Wayne Newton

I am listening to Wayne Newton. He sounds like a woman.

I am doing a last minute search for some songs for the soundscape of this show.

I know I am supposed to write about the show, but I don't really feel like it. It is at that point where every night it's two steps forward, three steps back, one step forward, one and a half back -- you get the picture. And it is always at this point that I wrestle with the balance of trying to fix everything that I can actually fix, and handing it over to the actors to find the life and breath in it for themselves. Because the actors have such varied levels of experience, I worry that I may not be trusting them as much as I should, or normally would. But it's tough. I see the potential. And I want that potential realized.

So we won't talk about the show. The set and lights are so lovely, I couldn't ask for better, smarter, wiser designers. What a treat.

I just talked to my parents. They are moving tomorrow from the house we have lived in for twenty-seven years. They are so very excited about the move that it is kind of hard to get nostalgic about it. I know it's a good thing for them, but still -- I'll never step foot in that house again. That's a weird sensation. It makes me very melancholy. I wish my schedule had allowed me to go up and help them, both for the opportunity to lend a hand and to say goodbye to the house. I only get up there maybe twice a year now, but still -- it's our house, you know?

Strange. Change.

I miss them, I miss DC, I miss my friends, I miss my bed, I miss my brother.

But this has been a worthwhile experience. Reminded me what it is to be on my own again.

So, I promised a story about dippin' dots. A friend came up with me on the last trip back to West Virginia, and we had access to a vehicle (sometimes the pick up truck, other times a tiny red miata. How's that for oppositionals?) We made a trip to Martinsburg, WV, and to Hagerstown, MD. At the mall in Hagerstown we wandered around like obnoxious city folk and marveled at suburban delights like the "Amazing Lighter" and the "Crystal Magic" kiosks, Hot Topics, and yes -- the Dippin' Dots. I had never had Dippin' Dots, so I asked the salty young teen minding the booth how they can mix two flavors and not have one motley flavored mess. She rolled her eyes at me.

The Dippin' Dots were delicious. And she was right, the flavors stayed separated. Amazing.

It got me to thinking -- I have been talking a lot with one of the girls (and I mean girl, she's nineteen) who works at the B&B where I'm staying, about her boyfriend, who is also from here. He is at Carnegie Mellon, and it seems every interest he has is in an effort to separate himself as far as possible from his small town West Virginia roots. He listens to indie bands. He watches foreign films. He reads Plato. For fun.

And I thought about us city folk marveling at the wonders of a small town. How excited we were at the Dippin' Dots, and to have breakfast at a real live truck stop, and the glee we expressed every time we passed "Skeeters Auto Body Shop! Skeeters!", and how I insisted we go to the Dairy Queen on the day we couldn't go to the Dippin' Dots. We revel in these wonders of Americana, while someone like my young friend's boyfriend does everything he can to distance himself from them. Interesting.

And in our revels, are we just poking fun? I can't always tell. I mean, Dippin' Dots ARE amazing, now matter how you slice it. And so are greasy eggs in a place with paper placemats and formica countertops. But I am sure we wouldn't appreciate these things half as much if they were our only option.

We can choose to enjoy them. And then we can go back. I guess that makes all the difference.

Night Driving

As I said in the previous post, I’ve been feeling a bit out of touch. I couldn’t get onto email at all yesterday, and my weekend in DC (my last for two weeks) was, as usual, filled to bursting.

I drove myself back on Friday night, after rehearsal, which meant leaving around 10:30pm. My stage manager leant me her truck, which would have been great fun (yeah, an honest-to-goodness pick-up truck which could fulfill all of my wild-woman fantasies) except that I am an extremely nervous night driver. Because I have contacts, and my eyes are usually tired by sundown, I see halos around all of the bright lights. And I so rarely drive these days so I have become a rather nervous ANYTIME driver. I am sure this is instilling loads of confidence in anyone who might ever let me borrow their car…

Anyhow, I set out on the road, equipped with a red bull, a banana, a cd of Keane and Martin Sexton, and my scrawled out directions in a notepad. All was good and well – I went at my pace (which is never more than five miles over the speed limit, like I said – a nervous driver) recognized all of the exits I needed, until I got to the beltway around DC. Now, I knew the general name of my exit, but had also gotten spoken directions, so I wasn’t sure if what my navigator had told me the EXACT name of the exit. So, as DC is getting close, and I am seeing signs warning me for the exit, I guess I slowed down a bit. As soon as the desired exit came into view in the distance, I notice that there is a cop close behind me. A cop with its lights on. A cop flashing his lights. A cop trying to pull me over.

Shit.

I pull over, mere feet past the exit I was supposed to get off at, and he gets out of his car with the flashlight shining in my eyes.

Shit, shit.

I have never been pulled over. I don’t speed. Like I said – nervous driver. But now I am feeling all the things that one must feel when they are being pulled over. Is the plate expired? Is a taillight out? Did he notice when I had the interior light on a mile ago to check my directions?

He comes towards me.

“How you doing tonight ma’am?”

“Ummm, fine” (until you pulled me over asshole!)

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Ummm, no” (is this a trick question?)

He looks at me with the directions clearly splayed out in my lap.


“I thought you might be lost. I was concerned. You were driving fifty on the beltway. No one drives fifty on the beltway.”

“Well, what’s the speed limit?”

“Fifty-five.”

The schmuck pulled me over for going five miles below the speed limit.

“Well, I wasn’t lost, but I may be now that you caused me to miss my exit.”

Dudley Do-right then explained to me two options of other exits to get off at, saw the look of confusion in my eyes, and offered to lead me to the one that would get me back on the beltway. We took off, and I lost him in an instant (bad night vision, remember?) At that point I just wanted to get off the friggin beltway, so I took the next exit, and nearly toppled the truck because I was so shaken and the turn off was so extreme.

Asshole.

Fortunately I know my way around once within DC limits, so I found my way home although I’d been taken well out of the way.

I think I may be the only person who has been pulled over on the beltway for going too slow.

Quick Update

Since my last update I've seen:

9 non-white people (7 of them were spotted on Friday. It was the first friday I was here and the first "weekend" day I've been here. The mainstreet was almost bustling.)

More about my trip to DC, my visit to the mall and dippin' dots later tonight.

Crunch Time

The above link directs you to an article about our production in the local weekly. My name is only mispelled once. Pretty good, copyeditors...

Note also that none of the quotes are exact, even though they are all placed in quotation marks. I know I said things that sounded something like the quotes, but they are all a bit oddly out of context... so be it.

Unfortunately the web edition doesn't have the hot picture of me and my stage manager that appears in the print edition.

I feel behind on everything right now, including this blog. I have an inbox full of emails that I can't bring myself to read, let alone respond to.

We go into tech this weekend.

Couragio!

Correction

Our ombudsman has reported an inaccuracy regarding yesterday’s over-charged opinion post. Mama-waitress actually has only two children. She had one at fourteen, the other at seventeen.

Our ombudsman has also urged me to apologize for sounding like an elitist schmuck. She pointed out to me that I am at times in company that makes me feel like I did not go to the right school, haven’t read the right books, or missed an obvious cultural reference that any well-educated person should get. She reprimanded me for treating others the same way.

Then she slipped this article (the link is in the title) under my nose and said:

“Read this and tell me how it makes you feel. And look – that woman is serving as a public service lawyer and caring for foster children. What are you doing you privileged bourgeoisie dilettante?”

To which I sputtered and said, “Ummm, I’m not that privileged! I just had parents who taught me that I could do something I love to do, and would be happier in the long run for it. I mean, we went to Ponderosa growing up, not The Palm! The Finger Lakes, not Martha's Vinyard!”

She looked at me and chuckled. “And look where that idealism got you. Who is working right beside that mama-waitress with the three kids?”

“But, I…”

“Exactly.” She said. And she turned around and walked away.




(PS. The Times article is the first of the series that I’ve actually read, but I’m hooked. It is a fascinating subject. I am going to pull the others up on the Times website.)

When it comes to the discussion of class, I always feel like I straddle a line. Technically, both my parents are “professionals”. But they are teachers. That allows for a much different lifestyle than the child of two lawyers or, better yet, two doctors.

But because they were culturally literate, articulate, and open-minded, I rarely feel completely out of my league when conversing with people. In some ways, our cultural wealth was greater than our monetary wealth. Which is the way I still live my life,

The “where I went to school” thing does stop me up at times. It is not a secret that my father sort of relished the idea of one of his kids going to an Ivy League school. We started visiting Harvard, Yale and Cornell when we were like, ten. And it may have been a possibility, but our interests steered us both in an entirely different direction.

And I have, since college, befriended a number of Ivy League alums. Around them I feel sheepish about my art school education. Completely self-imposed class issues. And yet I can talk Shakepeare with the best of them. Or Brecht.

Just not economic theory. Or philosophy. Or architecture. Or art history.

Maybe I just need to read more.

Furious!

Since I contributed last year to Kerry’s campaign, I get all sort of riled up emails with subjects like: “Furious!” or “An Outrage” or “Your Conference Call with Harry Reid”

(beep. “Yes Senator, we are dialing in Ms. (Eastern-European-name-sky). Right now. Yes Senator – you remember, she’s the one we sent that email to? The starving artist theatre-chick in Washington? Well Senator, she says was on your email list…”

They make me feel kind of ineffective. I don’t have any money to give right now. If I get all riled up too will that help?

Money – a problem. But self-righteous anger? I’ve got plenty of that to go around…

Babies Having Babies

I have learned during my time in West Virginia not to act surprised when I meet someone here who has multiple children and hasn't yet hit thirty. It makes me sound like a judgmental elitist asshole, and even though that's exactly what I am sometimes, it is better not to sound like one.

However, today I worked another lunch shift at our little cafe, and I met a nineteen-year-old coworker with three kids. Nineteen. Three kids.

Okay, so, kid number one, perhaps a mistake. (She's five. So mama-waitress had her oldest when she was fourteen. Does anyone have a child at fourteen intentionally? And if they do, shouldn't someone be stopping then?) But then she went and had two more. In a pretty short span of time. I guess she liked being a mama. At fourteen. So much so that she decided to be a mama again. At fifteen. And at seventeen.

I had a debate with a friend over this who said, "Well, one hundred years ago people often DID have kids at fourteen. It was the norm."

But one hundred years ago people lived on farms and agrarian families needed as much help as they could get to plow the fields. One hundred years ago the life expectancy was something like fifty, so fourteen was our twenty-five. One hundred years ago we still allowed child labor, and was that a good thing? One hundred years ago THE WORLD WAS A LOT DIFFERENT.

He had valid points in his argument, I'm sure. I don't know why this whole thing riled me up so much.

I guess I just think of those three kids. And while mama-waitress seemed like a sweet and lovely person, she seemed more than anything else, like, well -- a nineteen-year-old. It just doesn't seem fair that kids should be brought into the world by someone who is still very much a kid themselves. And sure, I bet she loves her kids and cares for them the best she knows how, but it just seems so... irresponsible, and well... selfish.

God, do I sound like a republican? This has nothing to do with the welfare system. It is just about people thinking about their responsibility to this planet and to their children. It is about giving kids a fighting chance by waiting until one has some knowledge of life, before bringing a new one into this world. Obviously, I couldn't ask her for any more details about her situation without sounding like a total asshole. But it just doesn't compute. No matter how I work it out in my head.

Wednesday Share and Tell

Midweek Points of notice:

* Jessica Cutler is in the news again. One of her paramours is suing her for emotional damages. On the one hand I say, “Ha, that’s what you get for getting mixed up with someone so obviously heinous and self-serving”, but on the other hand I don’t really blame him since she got a playboy spread and book deal out of the affair, and all he got was a lousy reputation. She officially gets my vote as the person who has received way more press than she ever deserved in the past twelve months.

* Jason, my friendly 7-11 man actually made eye contact and asked me a question this morning.

“What is the date?”

I didn’t know the answer. He seemed disappointed.

He was getting rid of expired 7-11 wrap sandwiches and egg and cheese muffin things. Oh Jason, 7-11 friend, we can connect over something! Really! I’ll even help you keep the coffee station well-maintained, don’t give up on me now…

* “The DG”. No it’s not a new TV series on the WB network. It’s the Dollar General, aka the land of Hi-C and Honey. Apparently the DG on my side of town is shlock compared to the Family Dollar on the other side of town (I wish I were making this up. I’m not.) But I like my Dollar General (although some of its employees have been the worst offenders of the unfortunate stirrup pant incidents).

I went in yesterday and bought a box of chewy granola bars ($2.50), a triple pack of Dove soap ($2.00), and Herbal Essence conditioner ($2.50). You may have noticed that the prices are not actually one dollar, but that is what makes shopping there all the more suspenseful. Will it be $2.00? $3.50? I can hardly wait to find out! Rock on Dollar General!

(For those of you reading this who are growing concerned about the state of my mental health, I’m fine. One just learns to revel in small delights here. Trust me, you too would totally dig the Dollar General.)

In Living Color

I saw two black women walking down Mainstreet today. I smiled at them in an attempt to say, “Hello! Welcome to West Virginia (uh, it’s wild and wonderful!)” but they looked a little mystified and didn’t make eye contact. Maybe they’d noticed that they’d landed in the world of the very, very white people. I think it is less wild and wonderful when you realize that.

It is interesting that when in DC I don’t really register when people are not white, but when you are in a landscape that is so pale, any color stands out. Is this how it is in Scandinavia? Or Salt Lake City?

Ewww.

I'm posting from the public library (where one of the women who doesn't like me works. I'm avoiding eye contact.)

In the drop down menu for sites recently visited is this

It sounds like something from the X files.

Now that I’m almost thirty…

I am going to have to move a bit more. I haven’t had a kid’s body for a long time (child-bearing hips and all that) and I can’t imagine that turning thirty will suddenly alter my makeup and frame that drastically, but come on already – is it that hard to go out running a few times a week? No. It isn’t. So why tempt fate? And besides, exercise is good for us. We all know that.

I think about all the activity that filled my life as a young person – between my stints as a god-awful soccer and tennis player (the effort was there, the ability severly lacking), show choir rehearsals extending late into the evenings (yeah, show choir – you wanna make something of it?), and my brief but semi-promising attempts as a gymnast (until I became too top-heavy and nature made it clear this was not to be my calling.) I used to move a lot. And I never even thought of it as exercise. It was just what we did.



And so – no radical, “I’m going to run a marathon in a year” resolution (I’m inspired, not crazy). But after years of a gym membership that I do use at times, but more frequently don’t use (despite paying an arm and leg for it) I think I need a change. I need to return to childhood and just move more – not get caught up in ellipticals and treadmills, but actually get outside. Even pick up a tennis racket again. If I get really ambitious at some point in the summer, I’ll buy a bike.

So consider it resolved – I am going to put the membership on hold for three months (which should more than cover the ipod that I will really (really!) need if I am going to be jogging and running outside (only in daytime, yes, and well lit areas…). And look up the schedule for modern dance classes at Joy of Motion (yeah, I used to do that too). And bug mom and dad about finding my old tennis racket in the wreckage of their upcoming move (any chance of it guys?).

Discover my inner twelve-year-old. She’s got to be in there somewhere.

My faith is fine, ith my hair that needth help...

Back in Berkeley Springs, back with the crazy cat.

I did individual meetings with the cast today, since we were missing one of the women, and the show is so ensemble based that at this point it would be silly to do a full rehearsal without her.

The subject of religion came up in my talk with one of the actors, and the role it plays in this story. It’s funny, because I hadn’t really thought much about it, but upon examination, it definitely is an important thread. There is a general wariness in the play about the brand of religion that is imposed on people by others who feel that their way is the right way, and the only way.

But when all is said and done, the writer gives something of an endorsement of religion, or at least of “spirituality” when in the final scene the “born-again” character gives a moving and genuine speech about how religion provides a comfort to her in moments when no other answers or explanations can do a situation justice. It is, of course, ultimately too simplistic an explanation and a bit of a glossing over of a very complex subject, but hidden within there somewhere the author does present some interesting questions about faith.

The discussion made me think of several recent items I’ve read.

One: This article – about the guy who developed this “intelligent design” theory. The article actually makes him sound much less loony than I expected him to sound, and maybe he actually is less loony than I would expect him to be.

Also: This interview, of which this link only provides an excerpt. It is a really fascinating piece from the magazine SUN, which my dear friend and soulmate BC first introduced me to. I bought a subscription for my mother and she loves it. It is a smart, provocative magazine, a little bit on the feel-good side at times, but when I read it it makes me feel like there are other people in this world that understand me, and that I understand, and that is not a bad thing. Honestly – if you like short stories, personal essays and stunning photography, I highly recommend it.

The interview exquisitely articulates arguments about the situation in Israel that I have tried unsuccessfully to express to extremely left-leaning friends who pin Israelis as the bad guys, across the board, without exceptions. Maybe I am just being swayed by a really good talker, but Yossi Klein Halevi makes some very valid points. There is an article by Starhawk in the same issue, which is much more anti-Israeli, which I haven’t read yet. We’ll see what thoughts that stirs up.

I do agree with Halevi that at some point it does come to the question as to whether people believe that Israel should exist at all. I had a friend in college who put it the same way. If someone thinks no, then the discussion is pretty much over. And if Israel does not deserve to exist, if the only ethical answer is to do away with the state of Israel altogether, then following that moral standard shouldn’t we do away with the United States as well?

I think it’s particularly cool that he is able to have the most open dialogue with the Sufists. There was a Sufist center right near my apartment in NY, and I always wondered what actually went on in there.

I am surprised that Madonna has not yet discovered Sufism. Or Ashton Kutcher, or any of the other Kabbalah groupies. I give them a year.

And finally this editorial. The reasons Perkins gives in defense of the targeted supreme court nominees are enough to confirm for me that they should be well out of the running. In fact, it took me a moment to realize that he was arguing against the use of their religious beliefs to determine their appropriateness for such a position. That doesn’t make sense to me. If a statement like "the Bible is an "absolute authority" for human conduct" is not a valid consideration in a decision as important as this, then what is?

Richard Cohen adds his voice, and makes some sense here.

If someone can explain this all to me I’m all ears.

Exotic is as Exotic Does

This was from my cousin, who I recently moved in with, but haven't seen more than twenty minutes at a time since the move, since I've been back and forth so much:

"I want to hear all about how the show is going, and get information about how to get tickets. I've been telling many friends about it, and they think it's incredibly cool and exotic that I live with (and am related to) an actual practicing artist who travels the country directing performances -- and some of them may want to take a road trip to WV to see it."

It is good to hear things like that every once in a while. A reminder that, yes, however impractical and unrealistic it is to be pursuing a career as a theater artist, it is, in fact, "cool and exotic" in its own way.

It is not, however, cool when one is struggling each month to make rent.

I, on the other hand, think it is amazingly cool that my cousin has two ivy league degrees, is working to better the human condition all over the planet, has lived on her own in places like Argentina and Mexico City, speaks several languages, and reads both the Financial Times and US magazine daily.

She rocks.

Updates

Since my last West Virginia talley I have seen:

Three non-white people.

One pair of leggings.

No stirrup pants.

Literary Satisfaction

The show (ah yes, the show) is going well. Tonight is our last staging rehearsal, and I am, for the most part, really happy with the progress everyone is making. We had a wig issue yesterday (sometimes things that should not be group decisions become one here – everyone has an opinion and no one hesitates to voice it) but aside from that, all is well.

The couple I kept wishing would get together in my book (link above) finally found each other last night (after fifteen years and about 300 pages). Rose Pickles and Quick Lamb. It really is a lovely story and a delightful book. I’ve never really thought much about Australia (save for a brief fling with an Aussie a couple of years ago, and my dear friend’s Australian girlfriend, who is the very best of people) but now I am intrigued. The story is set in Perth. Where the hell is Perth?

In other news, someone is drumming in the park in the middle of town here. It's great, because I so rarely actually see anyone in the park, and it is totally a place where people should be lounging and drumming and reading the paper. I realized the other day while sitting under a tree there, that city people are the only people who really make the most of a park. On a day as nice as this, Prospect or Central or Lincoln Park would be swarming with sun-bathers and frisbee throwers. I guess cityfolk know to grab a moment of sunshine whenever they can. Countryfolk can just get it in their backyard. Backyard. Heh, heh, heh. I know, right?

Dead Things, Sad Things

Last night my mind wandered to the friend I lost. She is still alive, so it is nothing tragic like premature death – just someone who decided she could no longer be a part of my life, and that I was no longer welcome to be a part of hers for a variety of complicated reasons that even I don’t quite understand. I think about her more frequently than I’d like to.

I’m not sure why that is – if it is truly about missing her friendship or if it is more about the frustration of not being able to do anything about it. I think the latter part of that touches in on my own control issues. I don’t like situations that are completely out of my hands. Who does?

I wonder if she will ever open up her life to me again. I struggle to accept the possibility that she never will.

The only positive I can derive from these feelings is the motivation to make more of an effort to keep the people that I do have in my life, people that I adore and care about, there and present. Those that are far away geographically can easily be lost in the shuffle of everyday busyness and obligations. But they shouldn’t be lost –I shouldn’t let them be. People should always be a priority, never an afterthought.

It’s a resolution I can’t make too often. Step away from the bustle. Make a phone call, or at least write an email. Because once someone is lost, they may never be found.

And for those situations that are out of my hands and the people that I simply must let go of -- let go, let them be, and wish them well on their way in the world.

I am listening to “Dead Things” by Emiliana Torrini. “Sad things have to happen sometimes”.

It seems like an appropriate underscoring for this post.

Emergency Rooms and Playing Dress-up

It's funny that I cannot manage to write on this when I am actually in DC where Wifi is rampant, but the weekends I have at home seem to fly by without pause. This one particularly so.

I headed back to DC for an extended weekend, which was to include the Helen Hayes awards on Monday -- which is basically DC's version of the Tony's. I have gone every year since moving here, and find them to be a fascinating evening, for various reasons -- sometimes riddled with drama, other times just the ultimate scene of schmoozing and boozing while dressed to the nines. However it turns out, it is usually a good time. Before making it to Monday though, weekend highlights included:

- temp work at the law firm. woo-hoo.

- a reading of a play I have been involved with since this past fall. The playwright has continued to develop it since we did the first reading, and we did a second reading of it Monday before the big Helen Hayes sh-bang. I am happy to be staying with it, and I like the idea of continuing with a play through an extended gestation period. We'll see where it goes.

- attending super-mover-man's (SMM, until I come up with a better moniker) opening night. The show is an extremely movement based retelling of Macbeth. I won't get into an interpretation, because I don't think blogs are appropriate for that. But after the show I went out into the reception to wait for the cast to come out, and the artistic director comes over to find me and brings me out into the hall. There is SMM with a gash in his forehead. A deep, many layers of skin gash. As he tells it, he had a run-in with a piece of scenery and the scenery won. Shit. I am not good with these things. "Ummm, did someone who knows anything about these things look at that?" "Yeah, we need to take a trip to the Emergency room". So a fellow audience member drives us to the emergency room, where we spend the next three and a half hours getting SMM stitched up.

Twelve stitches total. It looks like they did a good job, but what do I know about these things? While in the waiting room (not my favorite place -- I am always afraid that someone is going to come in with a severed limb and I am going to have the image burned into my psyche forever) we saw a surly man in a wheelchair ("Why are they not calling me? Shouldn't they be calling me? Nurse - when are they going to call me?"), a couple who kept conferencing with a police officer about something that had happened with a "perpetrator" of some sort, a group of college girls decked out in sorority letters surrounding their little friend who kept clutching at her stomach, and the piece de resistance -- a woman with her breasts pushed so far up that it seemed they must be blocking her line of vision.

"Stripper" SMM whispered.

I couldn't really look because it would be obvious that I was looking at her and not just "looking around", but after SMM went in for his stitches I snuck a few peeks. Sure enough, she was accompanied by a bouncer and had that world-weary stripper look about her. But how does a stripper hurt her hand (which was wrapped in a towel)? Pole burns? The mystery was solved when the bouncer mentioned returning to "Coyote". Coyote Ugly. Of course. She wasn't a stripper at all. She was a bartender who earned her tips by almost, but not quite, displaying her rack. More power to her.

By Monday and Helen Hayes the last thing either of us needed was any more drama, but I managed to create a little with a hair meltdown. I think because I am normally so low maintenance about anything beauty related, I get particularly stressed out in situations where I have to step up to the plate. Two and a half hours, six bobby pins, two combs and a handful of barrettes, a pump bottle of hairspray, and three cab rides back and forth from Mount Pleasant later, we made it to the awards -- about fifteen minutes late. My friend and sort-of-professional (as opposed to academic) mentor won an award for best direction, and I missed his speech, which was too bad, but when I told him he just started laughing and said, "You were late! That's perfect!" I guess my reputation kind of precedes me. (Let it be known. I was never late for rehearsals. Just social events.)

All in all it was a lovely time. Saw some people I haven't seen in a while, laughed a lot, mingled, and finally fell into bed and slept the sleep of babies. Or else the sleep of three vodka tonics on an empty stomach. (Don't worry mom, I really don't have a problem.) The evening's one downfall was the lack of my dear friend MA who has punctuated every previous HH I have been to by getting drunk and shouting "H and H! H and H, baby!" to the masses of bejeweled and bedecked rich people, but who knows – maybe we’ll drag MA back next year.

Stirrup Pants

Current statistics of my time in West Virginia:

Number of times I have visited the 7-11: 9

Number of cups of coffee I have bought from the one real coffee shop: 11

Number of non-white people I have seen: 4 (two african americans driving in a minivan and two latinos who brought me my dinner in the Mexican restaurant)

Number of banana clips I have seen: 1

Number of times I have seen women in stirrup pants: 2

Number of times I have seen women in stirrup pants in the 7-11: 2

Number of times I have seen women in stirrup pants who should not be wearing stirrup pants in the 7-11: 2

You do the math.

One Man's Junk...

Is another man’s treasure.

Some random thoughts that are not really related but for which I will force a theme.

A weird thing happened when I was moving. I threw out a few bags of stuff, not as much as I should have -- a burnt pot or two, some knick-knacks, a shedding boa, a cheap cowboy hat…

On my third or fourth trip out to the trash I was startled to find a man dumpster diving through my stuff. He looked up, nervous, and said, “I’ll clean it up, I promise. There’s good stuff in here!”

Good stuff???

He had the contents of one of the bags laid out systematically, like he was shopping: yes, no’s, and maybe’s. It was a little sad to see remnants of my life laid out like on a check out counter. There was the body lotion from a hotel visit three years ago and a cheap vase in the yes pile, some jelly jar glasses and empty cd cases in the maybe’s, and a giant life size poster that an ex had made for me in the definite no's. I should have thrown it out years ago, but I’d kept it behind a bookcase, because, well, it reminded me that the ex once loved me, or at least thought he did. And that I loved him.

The poster was the only thing in the pile I’d debated over whether to get rid of. And it was the easiest thing for dumpster diver to send back to the trash. Obviously he’s not a sucker for sentiment like I am.

And today I did my own treasure hunting. I finally visited one of the antique malls here (there are several in Berkeley Springs) and was pleased to see that while organized and well laid out, it still required some hunting and picking. After all, half the fun of antiquing is in the search (as the anti-drug commercial so famously said -- I learned it from watching you, dad!) I also visited the shop that one of the ladies here who doesn’t like me owns, and I have to say – she’s got great vintage finds at really good prices.

In the afternoon though, I really struck gold. We visited an old beauty school in Hagerstown, Maryland that a friend of one of our actresses owns, and he took us to the back room full of “stuff we don’t really use”. It was a veritable trove – hydraulic chairs, sinks designed to wash hair in and the chairs that lean back into them, manicure tables and little rolling stools, bags upon bags of rollers and clips – really everything that this play requires (and it requires a lot) and then some. We would have spent a mint if we’d had to resort to shopping on ebay. And here it all was – ours for the borrowing. I think our set designer will be thrilled when he sees the pictures.

If nothing else, this play is going to look great.

No small moving jobs, only small movers

If anyone ever hears me utter the words, “Oh this part of the move will be easy – it’s just the small stuff” give me a meaningful, intense look, and whisper the word “spackle”.

Then I’ll remember.

The small stuff is never easy.

The weekend was an exhausting series of packing, cleaning, spackling, painting, crying, packing, cleaning, spakling, painting, crying… you get the idea. I won’t deny it. I am prone to emotional breakdowns, meltdowns, yes -- histrionics. Especially when my resources are drained. When I was acting, I used to tell myself it was good that I was emotionally available. Now it is just a liability.

But, I did get through it. And on that subject, mention must be made of super-mover-man who helped me last weekend, and without whom, both weekends would have been nightmares (or impossible, really).

The highlight of the weekend was going to my first National’s game on Sunday evening. So much fun. We had a great group – a random mix of folks – we walked over from homes on the hill, ate soft pretzels and drank bud light, and rooted our team on to a disappointing loss to the Met’s, but had a great time nonetheless. We somehow happened into the Latin section of the stands and the Spanish-speaking group surrounding us was, to put it mildly, extremely spirited. Fun for the first four innings, headache inducing for the next five.

Then back to Berkeley Springs. Coming here now brings a sense of peace. At the very least, life is simpler here. I have one focus – this show – and I don’t have the same scattered, always running late, never quite on schedule feeling that is inevitable in DC. The woman at the coffee shop asked me this morning if maybe I’d decide to stay here. Umm, not yet. But it sure is nice to visit.

In the news…
The Wash Post article about the cover-up surrounding the “friendly fire” that killed NFL player cum US serviceman Pat Tillman referred to the act as “fratricide”.

Tillman’s armor and uniform were burned because they were supposedly a “biohazard”. Soldiers later reported that the evidence was burned because “We knew at the time, based on taking pictures and walking around it was fratricide…We knew in our hearts what had happened, and we weren’t going to lie about it. So we weren’t thinking about proof…”

frat·ri·cide n
1. the crime in which somebody kills his or her own brother

It’s the stuff that Greek tragedies are made of.

So where’s the deus ex machina?

"Single and Hoooorny"

I have had AOL since I was in high school (that's a long time ago). While AOL does, at times, bring with it some major frustrations, it has been a comfort to me to have a way that people can reach me that has not changed in ten years, since my phone numbers change all the time.

Several years ago I fell for a trick that someone used to get my password and hack into my account. I received an email that said something like "You have been sent a cupid note from your secret admirer. Follow this link to retrieve this message."

So, ummm, of course I did it (Secret admirer??!! What? Me?) and then when they asked for my password to verify that it was for me (well, I wouldn't want anyone else to get a secret love note meant for ME!) nothing happened. Ahh well, I figured, secrets don't make friends anyhow.

Well, several days later my AOL account was shut down. I called AOL in a panic when I realized this had happened -- everything was fine with the billing, so why now this freeze!? -- and they told me I had been spamming people with porn for several days. Or rather, my email account had. Sure enough, I opened my sent mailbox and the subject list was a mile long:
"Hot Asian Sluts Want to Talk to you..." and the like.

Oops.

I fixed things up with AOL, changed my password, and my account was restored.

But human vanity is an amazing thing.

A couple of years later, I got an email saying, "Someone has taken pictures of you! They would like you to retrieve them, follow this link..."

Well, you know the deal. Sure enough, within minutes I was spamming everybody about "Sexy Naked Co-eds Cumming to you Live from their Web-Cams..." You'd think I would have learned.

Anyhow, we fixed it up again, and only later did I learn from someone that in the process of being taken over by porn spammers, my profile had been changed. So my AOL member listing now reads:

Location: All over the internet
Marital Status: Single and hooorny
Hobbies & Interests: All of us girls are in college, and need cash
Favorite Gadgets: Webcam! Please signup at our site and we do whatever you want
Occupation: Gettin crazy online. Live for you. Get to know me
Personal Quote: We are becomin famous. You gotta try us out Right here Right now

People have mentioned it awkwardly a few time, "Ummm, S, you do know what it says on your profile, right...?" and I keep meaning to change it.

Truth be told though, it makes me sound so much more exciting than I really am.