It's all downhill from here

My right eye won't stop twitching. I got a lot of sleep this weekend. No less than 16 hours between Friday and Saturday. So it is not exhaustion.

Is this what happens when you turn thirty? Body parts start acting out in irrational ways?

We should get Janna a billboard

Okay I just finished reading the City Paper article (yeah, I was still in the midst of it when I blogged before) and I have decided that Janna Taylor is my new hero. She's awesome.

We should pitch in and buy her a billboard.

Joseph Smith Has a Good PR Person

It was like when suddenly there were two musicals based on the same poem by Joseph Moncure March, "The Wild Party".

Ideas happen in waves.

And everyone is writing about young Mormons in the dc area.

This appeared today.

And this was in the City paper this week.

The City paper article is extremely engaging. One of the women they quoted came in to audition for me the other day. She was very sweet and I looked at her resume and saw that she had gone to Utah State. I told her I had spent some time at Southern Utah University, visiting various friends in Cedar City at the Utah Shakespeare Festival. I almost made a joke about seeing the "founder's day parade" there (which was a bizarre experience -- so many very, very, white, blonde, people, that I was a little frightened). I refrained from saying anything, in case she was indeed Mormon and would take offense to my observation -- and sure enough the next day she appears in this article.

Small world.

I actually have several Mormons in my life whom I adore. One of my best friends from college converted after marrying a Mormon. The story of their union should be made into a movie someday, it is so "against the odds" and unusual -- but they are two of the loveliest and most in love people I know. And so very happy. I worked with a Mormon set designer this past year and when I found out he was Mormon I about leaped into his seat, babbling on and on about my Mormon friends, and how does he feel about mixing his spiritual and secular worlds, and what are his thoughts about women's roles in the Mormon church. He backed off a bit and I realized that I had pretty much just met him and was assuming a familiarity that I hadn't earned ( I do that sometimes. Bite your tongue SAS, think first, then speak.) I even asked him about the whole writing the names of Jews who had died in the Holocaust in the secret books that would mean their "souls were saved" because they were essentially converted in the afterlife. Designer man kind of rolled his eyes. It must be tough to be part of a community much maligned by the actions of a few.

The Mormon church is intriguing. It seems so borderline cult-like, and yet Mormon followers are some of the most committed worshipers I know. Hanging out with Mormons gives me the sense that they get something I don't. Maybe it is something that goes on in those mysterious temples.

But the plight that is described in the City paper article is a real one. The easy answer would be -- if you don't want to feel ostracized and alienated for being single past the age of thirty, then don't be a Mormon! But what if that is the home someone has found and a belief system that they are truly committed to. What then?

And is it really all that different outside of the Mormon community?

Embracing Theatricality

A good, if brief, article from The Boston Globe (link above) about physical theater (and the many different schools of thought that we lump into that category).

I really dug this idea:
Physical theater is an antidote to work that doesn't make the most of the stage itself, proponents say.

''The reason people deserted theater is because it lacked life," says Serrand. ''Any movie by Altman or Fellini is more theatrical than most psychological drama. Most of what's on HBO is better written. And most things are better than watching five people onstage tear each other apart."

Yeah for that. I have been craving boundless theatricality, on any level, for a little while now. The recent shows I have seen have been extremely well executed and worthwhile, but exceedingly naturalistic -- to the point of being cinematic. Some of the films I have watched recently have actually been much more "theatrical" than the theater I have seen (eg. I watched FINDING NEVERLAND last night).

I want to see floors fall down and ceilings fall up. I want to see saturated colors and hear a soundscape that completely transports me. I want to escape the mundane and painful moments in life, not be reminded of them.

Now, at least. Right now, that's what I want to do.

This is my favorite theater company, for that purpose.

These guys are great too, and easier to catch in the United States.

A Moment of Melting Pot Sentimentality

Last night, getting on the metro, I saw a small troop of scouts from "Laredo, Texas". The dads were all speaking Spanish, and the kids running ahead were speaking English. And I had a moment where I thought, "Fu*k all this cynicism! Look at that -- these families come up from Mexico, make a life in Southern Texas, and then join the most American thing possible. The Boy Scouts."

The kids were really cute, eyes shining, voices ringing out in the station.

I can be a softy too. It made me smile.

Years ago I worked on a show which made mention of Laredo. Last night made me think of my friend M who was in the show. He's from South Texas, near Laredo, I think. He moved to New York last year. I miss him.

Hahahahahahahahahhahahahahahhahhahahahaha

Yeah, right.

Hill Hotties? Isn't that something of an oxymoron?

Can you imagine if we did this for the DC Theater community?

Funny commentary here and here.

And yeah. What is up with Bettina's hair? Dude, Claire Newman Williams would never have let them get away with that.

In fact, between here and here, I guess we almost do have our own version. At least of all those actor types.

Altered States

I ride the metro two stops to get to one of my day jobs. I know that is totally lame, I could walk it in twenty-five minutes or Metro it in about fifteen, so I should just walk and save the $1.20. But I never leave the house in time, and besides, with this heat, I fear that my brain will melt and leak out of my head and trickle out into the cracks in the sidewalk.

So I take the Metro.

Today, when we got to the Metro stop that is in between the one I get on at and the one I get off at several people got up and stood at the door (par normal) waiting for the doors to open. The train stopped, paused for several moments, and then -- started up again. The doors never opened. Everyone looked around, a little baffled, and the three people at the doors near me got a little indignant. "Why didn't he stop at our stop?!!?"

At my stop the train stopped and the doors opened, so there was clearly not a problem with the functionality of the doors.

And my first thought was:

"Oh, the driver must be high".

That was my initial and rather certain explanation. What do I know? He may have just forgotten. There may have been some emergency happening at the station that prevented them from being able to open the doors (though no announcement was made). Maybe he got distracted.

Or maybe he was high.

I guess I just marvel at the number of people who function through much of their life high. I was never into the pot thing - didn't like how it affected me, found that I inevitably smoked either too much or too little, and could never make it a normal, social thing (which I have, certainly, achieved with the drinking thing, ahem). I also never got into the whole culture that surrounded pot (at least in my college days). Never a fan of phish and I always hated patchouli.

But I have realized as I have gotten older that many people carry the habit beyond the patchouli phase. That many people function as completely normal, active, contributing members of society, while getting high every day.

Every. Day.

And then I started noticing that there are certain jobs where I now assume that everyone doing the job is high. That they'd have to be high. That it is something of a pre-requisite.

These jobs include:
-working at quiznos
-delivering pizzas
-working at any food booth in any shopping mall food court
-soliciting donations for PIRG
-dog walking
-any job that involves working a soft-serve dessert machine

I realize that most of them involve food. That is probably not entirely coincidental.

Then I thought, maybe there are some positions that would benefit from having consistently high employees. Maybe it would help take the edge off.

For example, employees at The Heritage Foundation. I see them stream out of their offices everyday. If anything would help get the metaphorical sticks out of their asses, I would be all for it.

Or soccer moms who drive SUV's. But not while they are driving their SUV's.

Or Ann Coulter.

Tagged?

Okay, I am finally responding to Lighting Designer's tag.

This is a meme. (Why is this a "meme"?)

What is on your desk?

Well, my desk is actually my bed, because the air conditioner is only in my bedroom, and I don't use my actual desk for my computer, because it is currently being used for, ummm, storage.

So, on my desk is:

1. Me. In pajamas.

2. The comforter I bought from my college roommate with a flowery duvet cover I bought at TJ Maxx.

3. My bear, "Champagne", who I got when I was eight and has stuck it out for the long haul with me.

4. A stuffed unicorn - valentine's present (2004).

5. A stuffed pig that talks - valentine's present (2001).

6. My current journal.

7. My keys.

8. My phone charger.

Gosh, that's awful girly.

There. Now I tag joziu.

On My Honor I Will Do My Best

The boy scouts descended on DC this weekend. I was going to write a post about the sight of two hundred scouts circling the Library of Congress -- all in their short pants and little bow ties regardless of whether they are twelve or fifty. But now I feel kind of awful for giggling knowing that this happened yesterday. The horrible irony is the idea that scouts are supposed to know about this shit -- where to pitch a tent, and more specifically, where NOT to pitch a tent.

So, yeah, all irony aside, a moment of silence for the scouts.

Whenever scouting comes up I am always fascinated to hear which of my male friends becomes kind of quiet and looks down a little sheepishly, finally admitting, "Yeah, well, I was an Eagle Scout". There's one in every crowd. And while they are not always that eager to admit it, they are always damn proud of the fact when it comes right down to it. As well they should be.

My scouting days were limited. I started Brownies in the second grade, and was pretty much done with it by the end of the third. My experience was marked by two specific incidents. One was when I insisted on doing cartwheels around the Autumn Lane Elementary school cafetorium while on a snack break that first year. I was working up into a cartwheel frenzy when one of my brown loafers flew off my foot, made a wide arc through the room, floated for a moment on a cloud of lunchroom french fry fumes, and finally came crashing down into one of the cafetorium windows.

The window didn't break.

But I was banned from doing cartwheels ever again because I could have "Hurt someone!" and from then on had a very close eye kept on me by our scout leaders. I think I became the special project for Mrs. Sawako, who became one more adult in a long line of teachers and principals who were going to take it upon themselves to teach me how to be a nice young lady.

It never really worked.

I stayed in the troop despite my subsequent Brownie lockdown, but finally snapped the next year when we were learning how to macrame. We were weaving bracelets, it was a basic stich, a simple process, I had finished a bracelet and was moving on to designing a macrame suspension bridge -- while some of the girls were still trying to master the first step.

After that evening, I decided I was too smart for it all and refused to attend any more meetings. I was a little bit full of myself.

I don't think they were all that disappointed to see me go.

Guilty Pleasures

I know I am not the only one out there has been following the newest nanny gate story. Lucky Spinster weighed in her vote here -- her post includes links to both the blog in question and the subsequent NY Times column.

LS was then quoted amongst others here.

I read the article, I found it engaging. I then read the nanny's comeback -- they both have worthwhile points. One more she said/she said in the game of human relations. What sets it apart from every other employment relationship gone wrong is they both chose to write about it in their respective venues. And since they both wrote about it I really don't think either can claim the moral high horse.

What bothered me about the aftermath of the exchange were comments like this, calling for the end of the Modern Love column.

Because, okay, I'm going to admit it. I love Modern Love.

And in a world where our opportunities for observance of ritual are rare indeed, my Sunday Times reading is one that I cherish.

Yes. I start with the Sunday Styles. I do. And you know what? It is the SUNDAY STYLES. It is meant to be frothy and palatable and totally indulgent and hoorah for that. It is not completely ridiculous like People magazine or Cosmo, you can read it without feeling like you have to hide it from all of your bougie-bohemian intellectual friends, but still - IT IS THE STYLE SECTION.

1. I start with the wedding pages. I do. I couldn't care less about wedding dresses or ceremonies or whose father is the CEO of what company. I like reading how people met. I like reading the VOWS column. I don't know if I ever want to get married, but I love reading the wedding pages of the Sunday Times. There. I've said it.

2. Then I move on to Modern Love. And yeah -- so some of the pieces are meaningless or self-indulgent, but if you don't like them then don't read them. Everyone is so quick to judge the Times, and no, it is not a flawless paper, and yes, it drives me nuts too when they "name" a new phenomenon or trend that has actually been around for a year or two, but really, it is a good paper, probably the best in our country, and if you want to see what a paper can be then read the Hagerstown Journal. And you'll realize how good you have it.

3. When I finish the Style section I move on to Travel and read about place that I can't afford to eat at and how to get there from places I can't afford to stay at in countries I can't afford to fly to.

4. Then I go to the Magazine. The article on "framing" this week was very interesting, and I am already listening to how John Roberts is being "framed" for the liberals. The stress is continually on his pedigrees: education and qualifications. Because the liberal elite like education. And qualifications. We trust degrees.

5. Then Arts. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I just look at the pictures.

6. Then, finally, if I get around to it I read the News and the Week in Review. IF I get around to it before like, Wednesday of the next week. And if I don't I DON'T READ IT.

So does that make me a bad person?

What I really want to do is write poetry...

I take some comfort knowing that there are a few college majors that sound even less practical than mine (directing). For example, a BFA in sculpture. Or collage. Or even in gender studies. Or philosophy. They are at least more... puzzling. As to how it "applies". To anything.

But the best is someone who gets a degree in poetry. Someone who wants to grow up and be a poet.

I can only imagine the parental angst.

Being home this weekend dredged up a lot of, ummm, stuff, as being home always does for me. Even though this is a new home, the artifacts of my life still remain in daunting towers of cardboard boxes in the basement. My parents were remarkably good about heeding my wishes that they "not just throw everything out!!"

So, some epiphanies happened, which I will get into later.

But one minor discovery was a stack of notes from a college romance that I had completely forgotten I'd had. That sounds callous, but it's not callous, it was just a weird time. I was once and for all getting over an eating disorder and planning to transfer schools the next year. Joel was the first guy I'd even tried to date in my two years at Michigan. We met because he was the only guy (maybe one of two) in a women's studies class I took, women in literature or something along those lines.

He had floppy hair and was a poet. But I don't remember if he actually, truly wanted to be a poet, or if he just wrote me poetry.

Anyhow I found this small pile of notes (among so many other letters and notes from the days before email) and remembered all about Joel. I tried to google him, but he is nowhere to be found. The romance ended when Joel came to my place drunk after a bachelor party and spoke vividly about the stripper's boobs. He wasn't a poet about that.

And I was really, really uptight back then.

One of his notes included a Chase Twichell poem. I had no idea who Chase Twichell was at the time, and I only vaguely know of her now. I can't find that particular poem on the internet. It's a great poem. But maybe it is meant to be kept between me and Joel. Joel, to whom I'll never be able to say, "I'm sorry" -- for not writing him any poems back. For being too worried about what would happen tomorrow. For being uptight, about everything.

And for not being as receptive to his poems as one should be to poems.

I will instead post another Chase Twichell poem I found. Because we should all read more poems, shouldn't we?

Road Tar

A kid said you could chew road tar
if you got it before it cooled,
black globule with a just-forming skin.
He said it was better than cigarettes.
He said he had a taste for it.

On the same road, a squirrel
was doing the Watusi to free itself
from its crushed hindquarters.
A man on a bicycle stomped on its head,
then wiped his shoe on the grass.

It was autumn, the adult word for fall.
In school we saw a film called Reproduction.
The little snake-father poked his head
into the slippery future,
and a girl with a burned tongue was conceived.

Chase Twichell

Let's face it. The nose is hot.

I finally watched the Pianist last night. I have had it from Netflix for, literally, four months. When I sat down to watch it last week, the disc was flawed, so I had to send it back to get it replaced.

I think I was subconsciously avoiding watching it.

Naw. I was consciously avoiding watching it.

I did find that I kept thinking of that joke :
What's worse than biting into an apple with a worm inside? Biting into an apple with half a worm inside. And what's worse than biting into an apple with half a worm inside? The Holocaust. And what's worse than the Holocast?

Nothing stupid. Nothing is worse than the Holocaust.

It's not much of a joke.

I find holocaust movies and plays particularly difficult for that reason.

Because nothing is worse than the Holocaust.

This movie gets by because it deals with a microcosm within the greater picture rather than the macrocosm of the story (which is why I think Schindler's List also works). And it focuses quite intently on the task at hand: telling Wladyslaw Szpilman's story. It pretty successfully avoids sentiment (so we don't run the risk of a maudlin and cloying experience like Life is Beautiful). I actually enjoyed the sort of removed sense of story-telling.

And the dialogue was so sparse that it made me appreciate the moments exchanged even more. Like when Szpilman tells his sister he wishes he knew her better. What a surprising way to say that, and yet any one of us with siblings knows exactly what he meant.

Not to mention that Adrian Brody is one of the most beautiful men in the movies.

I almost cried for him when I saw him wasted in The Village.

I'm furry and spotty. Or else Julia is.

This made me laugh very hard.

I needed a picture of me "at work". I don't have a good one, but I knew that the folks in West Virginia had one of me looking at a script with my stage manager that they'd used for press there. I looked it up on the internet.

The caption is there, the article is there, but I am now four-legged.

I can only imagine the article that now accompanies the photo of me.

It's 12:27. Do you know where your daughter is?

My parents are upstairs and I am reveling in cable TV. They have so many channels. I should be asleep but instead I am watching Bridezilla.

Bridezilla. It's about brides going nuts. They are following three different women who are obsessively, neurotically planning their weddings. The one couple is a hair stylist marrying a guy whose profession remains unmentioned, but who can't be more than twenty-five years old.

They are up to a $50,000 budget for their wedding.

Can someone explain this to me? Why, why, why, why? Why would anyone think that spending $50,000 on a one day affair is worth it?

And they are all nutso! Control freaks! They aren't even having fun. $50,000 and they are not even having fun.

Let's do it, Let's Fall in Love

Interesting article in the Times (link above) involving blogging and one of those ex-gay groups.

There was a brief period of time where there were ads for one of these groups all over the DC metro stations, in places where I hardly think the community was looking to be "reprogrammed", places like Dupont and Logan Circle where the gay community is out and open and happy. They disappeared eventually, probably heading off to lands where they might be better received like Southern Virginia and Tennessee.

I can't help but read stories like the one above, and wonder about the woman a "deprogrammed gay man" ends up married to. Do they tell their future wife that they went through this? Do they explain that they are innately attracted to men, but have made the decision to spend their life with a woman because they had "spent days listening to stories of the pain that homosexuality had caused *clients* and their families"?

I suspect that in another day and age I would have ended up married to one of my gay male friends years ago -- if I lived in a time before people were able or willing or even aware enough to come out at an early age -- because the fact is those are the relationships in my life that have lasted the longest and at times been the most fulfilling. So, yeah, I'm pretty sure of it.

Maybe that wouldn't have been such a bad thing...

No -- strike that -- it would have been bad. It would have been awful. Because how can you not resent the person you are with, when you are with them simply because they are the gender that you are "supposed" to be with? Not to diminish the very real love that can exist between a gay man and a straight woman (or vice versa). But it's friendship love. It is strong, and valid, but it is not what defines a sexually charged marriage (and goodness -- don't we all hope for a marriage that is sexually charged?) For a gay man or woman to have to convince themselves everyday that the feelings they feel are wrong, and that they are actually intimately attracted to their opposite-sex partner, god, I just think that the pressure of it would be horrific. For both partners. Because you know when someone is trying to muster up attraction to you, you just do.

And maybe self-discipline and sheer will can make these partnerships into "happy, healthy relationships" like these loonies in Tennessee would have us believe.

But I seriously doubt it.

Ani Praise

I have fluctuated in my feelings about Ani Difranco's music (since I was nineteen and she was introduced to me during a summer spent in Ithaca, NY.)

But I listened to this song the other day, and had to pull the lyrics, to see if they were really as complex and detailed as they sounded. And I think they are. It is a pretty stunning example of story-telling.

School Night

She went over to his apartment
Clutching her decision
And he said, did you come here to tell me goodbye?
So she built a skyscraper of procrastination
And then she leaned out the twenty-fifth floor window
Of her reply
And she felt like an actress
Just reading her lines
When she finally said yes.
It's really goodbye this time
And far below was the blacktop
And the tiny toy cars
And it all fell so fast
And it all fell so far

And she said:
You are a miracle but that is not all
You are also a stiff drink and I am on call
You are a party and I am a school night
And I'm lookin' for my door key
But you are my porch light

And you'll never know, dear
Just how much I loved you
You'll probably think this was
Just my big excuse
But I stand committed
to a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you
Is but one of my truths

What of the mother
Whose house is in flames
And both of her children
Are in their beds crying
And she loves them both
With the whole of her heart
But she knows she can only carry one at a time?
She's choking on the smoke of unthinkable choices
She is haunted by the voices of so many desires
She's bent over from the business of begging forgiveness
While frantically running around putting out fires

But then what kind of scale
Compares the weight of two beauties
The gravity of duties
Or the ground speed of joy?
Tell me what kind of gauge
Can quantify elation?
What kind of equation could I possibly employ?
And you'll never know, dear
Just how much I loved you
You probably think this was
Just my big excuse
But I stand committed
To a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you
Is just one of my truths

So I'm goin' home to please the one I so love pleasing
And I don't expect he'll have much sympathy for my grieving
But I guess that this is the price
That we pay for the privilege of living for even a day
In a world with so many things
Worth believing in

-Ani Difranco

Homeward Bound, Sort Of

This weekend I am going to visit my parents at their new home in Poughkeepsie for the first time. They moved there at the beginning of last month after years of longing to get out of Upstate New York. Okay, after years of my father longing to get out of Upstate New York. He grew up in Brooklyn, and like a homing pigeon, was always itching to get back down there. Poughkeepsie is just close enough.

I am just glad I have finally learned how to spell it.

I was completely absent from the whole packing up the old house and moving it downstate process. My brother helped, and one point I thought I would help, then suddenly I was in West Virginia, the old house was finally sold, the new house was purchased, and poof -- the childhood home where I spent all my years of conscious memory (we moved there when I was three, and I really don't remember anything about the house before) -- was gone. I would never step inside again.

My room, which at five I'd decided would have yellow walls and a red carpet (my parents were very into allowing us to make our own veto-proof decisions early on) was no longer mine.

The room where I'd angsted away my adolescent years, scrawling in journals, reading Beverly Cleary then Judy Blume then Sylvia Plath, listening to Cyndi Lauper then Debbie Gibson then Peter Gabriel then Depeche Mode on my sherbet colored "boom-box" from the mid-eighties, screaming and crying into pillows, reenacting my first slowdance and my first real kiss at fourteen-years-old (Yes, I did this. I put "Wind Beneath My Wings" on repeat, since that was the song we danced to, and I danced with my pillow next to my bed over and over and over again. Well into the night.) I think I had a few first attempts at make-out sessions in that room as well, but that phase of my later highschool years are a bit of a blur.

Of course, I have only been back to the house about twice a year since leaving for college -- maybe a bit more frequently while I was actually in college -- but in the past six years, rarely and only for a few days at a time. But it was still there. It was still mine.

It hit me one of the evenings of the first week of the run of my show in West Virginia. I was trying to reach my parents, couldn't remember the numbers of their new cell phones, so I called my old home number without really thinking about it -- the number, that for fifteen years, was the only number I'd ever identified as home. Since then there have been more numbers than even I can keep track of.

"We're sorry, the number you have called has been disconnected. No further information is available."

It's the end of an era.

I can't wait to see the new house.

Histrionics III (and then we're done with this. Forever. I promise.)

I know! He got me! The schoolyard bully got me! I am totally reacting, when mom always said not to.

But we are who we are. I used to have these tough as nails girls in elementary school and junior high making all sorts of (ultimately, empty) threats towards me because they'd said some smack about me or a friend and instead of just letting it slide I'd gotten all worked up and shit and said something I shouldn't have said. Let us hope, should it ever come to a life or death situation, I would keep my mouth shut. I think I would. Really, I think I would.

But that final comment! The one that was meant to reallllllyyy rile me up, well, it did, it really did.

Anger is a funny thing. I get this rush of adrenaline, and my hands start shaking, and I literally think I am seeing shades of other colors before my eyes. We have anger management problems in my family. I have wrestled with it for most of my life, with varying degrees of success. When I was young I think I actually enjoyed the rush of giving in to my temper. It was a kind of natural high.

So: Is it any wonder Jewish men aren't into Jewish women??

I read that and the breath went out of me. First of all, what a terrible, bigoted thing to say. Second of all, what a terrible, bigoted thing to say.

And third of all. I am not even Jewish.

I read that, and I was confused for a moment. What does this have to do with anything? What does this have to do with ME?

And then it all came together. He thinks I am that Jewish woman. He is pinning me with some horrible stereotype of Jewish women, and I am not even a Jewish woman.

Owwww. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. And this from a Jewish fella himself, who I am sure, at some time in his life has met with some example of anti-Semitism. And then to pass along that attitude himself?

The assumption is reasonable. Look at my list of recommended reading for chrissake (no pun intended). Malamud? Roth? All jews! (I didn't intend for that, but I am sure there is a reason for it. Yeah, even Salinger is - like me - half jewish (on his father's side) and half Catholic, which of course, according to the laws of maternal lineage, means we are "not jewish".

And there's my last name. If that doesn't sound like it came out of some shtetl somewhere in Eastern Europe (it did) then I don't know what does.

But the irony is, not actually being a Jewish woman has stopped me up more often then ever, ever being pinned as "a Jewish woman". I've dated a lot of Jewish men. Maybe not a lot because I haven't actually dated a lot of men. But at least half of the men I have dated, and exactly half of the men I have had real relationships with have been Jewish. (Italics anyone?)

I don't know if that is coincidence, or an Electra thing, or about what I like to do and the things I like to read and the things that make me laugh (which I think is actually most likely). A lot of the men who make me laugh have happened to be Jewish. And I don't have some Seinfeld-Woody Allen-let's classify all Jewish men as quirky and funny - funny! - and neurotic and idiosynchratic-thing. It has just happened this way.

And so when I thought about SRM's comment, I had to ask, do Jewish men really avoid dating Jewish women? And why would that be?

I got to thinking about my Jewish girlfriends. Gorgeous, all of 'em. Really, all of 'em. That is not just me, as a girlfriend, saying that. I have lovely friends, jew and gentile alike. The friends I am thinking of -- are all so unique as well. There is no blanket statement that can be made about all of them. Really.

M is from Texas, with Mexican roots, and is as spunky and funny as anyone I know, male or female. L has the most delicate, fragile features you can imagine, is all at once forthright and funny, and exquisitely sensitive, and when on stage brings a strength and fire that you can hardly imagine are coming from such a tiny frame. E will talk about anything, say anything, is as upfront and balls out as any of our guy friends, while smart as a whip and incredibly perceptive for her years.

That's just a start. And none of them have any trouble getting dates with any man, Jewish or otherwise.

So, really, I am not sure quite what SRM is getting at. Maybe we should all stop classifying all ANYTHING'S as ANYTHING. The number of blanket statements about men and women, especially, that appear all around the blogging world stuns me. We are all not one thing. Man, woman, Jewish, Catholic, black, white, latino, asian, gay, straight, bi... you can't know all of us by just knowing one. Isn't that the wonder of humanity? The beauty of it all?

I do think that, as with any culture, there is some appeal and temptation in the forbidden. So, yeah, I think some Jewish men are (consciously or otherwise) attracted to someone who is the "other". The whole "Shiksa Goddess" thing.

But ultimately it has to be about more than that. We eventually transcend our roots, and we either feel that we are meant to be with someone, or not. That is what happened with my parents. My father found himself a good Catholic girl, and goy or not, fell in love with her. And thirty-five years later (thirty-five years this weekend!) they have struggled through the lows and highs and made it work.

I was pretty devastated by what SRM wrote, I was. Because it just confirms, we are our own worst enemy. I don't know what kind of personal issues would lead him to make such an anti-Semitic blanket statement about Jewish women, but it is wrong on so many levels.

The funny thing was this morning getting an email from a guy friend in NY who occasionally follows what goes on, on the blog. I thought he was going to react to the statement about Jewish women with the sense of righteous anger that I always appreciate in him. Stand up in defense of zaftig women everywhere (and truly -- I am the most zaftig of any of my friends who are real, honest-to-goodness jews).

The email was actually about my mention of the Black Eyed Peas. Apparently, not so good. Sell outs to the corporate dollar. He gave me some listening recommendations, which I will, indeed, check out.

He is also the one who first had me listening to the Russian, gypsy, punk band Gogol Bordello who are playing in August at the Black Cat. I tried to go to their concert the last time they played there, and they were way over-sold, so I never even made it up to the door. So, order early. Everyone says their live shows are amazing. Go buy tickets. But wait until after I do.

Histrionics II

I did try to ignore the stuff that Sandwich Repair Man was posting on my blog, because I had the uneasy feeling that I'd gotten in over my head with this one and also because it was becoming clearer and clearer to me that this wasn't at all why I started a blog in the first place, and like I said, therefore not worth the battle.

But now I feel I have to address them, because, well, because now he is just being mean. I will not remove any other posts unless they dabble in bizarro stalker-world, and I have any fear for my own safety.

He has asked for further explanation, and I can give that. I happened upon his site, much by accident, because I was looking for an article about the big friendswap party my friend Eric and his friends initiated several years ago. I wasn't going to it because I wasn't single. But I had explained the concept to a friend, and was trying to remember the details. What came up when I googled the name was Sandwich Repair Man's site, who had apparently had an exchange with the Friendswap people about their choice of location for the event, and the lack of consideration for its smokefree patrons.

Very valid point, SRM.

Anyhow, I started browsing around the site, and while it had nothing to do with me or anyone I knew I found myself unable to stop reading, or looking, as it were -- just like when YOU PASS A CAR WRECK. That was the car wreck analogy. It was not implying that your life was a car wreck, it was simply that, in the insidious way blogs have about them, I was unable to turn away from it even though I had no real reason to want to keep looking.

And at that time the bulk of the posts on the site were about dating frustrations. Some I read and found I sympathized with SRM, some totally annoyed me, and some I did find questionable in taste (like the email conversation that was posted between SRM and a coworker. Maybe the coworker was totally cool with it. Maybe she even liked the attention. But the idea of posting an entire email conversation about whether or not someone wanted to date SRM made me uneasy.)

I read it for a while, then pretty much stopped while I was away and busy, and yes -- living my own life. But then when I was back here in DC and trolling around the internet during a day job, I read through a whole debate, spanning several sites, about men paying for dates. It was a springboard for a post I wrote. I am sure I made it much more about SRM than I should have -- I should have kept it to my own opinions on the matter -- but I didn't. And like I said, I had no idea that SRM's statcounter would lead him back to my site. Lesson learned.

I am sorry that I hurt your feelings, SRM. I did not mean to do that. I am sure you are a cool person, interested in politics, and the world, and music and art, concerned about the fate of this planet and our country (despite your love for our neighbors to the North) and did not deserve to feel singled out by me. I am sure you have a lot to offer the world, and much to give to a special female.

My feeling was that you focused too much on getting a date and on your experiences (or lack thereof) and that this was holding you back. But what do I know?

The fact is, women will probably pretty much always be able to get laid whenever they want, if that is what you wanted. So perhaps I had trouble being sympathetic to the cause. I'm pretty average looking -- average to generous build and nothing exceptional when it comes to sense of style or humor or grace, perhaps a bit brighter than your average bird, but my knowledge base is extremely specialized and limited -- so, overall middle-of-the-road. And yet, finding someone to date has not typically been a struggle. Finding someone that I really LIKE to date - tougher. Making a RELATIONSHIP work - much tougher. But I think women do have it easier along the lines of finding someone at least to date, and probably to sleep with. And maybe that's a problem.

Anyhow, that was what first got me going with the SRM references. Oh! And by the way -- I never thought you wrote the Double Your Dating Crap. I KNEW they were sent to you from some frat boy Neanderthal trying to market on a fella's insecurities. See -- like I said -- brighter than the average bird! Dude, I even outscored Natalie Portman on my SAT's!

So, there you have it.

Now, some of the comments that SRM has been posting have been raising my ire (Just like my mom said! He just wants to get a rise out of me!!) and I guess, in my little histrionic, impulsive brain, I feel like they need a response.

Why is DC theatre so much worse than Seattle's, anyway?

Wow. What definitive statement. I'd love to hear about the theater you have seen in Seattle, and the complaints you have with DC theater. As a young(ish) theater artist in this town, I would love to know what keeps people from outside the theater community coming, and what keeps them away. And I WISH Seattle's theater scene was doing as well as you seem to think. Quite the opposite, actually. The fringe festival (in a town where the fringe element has always been strong and kicking in every scene: literature, music, art...) went bankrupt about two years ago, and as far as I know, has not been able to pull itself back up. The Empty Space, one of the first cutting-edge (as it were) theaters in Seattle almost went under last year. So SRM, if you love Seattle theater -- please! -- support it! Encourage your friends in Seattle to support it. I would hate to see the theater scene in any city die out. The more the merrier.

On a brighter note, the scene here in DC is continually growing, with the very exciting addition of our very own fringe festival next Summer. I worry whether we can continue to bring audiences into the many growing, renovated, and expanded spaces popping up all over the city -- but the growth is exciting none-the-less.

And speaking of Canada -- Canada has a fabulous theater scene! Many of the most exciting plays I've read this year have been from Canadian playwrights. So surely -- when you get up to Quebec -- do check out the scene up there. D'accord?

Okay. Gotta go meet a playwright and talk about hostages in Lebanon. More on this later, or tomorrow.

Histrionics

I am so inconsistent. So totally inconsistent. I write, I don't write, I write, I don't write. And I'm never on time for anything and I overreact to everything.

Phew. Now that we've gotten that out of the way.

I know, I know. When the boys on the playground in fourth grade would harass me, my mother said to ignore it. When my brother would slowly pick away at my insecurities in tenth grade, creating the rawest, most-exposed wound possible, my mother said to ignore it. When I hear about something that has been said about me behind my back by a friend, or an ex-friend, or an ex-boyfriend now, my mother says to ignore it.

"Because if you react you will be giving them a greater sense of satisfaction than if you let it go. They are just looking to get a rise out of you."

I know, mom, I know. But they said something, and it made me...grrrr...ummmm... angry, and... mad!... and they should, well they should KNOW that what they did/said/thought/ridiculed wasn't nice, and so I have to TELL them!

So -- I can't help myself. Call me histrionic, or melodramatic, or irrational, or impulsive (and believe me, I have been called all of these things) I am going to respond to some of the recent additions from our friend Sandwich Repair Man. Because, well, because I just don't have the willpower not to.

BUT FIRST.

A brief update about life in DC:

1. Rove, shmove. What DC is really all thinking about is the butter sized panda bear squirming and keening over in Woodley Park.

2. Okay, yeah, and speaking of Rove this analysis, and this breakdown -- which is long, but gives a sort of "he said-he said-she said-he said- and then she said" account of the media, finally winding it all down with a nod at everyone's favorite log cabin dweller, Andrew Sullivan -- are worth reading.

Sullivan is an interesting guy who frequently has interesting things to say, whether or not you agree with him. Several years ago he stepped into the theatre world here, apparently playing a Benedick that was not actually smitten with his Beatrice, instead taken with Claudio and his other gents. I didn't see it but I read a few scathing reviews. That's not in the script. Throw around all the conservative rhetoric you want, but don't fuck up one of Shakespeare's better plays. (and actually, that is the director's fault, not his own). Sure, some of Shakespeare's characters can be interpreted as gay, but frequently it's a choice that just becomes a red herring. That trend drives me a little bit nuts.

3. But I digress. It is hot and humid here in DC. Worse yesterday, perhaps a bit better today.

4. Yesterday when I tried to get off the metro at Silver Spring, I discovered I owed .15 cents in exit fare. I had a five, a nickel, and ten pennies. If I used the five in the machine I would have gotten $4.85 back in change. So I went up to the guy and smiled sweetly saying, "Sir, I have my fifteen cents right here, but the machine doesn't seem to accept my pennies. Can I give you the money and my card, and you can let me out?" "We don't take pennies" "But that's what I have. It is still money. How am I supposed to get out?" "We don't take pennies" "Sir, do you want me to wait here all day, hoping someone drops a dime?" "We don't take pennies" "Well, do you have a dime I can trade these ten pennies in for?" "I don't want pennies"

Arrrggggghhhhhhhhhhh!

He suggested that I wait there, asking people if they had a dime, so that I could eventually get out of Silver Spring Metro purgatory (which is worse than purgatory, indeed leaning on the side of hell). Thankfully, the Metro guy upstairs working on the track was my first attempt at panhandling and was the generous sort. He wouldn't even take my ten pennies. He gave me a dime, and I said righteously "Well, you are a whole lot better example of Metro kindness than your colleague downstairs! He wanted me to stay in here trapped all day! He was mean! He doesn't like pennies! He doesn't like pennies! Why doesn't he like pennies? Why doesn't he like ME?" As I rambled on the guy clearly started wondering why if he'd given me the dime I was still there spouting off, so I headed back down and gave the other guy a really, really dirty look as I went through the turnstile.

5. At the same Metro stop two days ago, a man was putting money on his card and very casually playing the harmonica during the whole transaction. There was no comment on the fact that he was playing the harmonica. He got his card, went through the turnstile, rode up the escalator, and all the while, kept playing his harmonica. It made me look twice, then again, then smile.

6. I am listening to: a lot of Elliot Smith, Franz Ferdinand, Liz Phair, Kings of Convenience, and in yet another attempt to get into hip-hop because all the cool kids are doing it -- the Black Eyed Peas (are they still calling it hip-hop these days?).

"Vows"

I have taken to reading the New York Times wedding pages as a source of career guidance.

Everyone in the wedding pages looks stable, secure and happy. I want to be stable, secure and happy (though not necessarily in that order).

Somehow, I imagine if I can figure out what it is they did to achieve that, then I can do it too.

I know. It's a little bit pathetic.

We all *heart* London

Let me start by saying that long before I'd ever actually visited "the square mile" I'd decided I adored London. I was probably about eight or nine, and I'd read about Madame Tussaud's wax museum in a young person's book, though, try as I might I can't remember what the book was. (Ringing a bell for anyone? It was probably a Newbery Award winner -- I thought the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler -- but that doesn't make sense because they all lived in New York).

That was around the time that my parents took the family to France for three weeks--a first venture to Europe for my brother and I. While we did not, by any means, appreciate Europe as an adult would, there are portions of the trip that are still immensely memorable to me (including hearing Samantha Fox perform "Touch me, Touch me now" one night two blocks from our hotel at the Roman amphitheater in Arles).

I was disappointed that the trip would not include a venture to England. I tried to convince my parents we could take the ferry over, but alas, it was not in the plans.

So, it wasn't until I was about twenty-two that I got my first look at Big Ben. England was my first stop on a back-packing trip around Europe. I'd actually planned to stay there for about six weeks while working on one of those student exchange visas at a pub in Leceister square. For about three days I happily pulled the taps and made Lager shandy's for the tourists stopping into an "authentic British pub" (with a Yankee barmaid who was anything but authentic).

At the end of the third night I got into a shouting match with my very temperamental, very British boss (angry Brits are scary) and screamed "Well, I quit" in his ruddy snarl of a face, stormed out of the place with my American pride and indignation -- only to head back to the flat I was renting for the month and break down. I went out on the street to one of those charming red phone booths, called my mother and sobbed.

So, plans changed, I reworked my finances, and I ended up heading to mainland Europe much sooner than anticipated. But before that -- I had several days to tour London. And I really did take to it. I bought my favorite suede jacket (which has been worn to shreds) at Camden Yards, I had a cream tea in Hyde Park, I saw some fabulous theater at the National and the Globe (to this day, some of the best theater I have seen) and I walked the streets without a schedule -- one of my favorite thing to do in a new city, and what a city to do it in.

Since that trip I've been through the city two more times -- for various reasons, that I will perhaps explain in a later post. If I were so bold as to make definitive statements, I would probably name it my second favorite city in the world (yeah, after New York).

So yesterday, well, yesterday sucked.

I don't have words of great wisdom about the terrorist attack in London. But I have been following the events (and was doing so yesterday) at their "ist" affiliate Londonist.com. The reports continued throughout the day, and were much more current than any of the major media venues, because blogs have that capability.

So I am pulling some excerpts from posts from that site.

I love that, in typical Brit fashion, they have picked up and gone about their job, continuing to write and completely without sentimentality. I wonder if there will be t-shirts and posters and frosted drinking glasses dedicated to the event like there were for the twin towers. I kind of think not. And while sure, the magnitude of yesterday's events was minor compared to 9/11, I do think it is an interesting reflection on our respective national characters.

It is why the Brits have so much trouble with American theatre. They think we reveal too much and are crying all the time. And we usually are.

First from the close of day yesterday afternoon:

18:02 There's little more to be said here; Londonist is ending coverage for the day. We'll be resuming the best coverage we can handle tomorrow.

Yeah, they hit us. But we didn't go down. Londonist's sympathies go to the victims, and we like to think of the hot sweat that is breaking out across the brows of a fair few terrorist nutters right now - we're coming for you, you fuckers

And like I said, hell hath no fury like the English scorned.

Today, they included these words from another poster:

In the days that follow look at our airports, look at our sea ports and look at our railway stations and, even after your cowardly attack, you will see that people from the rest of Britain, people from around the world will arrive in London to become Londoners and to fulfill their dreams and achieve their potential.

They choose to come to London, as so many have come before because they come to be free, they come to live the life they choose, they come to be able to be themselves. They flee you because you tell them how they should live. They don't want that and nothing you do, however many of us you kill, will stop that flight to our city where freedom is strong and where people can live in harmony with one another. Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail.

The words could apply to any of the great, democratic cities of the world. No matter what happens, people will keep coming to the cities. They come to find freedom of expression, freedom of religion, freedom to have shitloads of piercings and tattoos, freedom to cross-dress, freedom to love whomever they want to love, freedom to dance in the streets, freedom to speak any language and wear whatever-the-fuck they want to wear, freedom to stand for their cause, freedom to create their art, freedom to order out any food they want every night of the week, freedom to never have to drive a car again, freedom to walk to work, freedom never to eat at chain restaurants. freedom to ride a metro or tube or subway, freedom to live and breathe and sweat and grow amongst masses and masses of people.

That's why people come to the cities. That's why people will always come to the cities.

Oh god, and on a low note this link. So yeah -- that too -- freedom to never, ever watch Fox news.

I *heart* Miranda

Last night I watched Sex and the City for the first time as a thirty-something-year old.

And suddenly, more than ever before, they were my girls.

I know, it is so friggin' predictable and cliche. (Technically) single urban dwelling female who has spent the last five years relationship hopping and dating totally relates to show about single urban dwelling females who have spent the last fifteen years relationship hopping and dating...

I can't help it. I like the show.

I didn't always. The first time I saw it my gay friend J talked it up as if he had discovered the Rosetta stone. "You'll love this show, really, it is so funny, and smart, and coy..."

I hated it.

It was the episode where Samantha falls for a Franciscan priest. It was so unbelievable, so over the top. I couldn't buy it.

The acting was cartoonish. The characters too broadly drawn. It seemed to condescend to its audience. And I didn't get the humor.

Now, five years later, I have rented all the seasons on DVD. At times, usually after a painful breakup, I have been known to sit in from of a TV and watch an entire season straight through, usually sobbing though most of it. I am not exactly proud of this fact.

The show has nothing to do with me, and ultimately very little to do with my life. I will never wear Manalo Blahniks. I will never have an apartment like ANY of the apartments we see on that show. And yet, sometimes, the things in my head appear on that little screen. More so than on any TV series I have ever watched with any regularity.

At this point I have four episodes left before I have completed the series. Then there will be no more. No more Miranda. No more Smith. No more brunches with the girls. No more post-it note breakups. No more good guys like Aidan and Steve and Harry. No more talk about bikini waxes. No more guys we'll never catch like Berger and Big (I know, I know, that may change by the final episode).

No more epiphanies in microsoft word from Carrie.

And of course, life goes on, but as hokey as it sounds, it was really great to have a tv series that for once, actually spoke to me.

And I love Miranda. Love her. I really, really do. She's smart, hot and sarcastic. What's not to love?

I eat therefore I am

So many choice meals this weekend, so today, mindless babble about food.

I kind of wish I could be one of those people who sees food simply as sustenance, fuel for the body. While I recognize that this is basically why we eat, I have always had a mild obsession with food. The relationship has varied from borderline healthy to completely destructive.

But by golly I do love me a good meal.

Here's the thing. I am not a big junk food fan. I don't buy a pint of Ben and Jerry's and finish it off before I realize the spoon is in my hand. I don't eat fast food, never have, and I don't like chocolate all that much (which I blame on my mother, who convinced my twin and I that we were allergic to chocolate for the first six years of our lives. An allergy that we mysteriously then "outgrew" as our food intake became harder to monitor).

But I love to eat out. I love a good meal that transports me in some way, better yet when accompanied by a beverage that fits the meal, and best yet when it is reasonably priced. This weekend boasted a star-studded line-up on all counts.

First: Birthday dinner in New York
Where: Capsouto Freres
What: Zucchini Flowers (very lightly fried and stuffed with goat cheese), grilled tuna with a balsamic sauce cooked medium-rare -- no knife necessary, and a hazelnut souffle to finish the meal. Amazing presentation -- I've never had a real souffle before, smooth and creamy and light and really, remarkable.
To Drink: Dad is a wine connoisseur. He prepared a flight of wines to accompany the meal that was probably higher in quality than any wine I've ever had before, including one from our birth year (1975). Thanks dad.

Now, price on this one isn't completely fair, because I wasn't paying. Needless to say, the place isn't cheap. But I will say that the prices looked remarkable reasonable for the quality of food and service we received, and they have a great deal offered at restaurant week.

Second: Post-birthday brunch in New York
Where: The Half King
What: The "Vegetarian Irish Breakfast". Okay, so it's kind of a copout. I got the eggs, toast, broiled mushrooms, stewed tomatoes and baked beans, but none of the blood pudding and sausages. Sorry, I just couldn't do that stuff. But the veggie plate still felt sufficiently artery clogging, especially after a taste of the scones and clotted cream someone had ordered for the table. A brunch guest got the full-fledged Irish breakfast, and while impressive I was reminded why the Irish are known for their hedonistic living and early deaths, and I was glad I hailed from Southern European roots instead.
To drink: grapefruit juice. Couldn't do the complimentary mimosa, not with a greyhound bus ride in the immediate future.

Price is good here. Didn't pay again (give me a break, I'm with my parents) but the prices are extremely reasonable, and the atmosphere is great -- dark and brooding inside, light and airy in the courtyard. Somewhere in between if you sit near a window.

Third: Post bus ride dinner in DC
Where: Amsterdam Falafel
What: Yeah, well falafel filled to bursting with toppings -- baba ganoush, hummous, pickled vegetables, turnips, roasted zucchini. Omigod, I love this place. I thought I would not be hungry again after such a filling and rich breakfast, but sure enough, come later evening after an uneventful greyhound ride back to town, I was totally craving a falafel. So we went to Amsterdam Falafel, which I really think is the best thing to happen to Adams Morgan since the 90 Bus. I lived on falafel when I spent a month in Israel, and I loved the do-it-yourself toppings bars. This place is the only place I've found in the states that gets the concept. And they are probably much more sanitary then the place I would frequent in Tel Aviv, so bonus points for that. Plus they have frites. I can barely stand it.

Price -- so reasonable. Like seven bucks for a sandwich and frites.

Fourth: July 4th Movie Night Pre-show Dinner
Where: Thai Chili
What: Summer rolls to start, then Tofu Kra Pow. This was a surprise. The place is in the gigantic movie complex at gallery place, a project which, as far as I am concerned, sealed the deal that the development of chinatown in DC was going to be as commercial and brassy as possible. It looks like a chain. But it was convenient. So we wandered in warily. And what a pleasant surprise. The two stars was actually pretty spicy, the peanut sauce for the summer rolls had a bit of bite, the service was excellent, and the vegetables were divine -- crisp and fresh and bursting with color and flavor. I was really pleased. The gigantic tv screens covering one wall were an odd distraction (made odder by the non-stop series of mid-eighties Whitney Houston videos that were being screened) but this is truly a pleasant addition to the choice of thai restaurants in this city.
To drink: Singha beer. What else?

And the price, again, extremely fair, plus ten percent off with a movie ticket stub.

Finished the (long) weekend off with a showing of War of the Worlds. Fun, enjoyable, immensely watchable. And as someone who doesn't enjoy blockbuster films, that's saying a whole lot.

Picking my Battles

You may notice I've deleted several of the posts that were generating discussion at this site. I thought about it for a while, and when the battle lines just kept on raging, I decided finally that this is not why I started a blog. I started it because it was fun for me, especially when I was stranded in the wilds of West Virginia, because it allowed me an opportunity to stay connected to loved ones across the country, and was a good exercise for me to write with some regularity.

While I occasionally get up on soapbox when the urge strikes, I did not start this to be controversial or incendiary. The only place I would ever wish to be controversial and incendiary is in my theater work, and then only if it serves the text, and my "vision". I would not back down, ever, from my theater work. I will however back down from a blog entry. Especially when the discussion surrounding the blog entry no longer has anything to do with the actual blog entry.


So, we move on.

The playlists

THE PLAN

So -- this was the request for my party guests:

THROW YOURSELF INTO THE MIX
AND MAKE S'S PLAY LIST!

Here's how: First think some thoughts about S and S's life and S in your life. Or, think about birthdays and life. Or just think about songs and your favorite songs and your favorite song that should be everyone's favorite song.

Then RSVP with the title of a song and the artist that you feel expresses what you'd like to say to S as she says sayonara to her twenties. We'll compile all your picks into one playlist, download the tunes, and play them at the party. And S will have a music-birthday-card from her friends.

THE RESULTS
Okay, all in all I now have sixty songs specially picked for my special day. I feel pretty loved.

I'm trying now to break them down into categories, so that the sixty songs can become, like a five disc "S's Thirtieth Birthday Series". Like the ones they used to see for Time/Life books.

Okay, Series One is probably the easiest to pick out. These are:

Songs With Significant Meanings about Getting Older
(Most of these were selected by women. Most came with well thought out messages about getting older. This is the disc I can weep to and think to and maybe, if I did it I guess -- do yoga to.)

FOREVER YOUNG - Alphaville
FIRST DAY OF MY LIFE - Bright Eyes
THE BEST IS YET TO COME - Frank Sinatra
EVERYTHING'S CHANGING - Keane
DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD - Van Morrison
THE JIG OF LIFE - Kate Bush
AND THE BEAT GOES ON - Sonny and Cher
ONE HUNDRED YEARS - Five for Fighting
I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW - Holly Cole
THAT I WOULD BE GOOD - Alanis Morisette
LET GO - Frou Frou

As a subset in that group, we have several that addressed aging with a bit more, well, tongue in their cheek:

IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT - REM
ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG - Billy Joel
ISN'T IT GRAND BOYS - The Clancy Brothers

That's set one. More to come. Feel free to send along suggestions of your own...

My Life in Stereo Sound

Several weeks ago, as my birthday was approaching (now officially over and done with) I was divided in this question of where to celebrate, or gather people -- here or NY. I go up to NY every year around this time and do something, because my twin brother (and yes, it also HIS birthday) is there. The past couple of years I've done something low key here in DC as well.

Because you just can't have too many birthdays.

So, I chatted with some friends/colleagues about the low-key element I was planning for my DC crew. My friend M heard that I figured I'd gather people at one of the divey places on the hill, and got a distinctly M twinkle in her eye. You never know what will come of the M twinkle. The M twinkle makes me a little bit nervous.

"Have a party at H's house!" (H is our other friend and colleague). "Have a big party, we'll throw it for you, I'm sure H wouldn't mind!"

Right -- I mean why would anyone mind having upwards of forty people, in various states of inebriation, tooling around your lovely Cap Hill home? Last New Year's my friend D, who was dealing with a breakup and other, ummm, life adjustments, was pretty far gone by the tail end of the night. He started removing clothes and climbing on cars and up telephone poles. D is a smart guy. D is a very strong guy. That night he was a very strong, not-so-smart, nearly naked guy. Over towards U street that kind of thing can fly. On the hill? Ehh, not so much.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) D is at home in Bermuda right now, so he will not be at the party.

So -- the image of a half-naked D climbing a telephone pole and the women surrounding him afterwards trying to pull splinters out of his palms pops into my head, and I think, no, I can't subject H to this.

"Yeah, no, I can't imagine asking someone to open up their home to a party like that... " I sputter.

"Well, then, I'LL ask". And with that M vanished into a poof of party-planning, cake baking, dip-making, game arranging fairy dust.

She's a tricky one that M.

The rest is history. M and her fellow party fairies in the shire we call the box office have been busy mixing up god-only-knows what.

The idea we had about the evite was to ask that everyone dedicate a song to the event.

In the past few years I have become much more informed about new music than I ever was as a young person. Growing up I listened to a lot of musical theater music, and that was pretty much it, along with some Simon and Garfunkle and Beatles albums passed on from my parents. But through friends and (give credit where credit is due) ex-boyfriends, I got turned onto a number of contemporary artists, and then in turn started listening to the artists that inspired those artists, and so-on, so that I am much more of a music-phile than I was five years ago. I LOVE when people recommend new artists to me. If I allowed myself, I'd have an unhealthy addiction to Itunes.

So the idea of fifty-odd music recommendations, albeit allowing for the birthday theme, is the best gift I could ask for.

And now, I am sitting here in the Panera, downloading songs from Itunes. The idea is that we will burn a grand party mix that all guests, in attendance or there only in spirit, have had a say in. Starting this afternoon, I'll post the mix in installments as I work on it. They break down into very distinct groupings, you'll see. I am sure there is a sociological study in there somewhere examining age and background, but I don't really have time to figure it out.