THE HANDS OF GOOD WRITERS? I THINK SO.
Broadway Keeps It Gay
Ah yes, early June. Time for the gayest night on national television — not the Queer as Folk season finale, not the Cher guest spot on Will & Grace, but the 58th annual Tony Awards — the night when CBS tries to make middle America warm to a bunch of old, dried-out Manhattan theater queens.
HIGHLIGHTS:
8:00pm: Our host, Hugh Jackman, emerges onstage, flanked by some beauties from the casts of the musicals Hairspray, Little Shop of Horrors, and Caroline, or Change. They all shake it while singing 'One Night Only' from Dreamgirls. Hugh pretends to be interested in women.
8:03pm: Dear Hugh high-kicks higher than any of the Radio City Rockettes, putting the last nail in any chances he ever had to be the next James Bond. Hey Hugh, how'd your hamstrings get so limber?
8:07pm: Billy Joel limps onstage with Jane Krakowski to present the first award of the evening. T-minus how many days til he crashes his car into another house? Let's take bets.
8:08pm: Ms. Krakowski, in standard charming-quirky fashion, saves the on-another-planet Mr. Joel from blatant flubs with his cue cards. Despite the help, Mr. Joel goes on to mispronounce several exotic nominee names, such as "Caroline" and "Jennifer."
8:12pm: Phylicia Rashad (aka Clair Huxtable) and Sean Combs (aka P.Diddy, aka Puff Daddy, aka Maria Teresa Thierstein Simoes-Ferreira Heinz Kerry) present Best Featured Actor in a Musical. Winner Michael Cerveris, the whitest man in the world, jokes, with attempted flava, about being onstage with "Puff." Mrs. Huxtable barely tolerates this sh*t.
8:19pm: Kristin Chenoweth, who plays the witch Glinda in Wicked, floats out over the stage in a big bubble, amid supplementary bubbles. Somebody shoot that b*tch down.
8:24pm: Alfred Molina sheds his scary metal prosthetic octo-arms to lead the company of Fiddler on the Roof in a rousing rendition of 'Tradition'. They ignite the audience with their chutzpah and win the Tony for Butt-Ugliest Broadway Cast.
8:37pm: New Jheri-Curl spokesman Brian Stokes Mitchell, with excruciatingly perfect diction, introduces the nominees for Best Play. Nice shirt, crazy man.
8:39pm: 8,000-year-old Chita Rivera sashays out to present Best Choreography and makes a nice mention of the dearly-departed Broadway great Gregory Hines. Kathleen Marshall, sister of Chicago film director Rob Marshall, wins for the wonderful dancing in the wonderful revival Wonderful Town. F*cking wonderful.
8:42pm: Edie Falco, sporting not-so-wonderful bulldyke-Caesar hair, introduces a musical number from Caroline, or Change. The usually amazing Tonya Pinkins sings a horrific, bellowing rendition of her big number from the show. Try clearing your throat and singing on key.
8:57pm: Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel (real-life wife of actor Taye Diggs) play who-can-shriek-the-loudest in a number from the bloated mega-musical nightmare Wicked. Ms. Menzel's green wicked-witch makeup makes her and Mr. Diggs a doozy of an interracial couple.
9:06pm: Hugh Jackman pretends not to be interested in Rod, the closeted gay puppet from the magnificently demented little puppet musical Avenue Q. Mr. Jackman unnecessarily involves his "wife" in the oh-so-racy banter. OH REALLY.
9:10pm: 8,000,000-year-old Carol Channing, accompanied by LL Cool J — a match made in someone's heaven—presents the award for Best Music. Ms. Channing not only sounds exactly like Barbara Billingsley as the Jive Lady in Airplane!, she also, we learn, LOVES hugging LL. The award goes to Avenue Q in a nice upset—Puppets 1, Witches 0.
9:27pm: BrÃan F. O'Byrne, an Actor, presents an Actorly speech about Acting in Professional Theatre. "Ooh look at me, I'm so Irish I need an à in BrÃan." OH I BET YOU DO MARY.
9:28pm: Anne Heche, fresh from the mothership, presents Best Featured Actress in a Play to the lovely Audra McDonald from A Raisin in the Sun. Ms. McDonald accepts her fourth Tony in ten years with brief, heartfelt comments. Listen up, non-brief, non-heartfelt retards.
9:31pm: It's Victor Garber. Who's next, Treat Williams?
9:40pm: Martin Short got out of his straitjacket somehow.
9:46pm: Jimmy Fallon is introduced as "popular comic actor Jimmy Fallon." Thanks, cheerful announcer!
9:57pm: For the first and likely last time in his life, Ethan Hawke has better hair than someone else. It seems Scarlett Johansson still hasn't brushed, or even washed, her hair since she and Benicio Del Toro did their post-Oscars "making out or having sex or something" in the Chateau Marmont elevator.
9:58pm: Phylicia Rashad, most deservedly, wins Best Actress in a Play for A Raisin in the Sun. Her way-over-the-top delivery, however, nearly ruins what would otherwise be a lovely acceptance speech. Pipe down, Phylicia.
10:04pm: Washed-up songwriter Carole Bayer Sager, looking like Joan Collins meets Elvira with her fingers in an electric socket, introduces Hugh Jackman's musical number from The Boy from Oz. Mr. Jackman emerges in gold pants, riding a camel. Bet that's not the first thing he rode today.
10:07pm: Crazy old Hugh coaxes a tentative, mortified Sarah Jessica Parker onstage, but she refuses to lambada with him cause she's "worried about her top." Hey SJP, quit the prim-and-proper sh*t and just flash a little already.
10:15pm: Drowning in mascara, Laura Linney robotically presents the four nominees for Best Play - Revival, with a forced little smile for each one. Awwww.
10:19pm: Speaking of awww, cute little Bernadette Peters comes out to inform us that she's not dead. Awww, let's pet her.
10:25pm: Hair mussed from a backstage tryst with Doogie Howser, Hugh Jackman makes perfunctory mention of Tony Randall's passing.
10:27pm: Patrick Stewart is still bald. Engage.
10:28pm: Best Actor in a Play winner Jefferson Mays uses the phrase "piquant ingenue." Please run this guy over with a bus.
10:32pm: Bafflingly, Mary J. Blige comes out to sing 'What I Did for Love' from A Chorus Line. In keeping with the evening, she sings horribly flat. Tone-deafness aside, whoever matched her with that song must have been the same ad wizard who cast Random Hearts.
10:41pm: Renée Zellweger, eyes wide shut, twirls onstage with Rob Marshall to present Best Actress in a Musical. Turns out that winner Idina Menzel of Wicked looks better with the green makeup than without. She gets very verklempt. B*TCH STOP GASPING.
10:45pm: Pale, tragic Nicole Kidman, ponytail ratcheted down so tight you can see her cranial nerves, puts on glasses to indicate that she's Serious about Presenting her Award. In the process of announcing nominees for Best Actor in a Musical, she wins Most Painfully Awkward Teleprompter Utilization.
10:46pm: Hmmm, Aussie Ms. Kidman presenting Best Actor in a Musical? Coincidence? You think Aussie Mr. Jackman might win for playing Aussie Peter Allen in The Boy from AUSSIE-F*CKING-OZ??? Wait do you get it?? OH MY GOD I GET IT!
10:56pm: In the final award of the evening, Avenue Q wins a huge, gratifying upset over the odious Wicked. Yay upsets! Yay genuine emotion! Yay puppet sex!
LESSONS FROM THE EVENING:
1. Hugh Jackman = not the boy next door, not the next James Bond.
2. Audra McDonald = classy (and can probably beat up Hugh Jackman).
3. Live singing = flat singing.
4. Puppet raunch = Tony success.
Broadway Keeps It Gay
Ah yes, early June. Time for the gayest night on national television — not the Queer as Folk season finale, not the Cher guest spot on Will & Grace, but the 58th annual Tony Awards — the night when CBS tries to make middle America warm to a bunch of old, dried-out Manhattan theater queens.
HIGHLIGHTS:
8:00pm: Our host, Hugh Jackman, emerges onstage, flanked by some beauties from the casts of the musicals Hairspray, Little Shop of Horrors, and Caroline, or Change. They all shake it while singing 'One Night Only' from Dreamgirls. Hugh pretends to be interested in women.
8:03pm: Dear Hugh high-kicks higher than any of the Radio City Rockettes, putting the last nail in any chances he ever had to be the next James Bond. Hey Hugh, how'd your hamstrings get so limber?
8:07pm: Billy Joel limps onstage with Jane Krakowski to present the first award of the evening. T-minus how many days til he crashes his car into another house? Let's take bets.
8:08pm: Ms. Krakowski, in standard charming-quirky fashion, saves the on-another-planet Mr. Joel from blatant flubs with his cue cards. Despite the help, Mr. Joel goes on to mispronounce several exotic nominee names, such as "Caroline" and "Jennifer."
8:12pm: Phylicia Rashad (aka Clair Huxtable) and Sean Combs (aka P.Diddy, aka Puff Daddy, aka Maria Teresa Thierstein Simoes-Ferreira Heinz Kerry) present Best Featured Actor in a Musical. Winner Michael Cerveris, the whitest man in the world, jokes, with attempted flava, about being onstage with "Puff." Mrs. Huxtable barely tolerates this sh*t.
8:19pm: Kristin Chenoweth, who plays the witch Glinda in Wicked, floats out over the stage in a big bubble, amid supplementary bubbles. Somebody shoot that b*tch down.
8:24pm: Alfred Molina sheds his scary metal prosthetic octo-arms to lead the company of Fiddler on the Roof in a rousing rendition of 'Tradition'. They ignite the audience with their chutzpah and win the Tony for Butt-Ugliest Broadway Cast.
8:37pm: New Jheri-Curl spokesman Brian Stokes Mitchell, with excruciatingly perfect diction, introduces the nominees for Best Play. Nice shirt, crazy man.
8:39pm: 8,000-year-old Chita Rivera sashays out to present Best Choreography and makes a nice mention of the dearly-departed Broadway great Gregory Hines. Kathleen Marshall, sister of Chicago film director Rob Marshall, wins for the wonderful dancing in the wonderful revival Wonderful Town. F*cking wonderful.
8:42pm: Edie Falco, sporting not-so-wonderful bulldyke-Caesar hair, introduces a musical number from Caroline, or Change. The usually amazing Tonya Pinkins sings a horrific, bellowing rendition of her big number from the show. Try clearing your throat and singing on key.
8:57pm: Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel (real-life wife of actor Taye Diggs) play who-can-shriek-the-loudest in a number from the bloated mega-musical nightmare Wicked. Ms. Menzel's green wicked-witch makeup makes her and Mr. Diggs a doozy of an interracial couple.
9:06pm: Hugh Jackman pretends not to be interested in Rod, the closeted gay puppet from the magnificently demented little puppet musical Avenue Q. Mr. Jackman unnecessarily involves his "wife" in the oh-so-racy banter. OH REALLY.
9:10pm: 8,000,000-year-old Carol Channing, accompanied by LL Cool J — a match made in someone's heaven—presents the award for Best Music. Ms. Channing not only sounds exactly like Barbara Billingsley as the Jive Lady in Airplane!, she also, we learn, LOVES hugging LL. The award goes to Avenue Q in a nice upset—Puppets 1, Witches 0.
9:27pm: BrÃan F. O'Byrne, an Actor, presents an Actorly speech about Acting in Professional Theatre. "Ooh look at me, I'm so Irish I need an à in BrÃan." OH I BET YOU DO MARY.
9:28pm: Anne Heche, fresh from the mothership, presents Best Featured Actress in a Play to the lovely Audra McDonald from A Raisin in the Sun. Ms. McDonald accepts her fourth Tony in ten years with brief, heartfelt comments. Listen up, non-brief, non-heartfelt retards.
9:31pm: It's Victor Garber. Who's next, Treat Williams?
9:40pm: Martin Short got out of his straitjacket somehow.
9:46pm: Jimmy Fallon is introduced as "popular comic actor Jimmy Fallon." Thanks, cheerful announcer!
9:57pm: For the first and likely last time in his life, Ethan Hawke has better hair than someone else. It seems Scarlett Johansson still hasn't brushed, or even washed, her hair since she and Benicio Del Toro did their post-Oscars "making out or having sex or something" in the Chateau Marmont elevator.
9:58pm: Phylicia Rashad, most deservedly, wins Best Actress in a Play for A Raisin in the Sun. Her way-over-the-top delivery, however, nearly ruins what would otherwise be a lovely acceptance speech. Pipe down, Phylicia.
10:04pm: Washed-up songwriter Carole Bayer Sager, looking like Joan Collins meets Elvira with her fingers in an electric socket, introduces Hugh Jackman's musical number from The Boy from Oz. Mr. Jackman emerges in gold pants, riding a camel. Bet that's not the first thing he rode today.
10:07pm: Crazy old Hugh coaxes a tentative, mortified Sarah Jessica Parker onstage, but she refuses to lambada with him cause she's "worried about her top." Hey SJP, quit the prim-and-proper sh*t and just flash a little already.
10:15pm: Drowning in mascara, Laura Linney robotically presents the four nominees for Best Play - Revival, with a forced little smile for each one. Awwww.
10:19pm: Speaking of awww, cute little Bernadette Peters comes out to inform us that she's not dead. Awww, let's pet her.
10:25pm: Hair mussed from a backstage tryst with Doogie Howser, Hugh Jackman makes perfunctory mention of Tony Randall's passing.
10:27pm: Patrick Stewart is still bald. Engage.
10:28pm: Best Actor in a Play winner Jefferson Mays uses the phrase "piquant ingenue." Please run this guy over with a bus.
10:32pm: Bafflingly, Mary J. Blige comes out to sing 'What I Did for Love' from A Chorus Line. In keeping with the evening, she sings horribly flat. Tone-deafness aside, whoever matched her with that song must have been the same ad wizard who cast Random Hearts.
10:41pm: Renée Zellweger, eyes wide shut, twirls onstage with Rob Marshall to present Best Actress in a Musical. Turns out that winner Idina Menzel of Wicked looks better with the green makeup than without. She gets very verklempt. B*TCH STOP GASPING.
10:45pm: Pale, tragic Nicole Kidman, ponytail ratcheted down so tight you can see her cranial nerves, puts on glasses to indicate that she's Serious about Presenting her Award. In the process of announcing nominees for Best Actor in a Musical, she wins Most Painfully Awkward Teleprompter Utilization.
10:46pm: Hmmm, Aussie Ms. Kidman presenting Best Actor in a Musical? Coincidence? You think Aussie Mr. Jackman might win for playing Aussie Peter Allen in The Boy from AUSSIE-F*CKING-OZ??? Wait do you get it?? OH MY GOD I GET IT!
10:56pm: In the final award of the evening, Avenue Q wins a huge, gratifying upset over the odious Wicked. Yay upsets! Yay genuine emotion! Yay puppet sex!
LESSONS FROM THE EVENING:
1. Hugh Jackman = not the boy next door, not the next James Bond.
2. Audra McDonald = classy (and can probably beat up Hugh Jackman).
3. Live singing = flat singing.
4. Puppet raunch = Tony success.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
ONE NIGHT ONLY!
Perhaps it was an awful presentation night for the American Theatre Wing, but good effing Lord, it was far from uneventful.
I'm still giggling.
I can't stop, in fact.
Not only did Avenue Q take home the three largest prizes (and the upset) of the evening, but Idina Menzel almost fell off of the podium she was scaling for "Defying Gravity."
It was a good evening.
Jackman, I suppose, deserved his Best Actor, as did Jefferson Mays. Rashad's speech was...Elitist; Menzel's was frazzled. I enjoyed the opening sequence, especially the awkward Jews swaying in rhythm from Fiddler. Jackman made out with not one, but two puppets, which brings his count to somewhere around sixteen inanimate objects he's violated in the last two years, I believe.
I have just a few minor questions:
---Did anyone else notice the two comedic ploys of the front runners for Best Musical? Sure, Rod was a cute homosexual puppet, but who can beat Chenowith's "Yes, it is good to see me, isn't it?"
---How much of the "Sopranos" population was actually going to switch to the TONY AWARDS? The classy mobsters?
---Why were the Featured Actor/Actress awards presented so early? Last year, Book and Score were presented first, then the Featured categories. It makes very little sense.
---Who in the universe actually wanted to see that stick, Sarah Jessica Parker, gyrate? No one. Except for Jackman.
---Speaking of Jackman, was the "mutant" comment to co-star Paquin just a bit over the top?
---How gorgeous was James Barbour? Really, really effing gorgeous.
---What was my favorite quotes of the evening? Curtsey of I Am My Own Wife writer Doug Wright ("Our entire cast just won Tony Awards!") and producer David Richenthal ("The entire cast: Jefferson Mays, Jefferson Mays, Jefferson Mays and Jefferson Mays.").
Here are some others that rate high on my list:
"Oh, I always loved it. Don't we all? Only miserable sick people don't. It's downright American!" --Carol Channing on rap music
"Do any of you want to know what orchestrations are?" -Michael Starobin, who won the Best Orchestrations category for his work on Assassins
"I think we can now announce that Rod will be replacing Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz." --Avenue Q producer Kevin McCollum
"I beat Smarty Jones" --Wicked costume designer Susan Hilferty on winning the triple crown of theater: the Outer Critics Circle Award, the Drama Desk Award and the Tony Award
"I feel like Smarty Jones." --Avenue Q's Jeff Whitty
"In fact, Smarty Jones is coming to our party!" --Avenue Q producer Kevin McCollum
"You know, Hugh, you are a very successful gentleman and I'm an investment banker, so if you ever need anyone to take care of your assetsÂ?" --Rod from Avenue Q
"Deb, if I go to the Avenue Q party, you'll know why." --Hugh Jackman to his wife after Rod's flirtation
"Here is what you missed at our little barbeque: I danced with the Rockettes, a witch came on in a bubble, a lot of Jews danced their way out of Russia, Tony Bennett sang, Harvey Fierstein presented an award, there was swing dancing, a whole bunch of people did a musical number about assassinating presidents and there were puppets in group therapy. It's not TV, it's the Tony Awards."--Hugh Jackman recapping the evening so far for people just tuning in
More later. I have to go rewind the tape and watch again.
Perhaps it was an awful presentation night for the American Theatre Wing, but good effing Lord, it was far from uneventful.
I'm still giggling.
I can't stop, in fact.
Not only did Avenue Q take home the three largest prizes (and the upset) of the evening, but Idina Menzel almost fell off of the podium she was scaling for "Defying Gravity."
It was a good evening.
Jackman, I suppose, deserved his Best Actor, as did Jefferson Mays. Rashad's speech was...Elitist; Menzel's was frazzled. I enjoyed the opening sequence, especially the awkward Jews swaying in rhythm from Fiddler. Jackman made out with not one, but two puppets, which brings his count to somewhere around sixteen inanimate objects he's violated in the last two years, I believe.
I have just a few minor questions:
---Did anyone else notice the two comedic ploys of the front runners for Best Musical? Sure, Rod was a cute homosexual puppet, but who can beat Chenowith's "Yes, it is good to see me, isn't it?"
---How much of the "Sopranos" population was actually going to switch to the TONY AWARDS? The classy mobsters?
---Why were the Featured Actor/Actress awards presented so early? Last year, Book and Score were presented first, then the Featured categories. It makes very little sense.
---Who in the universe actually wanted to see that stick, Sarah Jessica Parker, gyrate? No one. Except for Jackman.
---Speaking of Jackman, was the "mutant" comment to co-star Paquin just a bit over the top?
---How gorgeous was James Barbour? Really, really effing gorgeous.
---What was my favorite quotes of the evening? Curtsey of I Am My Own Wife writer Doug Wright ("Our entire cast just won Tony Awards!") and producer David Richenthal ("The entire cast: Jefferson Mays, Jefferson Mays, Jefferson Mays and Jefferson Mays.").
Here are some others that rate high on my list:
"Oh, I always loved it. Don't we all? Only miserable sick people don't. It's downright American!" --Carol Channing on rap music
"Do any of you want to know what orchestrations are?" -Michael Starobin, who won the Best Orchestrations category for his work on Assassins
"I think we can now announce that Rod will be replacing Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz." --Avenue Q producer Kevin McCollum
"I beat Smarty Jones" --Wicked costume designer Susan Hilferty on winning the triple crown of theater: the Outer Critics Circle Award, the Drama Desk Award and the Tony Award
"I feel like Smarty Jones." --Avenue Q's Jeff Whitty
"In fact, Smarty Jones is coming to our party!" --Avenue Q producer Kevin McCollum
"You know, Hugh, you are a very successful gentleman and I'm an investment banker, so if you ever need anyone to take care of your assetsÂ?" --Rod from Avenue Q
"Deb, if I go to the Avenue Q party, you'll know why." --Hugh Jackman to his wife after Rod's flirtation
"Here is what you missed at our little barbeque: I danced with the Rockettes, a witch came on in a bubble, a lot of Jews danced their way out of Russia, Tony Bennett sang, Harvey Fierstein presented an award, there was swing dancing, a whole bunch of people did a musical number about assassinating presidents and there were puppets in group therapy. It's not TV, it's the Tony Awards."--Hugh Jackman recapping the evening so far for people just tuning in
More later. I have to go rewind the tape and watch again.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Thursday, May 27, 2004
WHAT GENIUSES THINK ABOUT:
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i'm doomed to georgia this weekend. it's like a fate worse than a fate worse than death
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
eww. i'm doomed to st. pete this weekend. kind of like georgia, but fewer peaches, i believe.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
yeah. and no tea with enough sugar to make it the equivalent of syrup
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
what will you being doing while there?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
taking care of my should-already-be-dead-grandmother.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
how crummy. so you gather knitting needles and yarn for her, maybe? and pet her cats?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, no cats. just old people in an assisted living facility...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
ah. i guess the cats are banned due to allergy reasons
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, just because they are consistently more active than the entirety of the nursing home population. it makes the ones who can still see rather discouraged.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
that's a valid point you have. do you think that perhaps those who work there should do the seeing ones a favor and swipe their bi-focals?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
perhaps. that could prove the solution to all problems.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i mean, they don't really *need* the glasses: they don't drive, their meals are delivered, they're escorted everywhere, they don't have to sign bills or hit buttons on the remote because people do that for them
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
the cats might bring some new found life to nursing homes nationwide
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
actually.. they might be the only life there
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
maybe we could institute a program: a program that brings these lively creatures to visit the elderly, giving them one teensy bit of hope worth clinging onto in the midst of desperation....
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
only, we must use retarded cats.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
cats that also can't see or hear very well, and are generally senile. ... i like where you're going with this. the humane service is going to be thrilled
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
it'll be the perfect match of human and pet
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
yes!
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
=)
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
working together to build a better tomorrow
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
brings a tear to my eye...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
*sniffs*
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
this is the stuff that makes future Miss America speeches.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
oh, that it does. it's the stuff that makes good samaritan awards, lifetime achievement honors.... it's the stuff that makes Miss Universe winners
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
Donald Trump would be proud
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i'm doomed to georgia this weekend. it's like a fate worse than a fate worse than death
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
eww. i'm doomed to st. pete this weekend. kind of like georgia, but fewer peaches, i believe.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
yeah. and no tea with enough sugar to make it the equivalent of syrup
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
what will you being doing while there?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
taking care of my should-already-be-dead-grandmother.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
how crummy. so you gather knitting needles and yarn for her, maybe? and pet her cats?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, no cats. just old people in an assisted living facility...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
ah. i guess the cats are banned due to allergy reasons
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, just because they are consistently more active than the entirety of the nursing home population. it makes the ones who can still see rather discouraged.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
that's a valid point you have. do you think that perhaps those who work there should do the seeing ones a favor and swipe their bi-focals?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
perhaps. that could prove the solution to all problems.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i mean, they don't really *need* the glasses: they don't drive, their meals are delivered, they're escorted everywhere, they don't have to sign bills or hit buttons on the remote because people do that for them
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
the cats might bring some new found life to nursing homes nationwide
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
actually.. they might be the only life there
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
maybe we could institute a program: a program that brings these lively creatures to visit the elderly, giving them one teensy bit of hope worth clinging onto in the midst of desperation....
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
only, we must use retarded cats.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
cats that also can't see or hear very well, and are generally senile. ... i like where you're going with this. the humane service is going to be thrilled
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
it'll be the perfect match of human and pet
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
yes!
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
=)
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
working together to build a better tomorrow
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
brings a tear to my eye...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
*sniffs*
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
this is the stuff that makes future Miss America speeches.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
oh, that it does. it's the stuff that makes good samaritan awards, lifetime achievement honors.... it's the stuff that makes Miss Universe winners
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
Donald Trump would be proud
“IT’S CALLED ‘CAPITALISM,’ KOVACH. IT PAYS YOUR SALARY.”
Maybe capitalism is the direction I need to head in. Dominating. Powerful. Rich.
[Editor's Note: I was about to type in 'Rick.' I suppose that someone named Rick could hold some very capitalist agenda. So it will remain.]
And Rick.
I've reached a step in my life (a plateau, if you will) that has taken me some time to surmount. I feel that I must abandon all and seek a life of newness, of difference beyond that which I see around me.
I want to be the opposite of the A-type capitalist.
I want to be poor.
Not just in the monetary sense of the word, but I want to be rid of this ungodly, fortunate feeling that surrounds me and everything I'm doing.
I'm disgusted by it.
And I am so unworthy of it.
Maybe capitalism is the direction I need to head in. Dominating. Powerful. Rich.
[Editor's Note: I was about to type in 'Rick.' I suppose that someone named Rick could hold some very capitalist agenda. So it will remain.]
And Rick.
I've reached a step in my life (a plateau, if you will) that has taken me some time to surmount. I feel that I must abandon all and seek a life of newness, of difference beyond that which I see around me.
I want to be the opposite of the A-type capitalist.
I want to be poor.
Not just in the monetary sense of the word, but I want to be rid of this ungodly, fortunate feeling that surrounds me and everything I'm doing.
I'm disgusted by it.
And I am so unworthy of it.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
WHO? ME!? EXCITED? YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR MIND.
Or, correct. Either way.
This morning's press release is enough to make me squeal like a rowdy pig in slop.
(Look at the performance announcements to understand why...):
The June 6th telecast of the American Theatre Wing’s 58th annual Tony Awards ceremony will be a star-studded affair.
The CBS broadcast will be hosted by Hugh Jackman [Editor's Note: Ugh.], and will include appearances by the previously announced Nicole Kidman, Tony Bennett, and Mary J. Blige.
On May 26, Executive Producers Ricky Kirshner and Glenn Weiss revealed that joining Ms. Kidman as presenters will include current nominees Anne Heche (Twentieth Century) and Phylicia Rashad (A Raisin in the Sun); two-time Tony winners Nathan Lane [Editor's Note: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! Okay. I'm done.] (set to return to Broadway next month in The Frogs), John Lithgow (seen on Broadway this season in The Retreat from Moscow), Chita Rivera, and Bernadette Peters (now on Broadway in Gypsy); 2003 Tony winners Billy Joel, Marissa Jaret Winokur and Jane Krakowski; rap star Sean Combs (currently starring on Broadway in A Raisin in the Sun); Rent and Chicago star Taye Diggs; “Saturday Night Live” personality Jimmy Fallon; past Tony-winner Joel Grey (Wicked); Broadway/Hollywood star and novelist Ethan Hawke (Henry IV); two-time Grammy Award-winner LL Cool J; stage and film star Scarlett Johansson (Lost in Translation); star of the upcoming Broadway revival of After the Fall Peter Krause (“Six Feet Under”); past Tony and Oscar nominee and current star of Broadway’s Sight Unseen Laura Linney; 2000 Tony winner Brian Stokes Mitchell; film and London stage giant Helen Mirren; Oscar-winner and recent Off Broadway star Anna Paquin; lyricist Carole Bayer Sager (They’re Playing Our Song and The Boy from Oz); 1999 Tony winner Martin Short; stage and film personality Patrick Stewart (this season’s The Caretaker); and noted stage and screen stars Sigourney Weaver and Sarah Jessica Parker.
They also announced that Mary J. Blige and Tony Bennett will each perform a musical salute to Broadway featuring their own interpretations of classic Broadway tunes featured in the newly published Tony Awards Songbook, a collection of songs from Tony Award-winning Best Musicals. Blige will perform “What I Did for Love” from the 1976 Best Musical A Chorus Line, while Bennett will deliver his rendition of “The Lullaby of Broadway” from 42nd Street, the 1981 winner. [Editor's Note: That should be a sad moment for Broadway.]
The Tony telecast will include performances of the following numbers from nominated Best Musicals and Best Musical Revivals:
Assassins Nominees Michael Cerveris, Denis O’Hare and company [Editor's Note: That little caption "and company" reveals that James Barbour is performing. James. My little Jamesy-poo. Ahh...] will perform “Everybody’s Got the Right.” Avenue Q Nominees John Tartaglia, Stephanie D’Abruzzo and company will entertain with “It Sucks to Be Me.” [Editor's Note: Luckily for me, it's my absolute favorite number in the show.] The Boy from Oz Nominee Hugh Jackman will prove (as Peter Allen) that he is “Not the Boy Next Door.” Caroline, or Change Nominee Tonya Pinkins will sing “Lot’s Wife.” Fiddler on the Roof Nominee Alfred Molina will lead the company in “Tradition.” [Editor's Note: We'll have to see how little Alfred can compare to the omnipotent Zero.] Wicked Nominees Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth will perform the show’s act-one finale, “Defying Gravity.” [Editor's Note: Well, duh. What else would they perform? A Joel Grey number? No. They're both up for Best Leading Actress, and by God, they're going to milk it for more than it's worth. I just can't wait to see Menzel fight for a high note and ruin Chenoweth's chances, too.] Wonderful Town Nominee Donna Murphy will lead the company in the production number “Swing.”
The executive producers also announced that the telecast will include moments from this year’s Best Play nominees (Anna in the Tropics, Frozen, I Am My Own Wife and The Retreat from Moscow) and Best Revival of a Play nominees (Henry IV, Jumpers, King Lear, A Raisin in the Sun).
Tony Night officially gets underway at 6:00 p.m. (ET) here at TonyAwards.com where you can view the stars arriving on the red carpet at Radio City Music Hall via our live video webcast. At 7:15 p.m., prior to the telecast, the first six Tony Awards will be will presented, live from the stage of Radio City and webcast via live video exclusively at TonyAwards.com. The only way to watch the presentation of these awards is to be in the house at Radio City or via the webcast on this site. The 2004 Tony Awards telecast, hosted by Hugh Jackman, follows immediately after on CBS, beginning at 8:00 p.m. (ET/delayed PT).
Or, correct. Either way.
This morning's press release is enough to make me squeal like a rowdy pig in slop.
(Look at the performance announcements to understand why...):
The June 6th telecast of the American Theatre Wing’s 58th annual Tony Awards ceremony will be a star-studded affair.
The CBS broadcast will be hosted by Hugh Jackman [Editor's Note: Ugh.], and will include appearances by the previously announced Nicole Kidman, Tony Bennett, and Mary J. Blige.
On May 26, Executive Producers Ricky Kirshner and Glenn Weiss revealed that joining Ms. Kidman as presenters will include current nominees Anne Heche (Twentieth Century) and Phylicia Rashad (A Raisin in the Sun); two-time Tony winners Nathan Lane [Editor's Note: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! Okay. I'm done.] (set to return to Broadway next month in The Frogs), John Lithgow (seen on Broadway this season in The Retreat from Moscow), Chita Rivera, and Bernadette Peters (now on Broadway in Gypsy); 2003 Tony winners Billy Joel, Marissa Jaret Winokur and Jane Krakowski; rap star Sean Combs (currently starring on Broadway in A Raisin in the Sun); Rent and Chicago star Taye Diggs; “Saturday Night Live” personality Jimmy Fallon; past Tony-winner Joel Grey (Wicked); Broadway/Hollywood star and novelist Ethan Hawke (Henry IV); two-time Grammy Award-winner LL Cool J; stage and film star Scarlett Johansson (Lost in Translation); star of the upcoming Broadway revival of After the Fall Peter Krause (“Six Feet Under”); past Tony and Oscar nominee and current star of Broadway’s Sight Unseen Laura Linney; 2000 Tony winner Brian Stokes Mitchell; film and London stage giant Helen Mirren; Oscar-winner and recent Off Broadway star Anna Paquin; lyricist Carole Bayer Sager (They’re Playing Our Song and The Boy from Oz); 1999 Tony winner Martin Short; stage and film personality Patrick Stewart (this season’s The Caretaker); and noted stage and screen stars Sigourney Weaver and Sarah Jessica Parker.
They also announced that Mary J. Blige and Tony Bennett will each perform a musical salute to Broadway featuring their own interpretations of classic Broadway tunes featured in the newly published Tony Awards Songbook, a collection of songs from Tony Award-winning Best Musicals. Blige will perform “What I Did for Love” from the 1976 Best Musical A Chorus Line, while Bennett will deliver his rendition of “The Lullaby of Broadway” from 42nd Street, the 1981 winner. [Editor's Note: That should be a sad moment for Broadway.]
The Tony telecast will include performances of the following numbers from nominated Best Musicals and Best Musical Revivals:
Assassins Nominees Michael Cerveris, Denis O’Hare and company [Editor's Note: That little caption "and company" reveals that James Barbour is performing. James. My little Jamesy-poo. Ahh...] will perform “Everybody’s Got the Right.” Avenue Q Nominees John Tartaglia, Stephanie D’Abruzzo and company will entertain with “It Sucks to Be Me.” [Editor's Note: Luckily for me, it's my absolute favorite number in the show.] The Boy from Oz Nominee Hugh Jackman will prove (as Peter Allen) that he is “Not the Boy Next Door.” Caroline, or Change Nominee Tonya Pinkins will sing “Lot’s Wife.” Fiddler on the Roof Nominee Alfred Molina will lead the company in “Tradition.” [Editor's Note: We'll have to see how little Alfred can compare to the omnipotent Zero.] Wicked Nominees Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth will perform the show’s act-one finale, “Defying Gravity.” [Editor's Note: Well, duh. What else would they perform? A Joel Grey number? No. They're both up for Best Leading Actress, and by God, they're going to milk it for more than it's worth. I just can't wait to see Menzel fight for a high note and ruin Chenoweth's chances, too.] Wonderful Town Nominee Donna Murphy will lead the company in the production number “Swing.”
The executive producers also announced that the telecast will include moments from this year’s Best Play nominees (Anna in the Tropics, Frozen, I Am My Own Wife and The Retreat from Moscow) and Best Revival of a Play nominees (Henry IV, Jumpers, King Lear, A Raisin in the Sun).
Tony Night officially gets underway at 6:00 p.m. (ET) here at TonyAwards.com where you can view the stars arriving on the red carpet at Radio City Music Hall via our live video webcast. At 7:15 p.m., prior to the telecast, the first six Tony Awards will be will presented, live from the stage of Radio City and webcast via live video exclusively at TonyAwards.com. The only way to watch the presentation of these awards is to be in the house at Radio City or via the webcast on this site. The 2004 Tony Awards telecast, hosted by Hugh Jackman, follows immediately after on CBS, beginning at 8:00 p.m. (ET/delayed PT).
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
UNTITLED.
I spent nearly two hours yesterday morning with someone overly dear to my heart, obviously, in an overly sappy and pathetic way.
Organizing FCAT books.
It is not that I fear separation or detachment from this person: to an absurd degree, I think I desire it, at least for these next few months. There lies something within friendship, something within the level of complacency in relationships that deteriorate the attractive edginess of first impressions and respectful interaction. That gradual degregation is the integration of something even more costly, yet undeniably sweeter as blooming friendship later unfolds unto its wilted, yet strangely attractive presence- intimacy. "I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshness would leave it."
Yet it has hardly left, an angle held at least on my end of the emotional spectrum. I've found a mentor, yet feel undignified in claiming this person as such, due to the similar status they hold within the minds and hearts of others more qualified to do so. They are aware of this, as am I, to an even fuller degree this morning than I last night feared. How detrimental it is to claim as a guide one who has already begun leading the journey for so many others! Must I take up new root in some other shore? Find the longing of my soul content in some other being, some other new, refreshing presence, much unlike the one I leave for more to bask beneath?
(How Shakespearian this tragedy seems to one unaccustomed to my passions!)
Yes, the separation is essential. Natural. Progressive. Yesterday was an exercise of my emotional faculties and stamina; the coming weeks will test my intellect beyond anything an instructor could inflict.
I spent nearly two hours yesterday morning with someone overly dear to my heart, obviously, in an overly sappy and pathetic way.
Organizing FCAT books.
It is not that I fear separation or detachment from this person: to an absurd degree, I think I desire it, at least for these next few months. There lies something within friendship, something within the level of complacency in relationships that deteriorate the attractive edginess of first impressions and respectful interaction. That gradual degregation is the integration of something even more costly, yet undeniably sweeter as blooming friendship later unfolds unto its wilted, yet strangely attractive presence- intimacy. "I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshness would leave it."
Yet it has hardly left, an angle held at least on my end of the emotional spectrum. I've found a mentor, yet feel undignified in claiming this person as such, due to the similar status they hold within the minds and hearts of others more qualified to do so. They are aware of this, as am I, to an even fuller degree this morning than I last night feared. How detrimental it is to claim as a guide one who has already begun leading the journey for so many others! Must I take up new root in some other shore? Find the longing of my soul content in some other being, some other new, refreshing presence, much unlike the one I leave for more to bask beneath?
(How Shakespearian this tragedy seems to one unaccustomed to my passions!)
Yes, the separation is essential. Natural. Progressive. Yesterday was an exercise of my emotional faculties and stamina; the coming weeks will test my intellect beyond anything an instructor could inflict.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
THE DOCTOR IS IN.
The Doctor of Pepper, that is.
We stopped at Red Lobster for a mini-meal tonight, and the waiter was on speed to a nauseating degree...Running through the restaurant at seventy-eight miles per hour, he was a traffic accident waiting to happen.
It was dinner and a show.
Not my point.
I feel utterly agitated that I couldn't attend Graduation yesterday. I feel as though some of my friends were counting on me to be there for extra padding and support, yet they were unaware of the circumstances, that of which held me from sitting in that O-Rena and cheering them on.
I feel like crap.
Crap, however, appears to have drug-like qualities which induce mere mortals (such as myself) to agree to what would otherwise be considered "unagreeable situations."
Um, maybe this is neither the time nor the place to divulge.
As I've yet to agree to anything.
But the possibility still lies in the open, ready for a good pouncing.
Ha ha! "Pouncing."
Kind of sounds like "boun--"...
Oh.
Never mind.
The Doctor of Pepper, that is.
We stopped at Red Lobster for a mini-meal tonight, and the waiter was on speed to a nauseating degree...Running through the restaurant at seventy-eight miles per hour, he was a traffic accident waiting to happen.
It was dinner and a show.
Not my point.
I feel utterly agitated that I couldn't attend Graduation yesterday. I feel as though some of my friends were counting on me to be there for extra padding and support, yet they were unaware of the circumstances, that of which held me from sitting in that O-Rena and cheering them on.
I feel like crap.
Crap, however, appears to have drug-like qualities which induce mere mortals (such as myself) to agree to what would otherwise be considered "unagreeable situations."
Um, maybe this is neither the time nor the place to divulge.
As I've yet to agree to anything.
But the possibility still lies in the open, ready for a good pouncing.
Ha ha! "Pouncing."
Kind of sounds like "boun--"...
Oh.
Never mind.
Saturday, May 22, 2004
A BREAK, THEY SAY.
I'll give you a break, bi-atch.
We have less than a few minutes until hell once again opens its wide and ghastly mouth to swallow us into the abyss of American Dance Machine.
I broke into the stash of Backel Candy Bars.
(Or granola bars. Either way.)
I must depart, as I'm running the light board and/or poking my eyeballs out one by one.
Fun!
No, I mean, that's funny!
I'll give you a break, bi-atch.
We have less than a few minutes until hell once again opens its wide and ghastly mouth to swallow us into the abyss of American Dance Machine.
I broke into the stash of Backel Candy Bars.
(Or granola bars. Either way.)
I must depart, as I'm running the light board and/or poking my eyeballs out one by one.
Fun!
No, I mean, that's funny!
Friday, May 21, 2004
HERE I LIE, WASTING AWAY AT THE DREGS OF A FROZEN WATER BOTTLE.
Poetic?
I think not.
We've been stuck here for what appears to be months, though in all relativity, is simply a mere three hours. Three hours. Never before have three hours so jovially deterred my thought, my sanity, my very vitality.
And the worst news is yet to come: I'm stuck with the lovebirds.
And they won't stop nuzzling.
The word itself reigns in sympathy from my entrails to my eyes.
"I don't want to be here," she says.
Nor do I, you maroon buffoon.
Nor do I.
[Editor's Note: I was editing grammar, and I've continued to type some new thoughts, so, let's just roll with it.]
I've been focused upon one person for the last few days. And maybe it's all because of my rendezvous to the Photo Shop, but something screams that there lies more to it. He didn't travel for his own sanity. I think he left for a reason, and I wonder what that reason will prove to be.
I'm not sure exactly what kind of person he's become. Or what kind of person he's becoming, right now, as I speak (type). He could prove a stranger. He could prove the change I need. I'm not sure which would prove more efficient a distraction.
God, I wish I could channel these thoughts in a more responsive way. I wish I knew what words could adequately define the obsession, the longing, the gripping enthusiasm that I rarely experience beyond the parameters he encompasses.
You know what they say: If wishes were horses...
Strong, powerful beings, restless, longing, and clinging to their instincts alone. Yes. Horses.
My wishes are horses, galloping, proud, fearless and dominant horses. Willful. Pioneering. Passionate.
Fiery.
Poetic?
I think not.
We've been stuck here for what appears to be months, though in all relativity, is simply a mere three hours. Three hours. Never before have three hours so jovially deterred my thought, my sanity, my very vitality.
And the worst news is yet to come: I'm stuck with the lovebirds.
And they won't stop nuzzling.
The word itself reigns in sympathy from my entrails to my eyes.
"I don't want to be here," she says.
Nor do I, you maroon buffoon.
Nor do I.
[Editor's Note: I was editing grammar, and I've continued to type some new thoughts, so, let's just roll with it.]
I've been focused upon one person for the last few days. And maybe it's all because of my rendezvous to the Photo Shop, but something screams that there lies more to it. He didn't travel for his own sanity. I think he left for a reason, and I wonder what that reason will prove to be.
I'm not sure exactly what kind of person he's become. Or what kind of person he's becoming, right now, as I speak (type). He could prove a stranger. He could prove the change I need. I'm not sure which would prove more efficient a distraction.
God, I wish I could channel these thoughts in a more responsive way. I wish I knew what words could adequately define the obsession, the longing, the gripping enthusiasm that I rarely experience beyond the parameters he encompasses.
You know what they say: If wishes were horses...
Strong, powerful beings, restless, longing, and clinging to their instincts alone. Yes. Horses.
My wishes are horses, galloping, proud, fearless and dominant horses. Willful. Pioneering. Passionate.
Fiery.
I BELIEVE IN A THING CALLED LOVE.
Maybe not, but I can't get anything partially related to The Darkness out of my head...It's "really growing on me."
Heh! How amazingly hilarious!
Or not.
My junior year is finally over, which means I will spend the next few months plotting my post-high school adventure, namely, college. It should be an interesting quest.
For the time being, I have a nine-hour job to attend to...
And a guarantee you, there will be Audio Blogging involved.
Maybe not, but I can't get anything partially related to The Darkness out of my head...It's "really growing on me."
Heh! How amazingly hilarious!
Or not.
My junior year is finally over, which means I will spend the next few months plotting my post-high school adventure, namely, college. It should be an interesting quest.
For the time being, I have a nine-hour job to attend to...
And a guarantee you, there will be Audio Blogging involved.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
IT'S MUCH TOO EARLY TO HAVE ANY SELF-RECOGNITION.
Early?
Late?
There is absolutely no difference.
I've been thinking, which is difficult and scary for all parties involved, and normally leads to brooding, the root of all Kelley-evil.
Just thinking. It's rather disturbing, actually, the amount of time we sit, taking part in nothing but the exaggerated notions of glory in our own minds. And we do, of course. It's no exaggeration by itself. Simply fact.
Factually simple.
The D: it will be like talking about rochester with rochester
Me: except a girly, prada kind of rochester.
It has been one of those days.
Early?
Late?
There is absolutely no difference.
I've been thinking, which is difficult and scary for all parties involved, and normally leads to brooding, the root of all Kelley-evil.
Just thinking. It's rather disturbing, actually, the amount of time we sit, taking part in nothing but the exaggerated notions of glory in our own minds. And we do, of course. It's no exaggeration by itself. Simply fact.
Factually simple.
The D: it will be like talking about rochester with rochester
Me: except a girly, prada kind of rochester.
It has been one of those days.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE, DO NOT GET ANGRY.
I'm on the rampage...That is, I must pack and contain the ever-flowing excitement that our weekend voyage to St. Petersburg is stirring up within me.
I'm just so happy.
Actually, I hope it will provide ample opportunity for me to catch up on reading, as I must start The Plague, not to mention the nonexistent attachment I have with Nathan Lane and his new flavorings of showtune recordings which I have cough, cough, bootlegged, cough, off the grand ole' internet.
Away I go.
I'm on the rampage...That is, I must pack and contain the ever-flowing excitement that our weekend voyage to St. Petersburg is stirring up within me.
I'm just so happy.
Actually, I hope it will provide ample opportunity for me to catch up on reading, as I must start The Plague, not to mention the nonexistent attachment I have with Nathan Lane and his new flavorings of showtune recordings which I have cough, cough, bootlegged, cough, off the grand ole' internet.
Away I go.
Monday, May 10, 2004
"JUST GOTTA GET OUT; JUST GOTTA GET RIGHT OUT OF HERE-A!"
So, it's the final day of a Jen-infested newspaper, and Adobe Hates Me, Volume 1, has made its glorious debut.
We're all very focused, I assure you.
I need to finish writing her yearbook insert thingy, but beyond that, today has the faint air of parting, its lingering essence suffocating me and intoxicating the general atmosphere.
It effing sucks.
Oh, well. Here's to The Chipmunk.
So, it's the final day of a Jen-infested newspaper, and Adobe Hates Me, Volume 1, has made its glorious debut.
We're all very focused, I assure you.
I need to finish writing her yearbook insert thingy, but beyond that, today has the faint air of parting, its lingering essence suffocating me and intoxicating the general atmosphere.
It effing sucks.
Oh, well. Here's to The Chipmunk.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
I'M NOT ONE TO STEAL SOMEONE ELSE'S MATERIAL, BUT THERE'S ALWAYS ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT.
Aries: (March 21—April 19)
You love pointing out that you were raised by wolves, but you never mention that they were Harvard-educated, old-money Boston wolves.
Taurus: (April. 20—May 20)
Not that it's really the Zodiac's business, but most people take the dead goldfish out of the tank before adding new ones. The same goes for the drowned cats.
Gemini: (May 21—June 21)
Plastic bags are not a toy, but you understand that they can still be a lot of fun if you use them to smother children.
Cancer: (June 22—July 22)
You may say there's nothing wrong with you that a week in the Bahamas won't cure, but the stars recommend you get the chemotherapy.
Leo: (July 23—Aug. 22)
The stars have always been a great influence on your fate. This will never be as true as it is next week, when a certain yellow G-type variable star cuts loose with a really impressive flare.
Virgo: (Aug. 23—Sept. 22)
Everyone has problems, but they don't all expect the whole universe to come to a standstill because of them. Only about half of them expect that.
Libra: (Sept. 23—Oct. 23)
You'll no longer have any reason to doubt the transcendent power of love after you see it obliterate an entire armored division in military tests.
Scorpio: (Oct. 24—Nov. 21)
Some people would cut off their nose to spite their face, but you're not like that. You did it because you thought it would make you look like a wingless man-bat hybrid.
Sagittarius: (Nov. 22—Dec. 21)
A bizarre misunderstanding on your part will result in your going to church every Sunday and speaking sincerely to invisible entities with the belief that it might do you some sort of good.
Capricorn: (Dec. 22—Jan. 19)
Your millions can't help you find love and happiness, especially because the word "millions" here doesn't indicate any sort of monetary unit.
Aquarius: (Jan. 20—Feb. 18)
You'll watch as dozens die in a bus accident, but take heart: Everyone will know there was nothing you could have done without severely inconveniencing yourself.
Pisces: (Feb. 19—March 20)
You've been forced to conclude that people are just no good, no matter how you slice, puree, braise, fry, or sauté them.
Thank you, Mr. Onion.
Aries: (March 21—April 19)
You love pointing out that you were raised by wolves, but you never mention that they were Harvard-educated, old-money Boston wolves.
Taurus: (April. 20—May 20)
Not that it's really the Zodiac's business, but most people take the dead goldfish out of the tank before adding new ones. The same goes for the drowned cats.
Gemini: (May 21—June 21)
Plastic bags are not a toy, but you understand that they can still be a lot of fun if you use them to smother children.
Cancer: (June 22—July 22)
You may say there's nothing wrong with you that a week in the Bahamas won't cure, but the stars recommend you get the chemotherapy.
Leo: (July 23—Aug. 22)
The stars have always been a great influence on your fate. This will never be as true as it is next week, when a certain yellow G-type variable star cuts loose with a really impressive flare.
Virgo: (Aug. 23—Sept. 22)
Everyone has problems, but they don't all expect the whole universe to come to a standstill because of them. Only about half of them expect that.
Libra: (Sept. 23—Oct. 23)
You'll no longer have any reason to doubt the transcendent power of love after you see it obliterate an entire armored division in military tests.
Scorpio: (Oct. 24—Nov. 21)
Some people would cut off their nose to spite their face, but you're not like that. You did it because you thought it would make you look like a wingless man-bat hybrid.
Sagittarius: (Nov. 22—Dec. 21)
A bizarre misunderstanding on your part will result in your going to church every Sunday and speaking sincerely to invisible entities with the belief that it might do you some sort of good.
Capricorn: (Dec. 22—Jan. 19)
Your millions can't help you find love and happiness, especially because the word "millions" here doesn't indicate any sort of monetary unit.
Aquarius: (Jan. 20—Feb. 18)
You'll watch as dozens die in a bus accident, but take heart: Everyone will know there was nothing you could have done without severely inconveniencing yourself.
Pisces: (Feb. 19—March 20)
You've been forced to conclude that people are just no good, no matter how you slice, puree, braise, fry, or sauté them.
Thank you, Mr. Onion.
YOU'RE A GOOD WEBSITE, MR. ONION.
Spawn Of Satan A Failure In Father's Eyes
TUSTIN, CA—The humanoid spawn of Satan, Belial K. Ravana, 16, has proven to be a huge disappointment to his father, His Satanic Majesty reported from Hell Tuesday. "Apparently, young Belial started a fire in the garbage can at school today," Satan said. "When I begat young Belial, I had high hopes that he would follow in my cloven-hoofsteps. At his age, I was scorching the earth in hellfire, flensing the skin off of infants, and making the streets of Babylon run red with the blood of the righteous." Satan said he hopes Belial will turn it around and "at least rape the principal" before the semester's end.
Spawn Of Satan A Failure In Father's Eyes
TUSTIN, CA—The humanoid spawn of Satan, Belial K. Ravana, 16, has proven to be a huge disappointment to his father, His Satanic Majesty reported from Hell Tuesday. "Apparently, young Belial started a fire in the garbage can at school today," Satan said. "When I begat young Belial, I had high hopes that he would follow in my cloven-hoofsteps. At his age, I was scorching the earth in hellfire, flensing the skin off of infants, and making the streets of Babylon run red with the blood of the righteous." Satan said he hopes Belial will turn it around and "at least rape the principal" before the semester's end.
BREATHE, KELLEY. BREATHE.
Nathan Lane's older brother is the principal for Middletown High School South in NJ. He's not good looking, like Nathan, but he's sentimental, and I think I need to email him and promise sex and/or money in order to get me closer into the Lane family.
Nathan Lane's older brother is the principal for Middletown High School South in NJ. He's not good looking, like Nathan, but he's sentimental, and I think I need to email him and promise sex and/or money in order to get me closer into the Lane family.
AMERICAN THEATRE WING: YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BI-ATCH.
I was just perusing my favorite theatre sites (You know: this one, and that one, oh, and you can't forget this one), when I come across the announcement that, yes, my life is over, as Hugh Jackman, that Peter-Wannabe, is hosting the June 6th ceremony.
I was upset.
But what infuriated me was glancing through the official ATW site and finding myself distracted with their little "Did You Know?" footnotes that bug the hell out of me, seeing as I know what they're talking about already.
I know. Stop asking me, ATW.
But my point is, I grew into a raging inferno of vicious fury when I read this lovely little caption:
Did You Know?
Angela Lansbury has hosted or co-hosted more Tony telecasts than any other individual, with five telecasts (1968, 1971, 1987, 1988, and 1989). Tied in second place, with three telecasts each, are Julie Andrews (1970, 1984, and 1991), Robert Preston (1967, 1974, and 1984), and Rosie O'Donnell (1997, 1998, and 2000).
It's a good thing that they don't have any sort of question/comment service set up on the website, because they'd be receiving hate mail by the gallon-- Nathan Lane ties in that second place ranking for hosting/co-hosting the 1995, 1996, and 2001 Tony Award ceremonies.
Die, American Theatre Wing.
Die.
I was just perusing my favorite theatre sites (You know: this one, and that one, oh, and you can't forget this one), when I come across the announcement that, yes, my life is over, as Hugh Jackman, that Peter-Wannabe, is hosting the June 6th ceremony.
I was upset.
But what infuriated me was glancing through the official ATW site and finding myself distracted with their little "Did You Know?" footnotes that bug the hell out of me, seeing as I know what they're talking about already.
I know. Stop asking me, ATW.
But my point is, I grew into a raging inferno of vicious fury when I read this lovely little caption:
Did You Know?
Angela Lansbury has hosted or co-hosted more Tony telecasts than any other individual, with five telecasts (1968, 1971, 1987, 1988, and 1989). Tied in second place, with three telecasts each, are Julie Andrews (1970, 1984, and 1991), Robert Preston (1967, 1974, and 1984), and Rosie O'Donnell (1997, 1998, and 2000).
It's a good thing that they don't have any sort of question/comment service set up on the website, because they'd be receiving hate mail by the gallon-- Nathan Lane ties in that second place ranking for hosting/co-hosting the 1995, 1996, and 2001 Tony Award ceremonies.
Die, American Theatre Wing.
Die.
Monday, April 26, 2004
"JOHN KERRY IS A DOUCHE BAG, BUT I'M VOTING FOR HIM ANYWAY," SAYS EVERY CONCERNED CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES.
And now, a website!
And now, a website!
Thursday, April 22, 2004
NOT ONLY DOES THIS CONSTITUTE AS THE SADDEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN, BUT IT STARS MADONNA.
Paulo? What are you doing?!
Paulo? What are you doing?!
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Monday, April 19, 2004
Sunday, April 18, 2004
GUESS HOW MUCH OF THIS LETTER IS DEVOTED AS AN AP LANGUAGE ESSAY, AND HOW MUCH IS TRULY SENTIMENTAL.
What a strange and interesting journey it has been! I simply cannot believe that tonight is the finale of nearly three months of exhausting, grueling, sometimes painful work. Two evenings ago, the curtain opened, and we all witnessed what I believe to be the most thrilling and terrifying portion of live theatre: the culmination, the opening, the chance for the world to experience that which you’ve devoted all heart and energy towards. And to some degree, their reaction can either lift up or entirely destroy the passion and perseverance that has gone into a show’s production. Luckily, none of us had to worry about that.
I feel blessed that your first show at Lyman became one of such community, such remarkable teamwork. I hope you feel those same sentiments; if not, I hope you can still walk away from this evening feeling connected to something, or at least accomplished in your magnificent work. But you must believe me when I say I have never been placed on a collaborative effort such as this. I know that our experiences have differed in the past few weeks with my transition into the ghastly “Booth of Death,” but the months I’ve shared with you and the other members of our crew were both exciting and entertaining. We’ve laughed together over subjects that hardly deserve laughter; yet still, we’ve found ourselves wrapped up in moments of difficult emotion, whether they were validated or not. We have become a unit, a moving, breathing machine that reacts when reaction is necessary and thrives in its work. I could not have asked for a better experience.
To work with you has been a great pleasure, and I truly mean that. You have been a column of support for the entire crew, and I cannot possibly reiterate what your expertise has meant to those of us working with you day in and day out. To make the gigantic and often horrific leap from middle to high school is difficult enough: to immerse yourself in hectic schedules and demanding routines, all in the midst of classes and outside obligations, is a terrific struggle. I commend you for persevering in and achieving all that you do.
To know you, however, has been the greatest gift I could have asked for. You have an unceasing amount of courage and excitement that fills the atmosphere of everywhere you step. I have enjoyed the small time we’ve shared together more than you could possibly imagine, and the forthcoming gap between productions will prove a nice break, but a disheartening separation from you, and the entire cast and crew that I have come to love so dearly. I truly thank you for the time we’ve been sent together, and I could not have been blessed with a greater friend and colleague than you.
To reiterate my gratitude (And, hell, just for fun), you’ll find that this little gift bag contains some of the things that I love and enjoy the most. The first and far most important is, of course, chocolate. Dark chocolate, at that. It’s one of the few candies that I rarely part myself from, and I think they are treats well deserving of your taste buds. Enjoy, and hide them from everyone else. The second is a little more heartfelt. When I traveled to State competition this year, I found myself walking through boutiques of Thespian apparel, key chains, necklaces, and overall, gaudy, inexpensive trinkets. None of them appealed to me, and so I continued onto some of the local, Tampa “exclusive” stores. When I found this little creature, staring up at me, I immediately picked him off the shelf and took him to the register. After reaching my hotel room that evening, I realized that his arms were Velcro-ed together, and that he was, indeed, intended to act as one, big, giant hug. Tonight, I give him to you. It’s my way of saying, “I will always be here if you need me, and I’ll even be here if you don’t.” He’s my gift of an eternal hug. Use it wisely.
Two pages of glabboring crap.
How much better can it get?
What a strange and interesting journey it has been! I simply cannot believe that tonight is the finale of nearly three months of exhausting, grueling, sometimes painful work. Two evenings ago, the curtain opened, and we all witnessed what I believe to be the most thrilling and terrifying portion of live theatre: the culmination, the opening, the chance for the world to experience that which you’ve devoted all heart and energy towards. And to some degree, their reaction can either lift up or entirely destroy the passion and perseverance that has gone into a show’s production. Luckily, none of us had to worry about that.
I feel blessed that your first show at Lyman became one of such community, such remarkable teamwork. I hope you feel those same sentiments; if not, I hope you can still walk away from this evening feeling connected to something, or at least accomplished in your magnificent work. But you must believe me when I say I have never been placed on a collaborative effort such as this. I know that our experiences have differed in the past few weeks with my transition into the ghastly “Booth of Death,” but the months I’ve shared with you and the other members of our crew were both exciting and entertaining. We’ve laughed together over subjects that hardly deserve laughter; yet still, we’ve found ourselves wrapped up in moments of difficult emotion, whether they were validated or not. We have become a unit, a moving, breathing machine that reacts when reaction is necessary and thrives in its work. I could not have asked for a better experience.
To work with you has been a great pleasure, and I truly mean that. You have been a column of support for the entire crew, and I cannot possibly reiterate what your expertise has meant to those of us working with you day in and day out. To make the gigantic and often horrific leap from middle to high school is difficult enough: to immerse yourself in hectic schedules and demanding routines, all in the midst of classes and outside obligations, is a terrific struggle. I commend you for persevering in and achieving all that you do.
To know you, however, has been the greatest gift I could have asked for. You have an unceasing amount of courage and excitement that fills the atmosphere of everywhere you step. I have enjoyed the small time we’ve shared together more than you could possibly imagine, and the forthcoming gap between productions will prove a nice break, but a disheartening separation from you, and the entire cast and crew that I have come to love so dearly. I truly thank you for the time we’ve been sent together, and I could not have been blessed with a greater friend and colleague than you.
To reiterate my gratitude (And, hell, just for fun), you’ll find that this little gift bag contains some of the things that I love and enjoy the most. The first and far most important is, of course, chocolate. Dark chocolate, at that. It’s one of the few candies that I rarely part myself from, and I think they are treats well deserving of your taste buds. Enjoy, and hide them from everyone else. The second is a little more heartfelt. When I traveled to State competition this year, I found myself walking through boutiques of Thespian apparel, key chains, necklaces, and overall, gaudy, inexpensive trinkets. None of them appealed to me, and so I continued onto some of the local, Tampa “exclusive” stores. When I found this little creature, staring up at me, I immediately picked him off the shelf and took him to the register. After reaching my hotel room that evening, I realized that his arms were Velcro-ed together, and that he was, indeed, intended to act as one, big, giant hug. Tonight, I give him to you. It’s my way of saying, “I will always be here if you need me, and I’ll even be here if you don’t.” He’s my gift of an eternal hug. Use it wisely.
Two pages of glabboring crap.
How much better can it get?
Monday, April 12, 2004
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Thursday, April 08, 2004
THE REVEREND DERK SCHUDDE HAS SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT THE 9/11 TRAGEDY.
At Winter Park's St. Margaret Mary Catholic Church, bathed in the light beaming in through stained-glass windows, about 200 worshippers gathered as the Rev. Derk Schudde reminded them that their faith would be tested during difficult, and often unexplainable, times.
Their job is to believe that God had a plan for each of them, no matter how mysterious: "Even when it's not easy; even when our doubts are greater than our trust; even when tragedies happen and people die and we don't know why God wasn't there to stop it," he said.
Thank you, Orlando Sentinel, for making my day. This is your shining moment.
At Winter Park's St. Margaret Mary Catholic Church, bathed in the light beaming in through stained-glass windows, about 200 worshippers gathered as the Rev. Derk Schudde reminded them that their faith would be tested during difficult, and often unexplainable, times.
Their job is to believe that God had a plan for each of them, no matter how mysterious: "Even when it's not easy; even when our doubts are greater than our trust; even when tragedies happen and people die and we don't know why God wasn't there to stop it," he said.
Thank you, Orlando Sentinel, for making my day. This is your shining moment.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
STARING CATATONIC OUT THE WINDOW.
I think that I'm immensely grateful to be back at home.
Not that State wasn't amazing.
I'm just too compulsively depressing to shudder back into the light, explaining in all its wonder, the glory of State.
I really need to get back on track. Alright. I'll jump through quickly on a day-by-day basis:
---WEDNESDAY: Lost Elis. Found Elis. Rode on the bus. Arrived. Unpacked. Watched a series of terrible one-acts. Went to the hotel. Changed. "Gussied ourselves up," if you will. Trudged back to the TPAC. Spotted Mr. Don Jones, Man Of The Century. Drooled over Michael J. Higgins and his grey tux. Perhaps that was just me. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept.
---THURSDAY: Woke up. Went back to sleep. Woke up. Dragged ourselves out to the Convention Center. I auditioned. I sucked. Watched events. Went back to the hotel. Changed. Ran to the new "Upstairs Dining" at the TPAC curtsey of Don Jones. Don Jones bussed our tables. Leaped into "Nine Armenians!" Skipped (and jaywalked) to the Tampa Theatre for "The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man On The Moon Marigolds." Jaywalked back to the hotel, where I waited for the return of our other troupe members. Gathered in the Chaperone Room Of Death and gabbed about the evening's events. Got a call from Walt. Slept.
---FRIDAY: Woke up rather briskly. Paced to First Watch. Ate potatoes. Traveled to the Convention Center for the Cappies workshop. Won M&M's. Helped Backel win M&M's. Looked at vending tables. Bought $5 shirt for the sheer reason that it was black and had "HELL" written at the bottom. Watched events. Lots of events. Talked about Don Jones. Ran back to the hotel. Changed. Sat for two hours staring at the television, watching The Simpsons and That 70's Show. Held Kevin back from breaking into my room. Meandered to the Tampa Theatre for "Proof." Held a burping contest. No, wait, that was the row of girls behind me. Sorry. I was mistaken. Talked to Kevin about his Girl Problems. Talked to Bill. Made friends with Bill forever. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept. Got a bad call from Walt. Made a pot of coffee. Slept.
---SATURDAY: Yanked myself from bed. Pulled on Converse as I was walking out of the hotel. Sat at First Watch. Ate nothing, drank a Coke. Didn't have to pay for said Coke. Walked to the TPAC. Stood by the waterfront. Talked to Chaz about his Girl Problems. Watched "The Importance Of Being Ernest." Was locked out of "School House Rock." Was snuck into "School House Rock." Loved "School House Rock." Watched "Baby." Cried that I had to watch "Baby," which turned out not to be the musical version. Went shopping at the Center Store. Almost stole at T-shirt that read: "Trouble. Right here in River City." Ran to The Asian Chef (formerly Ho-Ho's). Reinforced Child Labor. Laughed about Child Labor. Went back to the Convention Center. Met up with Mary. Walked back to the Hotel. Changed, and took degrading photos of Elis covering me with makeup. Headed over to Ferguson Hall. Watched the Mime Showcase that contained only minor instances of Mime Technique. Jumped into Morsannni Hall. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Swept into Closing Ceremonies. Realized that Don Jones was receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. Cried. Screamed after he performed "The Monologue" from "The Fantasticks." Talked to Don Jones as soon as the doors were opened for intermission. Hugged Don Jones. Went back inside Morsanni. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Shouted for joy when the Amazing large group musical number took the stage and helped me remember what we were actually here to celebrate. Stayed for the dance. "Stood" in the dance tent, also defined as "dancing." Found help for an injured girl. Took her to Don Jones. Don Jones had everything under control. Went back to the hotel. Packed. Slept.
---SUNDAY: Packed. Cleaned the room. Headed downstairs. Got on the bus. Left Tampa. Cried.
Draining week? You tell me. I'm just not sure I want to go further into the State experience than I'm forced to. It's been difficult.
I think that I'm immensely grateful to be back at home.
Not that State wasn't amazing.
I'm just too compulsively depressing to shudder back into the light, explaining in all its wonder, the glory of State.
I really need to get back on track. Alright. I'll jump through quickly on a day-by-day basis:
---WEDNESDAY: Lost Elis. Found Elis. Rode on the bus. Arrived. Unpacked. Watched a series of terrible one-acts. Went to the hotel. Changed. "Gussied ourselves up," if you will. Trudged back to the TPAC. Spotted Mr. Don Jones, Man Of The Century. Drooled over Michael J. Higgins and his grey tux. Perhaps that was just me. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept.
---THURSDAY: Woke up. Went back to sleep. Woke up. Dragged ourselves out to the Convention Center. I auditioned. I sucked. Watched events. Went back to the hotel. Changed. Ran to the new "Upstairs Dining" at the TPAC curtsey of Don Jones. Don Jones bussed our tables. Leaped into "Nine Armenians!" Skipped (and jaywalked) to the Tampa Theatre for "The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man On The Moon Marigolds." Jaywalked back to the hotel, where I waited for the return of our other troupe members. Gathered in the Chaperone Room Of Death and gabbed about the evening's events. Got a call from Walt. Slept.
---FRIDAY: Woke up rather briskly. Paced to First Watch. Ate potatoes. Traveled to the Convention Center for the Cappies workshop. Won M&M's. Helped Backel win M&M's. Looked at vending tables. Bought $5 shirt for the sheer reason that it was black and had "HELL" written at the bottom. Watched events. Lots of events. Talked about Don Jones. Ran back to the hotel. Changed. Sat for two hours staring at the television, watching The Simpsons and That 70's Show. Held Kevin back from breaking into my room. Meandered to the Tampa Theatre for "Proof." Held a burping contest. No, wait, that was the row of girls behind me. Sorry. I was mistaken. Talked to Kevin about his Girl Problems. Talked to Bill. Made friends with Bill forever. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept. Got a bad call from Walt. Made a pot of coffee. Slept.
---SATURDAY: Yanked myself from bed. Pulled on Converse as I was walking out of the hotel. Sat at First Watch. Ate nothing, drank a Coke. Didn't have to pay for said Coke. Walked to the TPAC. Stood by the waterfront. Talked to Chaz about his Girl Problems. Watched "The Importance Of Being Ernest." Was locked out of "School House Rock." Was snuck into "School House Rock." Loved "School House Rock." Watched "Baby." Cried that I had to watch "Baby," which turned out not to be the musical version. Went shopping at the Center Store. Almost stole at T-shirt that read: "Trouble. Right here in River City." Ran to The Asian Chef (formerly Ho-Ho's). Reinforced Child Labor. Laughed about Child Labor. Went back to the Convention Center. Met up with Mary. Walked back to the Hotel. Changed, and took degrading photos of Elis covering me with makeup. Headed over to Ferguson Hall. Watched the Mime Showcase that contained only minor instances of Mime Technique. Jumped into Morsannni Hall. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Swept into Closing Ceremonies. Realized that Don Jones was receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. Cried. Screamed after he performed "The Monologue" from "The Fantasticks." Talked to Don Jones as soon as the doors were opened for intermission. Hugged Don Jones. Went back inside Morsanni. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Shouted for joy when the Amazing large group musical number took the stage and helped me remember what we were actually here to celebrate. Stayed for the dance. "Stood" in the dance tent, also defined as "dancing." Found help for an injured girl. Took her to Don Jones. Don Jones had everything under control. Went back to the hotel. Packed. Slept.
---SUNDAY: Packed. Cleaned the room. Headed downstairs. Got on the bus. Left Tampa. Cried.
Draining week? You tell me. I'm just not sure I want to go further into the State experience than I'm forced to. It's been difficult.
Monday, April 05, 2004
OKAY. THIS ONE IS PRETTY GOOD. (EVEN THE COMMENT ABOUT LESBIANS MAKES ME SMILE.)
LIVERMORE, CA - In a move that caught almost everyone by surprise, stem cells have organized into a powerful special interest group. "We didn't think they could communicate, much less hold meetings," said a scientist at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, still reeling from the shock. Researchers theorize that the stem cells, long suspected of having souls, have been holding get-togethers in the spiritual dimension. Among the demands, spelled out in a petri dish with unused segments of DNA, the stem cells insist on having their own annual parade "with floats and crap." "They're feisty," said Wolf Nichols, head of stem cell research. "Especially the lesbian stem cells. Can I say that?"
LIVERMORE, CA - In a move that caught almost everyone by surprise, stem cells have organized into a powerful special interest group. "We didn't think they could communicate, much less hold meetings," said a scientist at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, still reeling from the shock. Researchers theorize that the stem cells, long suspected of having souls, have been holding get-togethers in the spiritual dimension. Among the demands, spelled out in a petri dish with unused segments of DNA, the stem cells insist on having their own annual parade "with floats and crap." "They're feisty," said Wolf Nichols, head of stem cell research. "Especially the lesbian stem cells. Can I say that?"
I'M NOT SURE WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT HARM-FARM, BUT I AM.
BEETSVILLE, OH – After a tragic communication mixup, Flossie Mongo devoured her husband of 30 years, Lester. "I asked my doctor if I should get on that Atkins diet and lose weight by eating meat. He just got all serious-like and said -- and I'm quoting now -- ‘Just eat Les.' At least that's what I thought he said. Now he claims there was a silent s on the end of Les." Mrs. Mongo explained that her husband had been riding her hard to follow whatever orders the doctor gave her for losing weight. "He was a real hard ass. I mean literally, I could hardly chew threw it." After a net gain of nearly 150 pounds in one day, Mrs. Mongo admits her other big mistake: "I should have spaced it out. That was way too much for one meal. But I worked up quite an appetite with all the stabbing and sawing. You have no idea." She adds, wistfully, "I'll miss him, but quiet is good too."
BEETSVILLE, OH – After a tragic communication mixup, Flossie Mongo devoured her husband of 30 years, Lester. "I asked my doctor if I should get on that Atkins diet and lose weight by eating meat. He just got all serious-like and said -- and I'm quoting now -- ‘Just eat Les.' At least that's what I thought he said. Now he claims there was a silent s on the end of Les." Mrs. Mongo explained that her husband had been riding her hard to follow whatever orders the doctor gave her for losing weight. "He was a real hard ass. I mean literally, I could hardly chew threw it." After a net gain of nearly 150 pounds in one day, Mrs. Mongo admits her other big mistake: "I should have spaced it out. That was way too much for one meal. But I worked up quite an appetite with all the stabbing and sawing. You have no idea." She adds, wistfully, "I'll miss him, but quiet is good too."
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