Brooklyn!

I am in Brooklyn for about thirty hours total to meet my best friend's week old baby.

She is beautiful, a perfect little peanut with long spindly legs and the funniest faces (which my friend and her husband tell me means she has gas). I prefer to think that she is smiling at me.

I did not plan any of the visits I intended to plan for this visit (I am sorry JEMP) which means I'll have to come back soon, better planned and better prepared.

It has been, I might add, two phenomenally beautiful days in the big apple. I wish I didn't have to spend the next four hours on a bus.

Stupid Photo Phone, Stupid Spotlights

A very bad picture of Larry David on the red carpet.

Drama Prom II

I am going to the prom with my brother.

Sort of.

This is funny because, of the many rather embarrassing rumors that circulated about me and my brother during our highschool years (including one that went around years after we graduated - that my parents had thrown a huge "coming out" party for my brother, who is not gay) one that reemerged every spring was that we were going to prom together.

We did not. I mean, not as dates, I guess one year we all drove together... but, but...

Come on!

We did, however, go to the eighth grade formal together, but still not as dates! I mean, come 'on, get real... sheesh.

The eighth grade formal. I wore a peach bubble dress with a lace overlay. Yes, that's right, a peach bubble dress.

Nick F was the only person who asked me to dance, towards the end of the evening. I said, "No, I have to run to the bathroom" because the idea of dancing with a boy terrified me.

I was somewhat better adjusted by prom time. For my junior prom I asked Paul McK, who was the totally cute trumpet player in the show choir band. He was phenomenally talented, and I think went on to major in music at the Eastman School of Music. We had gym together, and used to joke around during archery. He was funny, smart, and Irish, three things that would turn out to be weaknesses as life proceeded.

We danced, but we didn't kiss (as I recall). I ended up drinking much too much warm red wine that night, and making out with my friend R, who was secretly in love with my best friend B, and then we went to the beach in the morning and I got very sick.

Ahhh, yes, these are the times to remember, 'cause it will not last forever.

Thank you, Billy Joel.

Anyhow - that award I mentioned that my brother was nominated for? The Jefferson Award? (Which are the equivalent of the Tony's in NY, or the Helen Hayes here, or the Barrymore's in Philly). Well, he decided at the last minute that he wanted to go, and since his girlfriend (see, I told you he wasn't gay) could not go, I was enlisted.

So, now I get to go see Drama Prom, the Midwest Version.

I always have a good time at the Helen Hayes awards, even when I am drinking more than I should and trying to accost ex-boyfriends, so hopefully being totally anonymous and knowing, really, no one, will not keep us from having a good time in Chicago.

Besides, I love Chicago.

Don't think I ever want to live there, but have had great visits in the past.

Just don't tell any of the kids from our high school. They would have a field day with this one.

Laughter as Medicine

The weekend now seems very long ago. But it is worth mentioning.

Last Friday, at the eleventh hour, I was recruited to help out with the Mark Twain Awards at the Kennedy Center (which this year honored Steve Martin). I agreed to do it because the person who asked has done me more favors than I can count, and lately I have been thinking that I need to do what I can to improve my karma. Not that I believe in that stuff, but...

So, Saturday I went to the Concert Hall at the Kennedy Center, was sent to sit in the audience, where I napped for a while, waiting to be told what to do. My cohort for the weekend was to be Kathleen, a cute, blonde, intern from the Kennedy Center. When they finally needed us, it was basically to hit a couple of marks while they looked at some lighting levels. We were used very sparingly for about two hours, and then sent home. The celeb count was very low that day - limited to Randy Newman performing "I Love to See You Smile" over and over again. (Which, I was to learn after later due diligence, was written for Parenthood, and won the Oscar that year for Best Original Song.)

It's a good song, maybe a bit less good when you hear it performed at least ten times over the course of 48 hours.

The next day they wanted us there at 9:30 am, which would not have been a problem had I not planned to go out with my cousin the night before. It was a late night, unusual for me in that we party-hopped, interacted with normal people (not theater folk) and I had to talk to people I didn't know.

All, I am sure, a good thing (shake things up a bit Citymouse - meet people you DON'T know intimately) but nonetheless, exhausting.

So I made it to the KC - shockingly - on time, and managed to grab an Americano on the way, then nestled into a seat in the concert hall, anticipating a quiet "sit around and wait" day like the night before.

Not so.

Sunday, they were actually teching the entire show (that would begin at 8pm that night) and Kathleen and I (and another random woman who was alternately surly and saccharine sweet) were the stand-ins for over a dozen different famous people.

Let the games begin.

I was sent out of the starting gate first with a speech courtesy of Tom Hanks, and quickly jumped into the world of reading a teleprompter. And I kind of sucked. I hadn't looked the speech over before, and there was this light shining in my eye (it wasn't just me complaining about that - Lily Tomlin also took issue with the light) and I didn't realize that the teleprompter follows me, not the other way around, so I get up there, start talking really fast, realize I can hardly see, and the thing is scrolling even faster because I am prompting them to, and then "Hold...Let's skip to the end".

Thank god.

After that first one, I figured out how things work. I relaxed, breathed, talked at a reasonable pace, and miraculously - the teleprompter also slowed down (duh). I also realized that if I avoided looking into the light until absolutely necessary, I wouldn't get the annoying halo effect I had been seeing. I also studied the next speech ahead of time.

It was much better.

So we are trudging through the event's speeches, when suddenly a flurry of activity erupts backstage. A tall, blonde, very well put together woman (three things that I - especially that morning - am not) heads back stage with a small dog and not as small an entourage in tow.

It's Claire Danes.

I guess I hadn't really realized that the celebrities would be practicing their stuff ahead of time, assuming that they would just go at it cold that evening. Had I known, I would at least have put on lip gloss...

So she breezes in, does her speech, she's practiced, it's good, she's tall, she's lovely, we wait, she goes, the dog follows, the entourage departs, and then we resume tech where we left off.

This goes on for a while (celeb, standins, celeb, standins) with a progression that includes Lorne Michaels, Eric Idle (of Monty Python fame), Karl Reiner, Lily Tomlin, and Queen Latifah.

Around midday, as I am getting my mic switched for the umpteenth time by one of the sound guys, I see out of the corner of my eye the person who has entered backstage, up next for the rehearsal. He is tall, he is wearing khaki colored cords and a fleece jacket, he is sort of slouching back a bit, and is wearing a yellow hat with tufts of white hair peeking out from underneath.

Larry David.

I feel my face turn warm. Larry David is six feet away from me, five feet away from me, four feet away from me, standing right next to me.

He does not speak to me.

He watches from the wings a bit, looks back, and cannot help but notice that I am staring at him. I am staring at him. I can't stop staring at... stop staring at him Citymouse! Stop staring at him!!

He gives me a moment of "Should I know you?" look, decides he should not, and then goes to his mark for his speech.

It is hilarious - mostly in the delivery, not so much in the writing - and he somehow manages to work the phrase "You dirty Jew" into it, and I realize, I am blushing, I am flushed.

I have a gigantic crush on Larry David.

The other stand-in Kathleen notices this, and says, "SAS - you are all red!".

I try to explain. I try to explain that I am speechless because I am so enamored with this middle-aged bald man, because he makes me laugh like few can, and has gotten me through some rough times lately (rather, his show has) completely unbeknownst to him, who I KNOW is not his TV persona, who I REALIZE I don't know at all.. and yet I can't help feeling like I do.

One of the other helpers, this guy with bad facial hair, won't stop talking to me, and I try to tell him that I just want to watch Larry David as he is now rewriting his speech back stage at the baby grand piano. He is gesticulating, and going back and forth over the fine points of it with the writers, and I think somehow that watching him do this will teach me something about, I don't know - being funny?

I am not by nature a very funny people. But I adore funny people. If you can make me laugh, I am smitten.

It is very often my downfall.

So I finally break away from bad facial hair, and I watch him finish the rewrites. The hat goes on and off, the jacket I swear is the one he bought with Mary Steenburgen and then tried to return during the first or second season, and about twenty minutes later, he is done.

I tried desperately to come up with some way to force a conversation with the man, but was unsuccessful. I suppose better to say nothing at all to Larry David, than to say something stupid.

The creepy girl in the pink sweater who wouldn't stop staring at him. If this character shows up a few seasons from now - you will all know...

The afternoon continued, Martin Short passed through (becoming the only person to truly ackowledge us standins), then Paul Simon, Mike Nichols, and then we were finally graced with Steve Martin's presence (who really must be one of the most talented human beings on this planet - between his writing, his timing, and his BANJO PLAYING!!) we managed to shake his hand (while walking through the curtain call - he didn't have an option) and finally all was said and done, and I was exhausted.

From accounts I heard the show went very well. I wouldn't know. I was getting a drink and food with my friend Jeremy.

And thinking about the power of laughter. It is amazing really. Unmatchable.

Who Knew?

Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, which I won't go into right now, I found myself watching A LOT LIKE LOVE tonight.

Yes, on a Friday night. Yes, a movie that no one actually saw in the theaters, except perhaps some teenage girls pining after Ashton Kutcher.

My phenomenally bright cousin was the one who rented it.

(No joke. She is phenomenally bright, and she was the one who rented it.)

And I am here to tell you, it is not all that bad.

For starters, Ashton Kutcher and Amanda Peet are not only beautiful people (and goddamn it, they are beautiful people) but they are both actually kind of charming in this movie.

The script is trite and thin, the jokes aren't funny, there really isn't any point to it, but...

It's not that bad.

They have some kind of chemistry. Individually and together. They are both quite natural and understated in this film. It's nice.

I'm not saying, "Go out and rent it, " but I'm just saying...

(p.s. When I just spell-checked this post, every time it got to the name "Ashton", it nicely suggested that perhaps I actually wanted "Asthma")

meow.

We have a new box office babe working over here at the theater...

More Tidbits

* I was just told by a ticket buyer that I have an "honest face". I'm not quite sure what that means. It sounds like a euphemism for something.

* I finally finished Marathon Man the other night. It meant to watch it weeks ago, since there is a reference to the film in the show I was working on. I started it about two weeks ago, and had to turn it off when we reached the "Is it safe?" sequence.

I've had three root canals (for an explanation of that you can venture back to one of my very first entries about my 'soft teeth'). Anyone who has had three root canals should be warned about the content of Marathon Man before watching it.

Seriously, the idea of dental work without novocain makes me want to curl up into a ball and sob. Just the idea. Awful. Do scientologists get their dental work done without novocain? I should look that up.

Anyhow, I started it up again, and am glad I finally got through it. I actually enjoy movies from that era - sort of gritty, set in New York, way-pre-Guilliani, preferably starring Dustin Hoffman or Jodie Foster movies. They depict a New York that I never knew. Don't get me wrong. Marathon Man is no Midnight Cowboy or Taxi Driver, but it has a similar feel nonetheless.

There is a heightened sense of theatricality in these movies as well - not quite melodrama, but everything is just, well - moodier - I guess, than we get away with on film these days.

For example, the scene where the Laurence Olivier character (Zell?) is walking through the jewelry district of New York, trying to get the diamonds he smuggled out of Nazi Germany appraised. The sequence is all shadowy and dark and of course the neighborhood is filled with Hassids and other Jews, who one by one start recognizing him. One old woman and one pale, lank man (who doesn't appear to have gained much weight since the camps) start following him, and it descends into this surreal, spooky progression, which on the one hand is totally unbelievable (are they actually recognizing him from seeing him at the camps some thirty-five years before? Or from pictures they have seen of him since?).

It almost descends to camp.

Interesting though, thinking about Nazi war criminals in light of the start of the Hussein trial. What would Hitler have been like in court? One can only wonder.

* Saw this production of The Chairs on Monday night. It is an extremely physical staging of the play, and interesting to watch because of that, but Peter Mark's review is pretty spot on when it comes to their attention to the meaning behind the text. This isn't the actors' fault. I don't know if, as a result of language issues, the director was unable to investigate what was actually-actually going on in the play (he's French) or if that was just his choice. I'd be curious to see the production he staged at Avignon.

I do applaud the actors for holding up their end of this deal, and especially Mr. Kyd for achieving some truly touching moments in spite of, rather than as a reult of (I suspect), the direction.

It makes me wonder why we have so much trouble creating "physical theater" that attends to the text in this city. Arena Stage's production of Intimations for a Saxophone, staged by Anne Bogart, is the closest I have seen any company come to a successful melding of the two.

I do not, however, think that the two things ("physical theater" and "attention to text") must be mutually exclusive.

The decision to use young actors when the play states that the couple is an old man and woman is also an interesting idea, but doesn't really pay off. If they were young people with "old souls", it may have been interesting (to see young people with old souls who look like this couple - watch the documentary Children Underground) and even would have worked with the design (they were dressed like urban street punks). I may have bought it. But with this, it all stayed in the idea place.

* There are lines into the street at all of the places that sell lottery tickets on Pennsylvania Avenue. I assume it's because of this.

* I started watching season four of Curb Your Enthusiasm last night. Larry and Cheryl are horrible audience members. They talked through an entire number in the Producers, and then Larry fell asleep at the show. As a theater patron, you can't get much worse than that.

* Blech.

* Good thing the United States has so improved the lives of Iraqi civilians.

Stature

I read this article yesterday in the Times about the use of human growth hormone on children.

Specifically, the article decries the assumption that doctors and scientists (and subsequently - parents) have adhered to for years - that is, that a child of unusually short stature will have mental and emotional adjustment issues as a direct result of their short stature. Stephen Hall, the writer, speaks to people at all levels of the debate (including those in the pharmaceutical industry) and basically concludes that there is no hard evidence whatsoever that a person's quality of life is improved through the use of human growth hormones.

They never really give the height designations of when and how often these drugs can be prescribed. Decades ago, they were reserved only for those medical cases in which a child was actually deficient in the hormone - the government regulated the treatment, and these rare cases received it at no charge. When they figured out how to produce the hormone without having to go through the painstaking process of extracting it from cadavers, the potential for its use skyrocketed.

Of course it did.

The article gets rather heavy on facts and figures 2/3rds of the way in which makes it a bit dense, but what I found most interesting was the implied conclusion that it was not the height factor itself that was effecting the emotional development of the children, rather it was the way that the child (and more important - the adults, namely the parents) dealt with it that seemed to have the greatest effect.

Apparently, one of the few follow-up studies done on the effects of the hormone revealed that:

"In an earlier study, European researchers could find no significant differences in the quality of life between young adults who had been treated with growth hormone as children and a control group of adults (equally short as children) who had not - except that adults who had taken the drug as children had a romantic partner less often than those who hadn't used it."

Hmmm.

Towards the end of the article Hall (who was himself short as a child, though he never mentions whether he matured into a shorter-than-average adult) poses this question:

"(In prescribing human growth hormone) do we accidentally diminish a child by focusing on height rather than on helping him bulk up his emotional muscle and resilience - muscles that will always prove useful in adulthood?"

It's an interesting question.

Hunger

I have been thinking lately about the sensation of being hungry. Really, truly hungry -- not just craving something sweet or salty or simply eating instinctively because it is mealtime and you haven't put food into your body for the four or five hours we usually allow between "meals".

I read this study that Arch Words posted on her site, and realized, wow, many Americans probably have no idea what it feels like to be hungry.

Should we let ourselves experience hunger before we eat? Do we so load ourselves down with such immense, fat and calorie laden meals to the degree that we have deadened all of our natural, metabolic instincts - including the sensation of hunger (which at some point must have been the signal to a person that they were supposed to eat and not simply because it was 1pm and they had an hour long lunch break from their cubicle)?

I have noticed that many blogs serve as weight-loss digests. They are strewn through the blogging community, and many are the output of people (mostly women) wrestling with their eating habits and self-image and trying any number of the thousands, THOUSANDS, of weight-loss programs out there to try and rediscover the body they were meant to have in order to be healthy and happy and to live in their own skin. These blogs are usually extremely candid, often victorious (just read about a woman who had already lost 100 lbs, and the picture digest revealed this amazing transformation - layers being stripped away to reveal this stunning smile and bright shining gaze). Not to say that someone who is overweight cannot have a stunning smile and bright shining gaze. I don't mean to come across as sizeist, or insensitive.

These are all thoughts that I haven't quite worked out. So bear with me.

It just seems to me that so many people hide under so many layers of, well, stuff, and often that takes the form of extra weight.

On the other end of the spectrum from the "victorious" journals are the ones who seem to struggle each day without "success". Women who, on their blogs at least, beat themselves up every night for eating too much of the wrong things and not getting even fifteen minutes of activity in (I read that on someone's blog - her goal was to walk fifteen minutes a day and often she didn't manage to do it, and I counted my blessings again to live in an urban area where it is not possible to make it through a day without walking for at least thirty minutes).

I don't have answers to America's growing obesity problem (no pun intended). But I do think it is a problem. The body was not meant to handle the physical mass that many of us ask it to deal with.

On the flip side - hunger. Too much hunger can also be debilitating. I did a modified fast on Yom Kippur (yes, a fake fast for a fake jew) where I did drink water and some juice twice in the 24-hours. So yeah - it wasn't a real fast. I did it, I guess, just to see where my mind went when stripped of it's defenses and directed towards reflecting on the past year -- thinking about what kind of a person I have been to myself and to the people around me, and to the world itself.

But I hadn't planned for it well, hadn't had a smart pre-fast meal, and also went to work that day. I know what happens in my head when I don't eat for many hours, so I tried to balance out my work for the day so that I wouldn't be dealing with any higher level thinking by the afternoon, when things started to get really tough.

That was actually when I hit a plateau. By the early afternoon, the sensation of hunger had become comfortable somehow. It was as if my body had figured out just how much energy it could expend to get through one minute to the next and it had ceased to put out any more fuel than absolutely necessary.

The feeling brought me back to my first year of college, which followed my year of barely eating. I don't remember as much from that first year but the follow-up year - when I was learning how to eat again - was filled with many afternoons of riding out the sensation of hunger. At the time, it was something of a power play, being able to endure that feeling of hunger - the lightheadedness, the blurry focus - gave me a sense of control that I wasn't getting elsewhere. It was probably something of a high, actually.

My goodness, the things we do to our bodies.

Being transported back to that place, to that time, was not altogether pleasant, but it all feels so distant now that it is like looking in on someone else's life.

Hunger like that is counter productive.

Never allowing ourselves to experience hunger is also unnatural.

How do we strike a balance?

Devastating

(link above)

Wow. I am so glad I live in a country that is so progressive and informed, and recognizes the dangers of domestic abuse and other hate crimes against women.

That judge should not be sleeping at night. May his conscience keep him tossing and turning.

The Gipper - Twice in Two Days

This morning, while I was waiting in line for my Americano from Firehook (where they just raised their prices, making it awfully tempting to go to their corporate suckhole neighbor, Starbucks) I noticed that the woman behind me had a cool looking bag - the square bag style that is popular now, sort of a purse, sort of a catch-all, and the front of it sported a big picture of Ronald Reagan.

It was this picture:


I kept staring at her, trying to figure out if the handbag was intended to be received with a dose of irony, or if this young woman (maybe 26/27) simply adored The Gipper, and wanted the world to know that.

She was blonde and moon-faced, pretty conservatively dressed in an ill-fitted suit like ensemble, but then had this possibly funky, or possibly kind of frightening bag, and those shoes from India that they are selling everywhere now:



Nothing, really... fit, together.

And I wished I had the nerve to ask her - "So, what's the deal with the bag?"

But I didn't. And I hadn't had my coffee yet.

It made me smile because Reagan was a character in the play I saw last night, Passion Play, at Arena Stage. It is not a hugely over the top depiction of him, though not entirely realistic either. Sometimes when I think about that, that we elected this famous movie actor, a "leading man in B Movies" as Wikipedia refers to him, to be president of the United States, it both thrills and devastates me about this country.

The play was quite engaging. I'd heard primarily good things about it from other theater types, which is usually a good sign, but sometimes I find myself sitting in an opposite camp on stuff like this. But I liked it a lot. It reminded me of theater I'd seen in other countries: The Gesher Theater in Israel, or Company B in Australia (at least their production of Cloudstreet) where you get out and can't help throwing around terms like "magical realism" and "post-modernism" and other terms that make me cringe, but nonetheless, you use them because nothing else quite describes it. Everything seems grounded in reality, and then suddenly the writer steps out of reality, without a pause, or even a warning. I like that.

The overlaps of historical periods and symbolism really worked for me in the final act (yes - there are three acts) and I actually do want to read the script, which doesn't happen for me all that often.

Sesame Chicken with a Side of Crack

The place in this article is about three blocks south of me. I have never seen the activity they refer to, but I have never actually been to that corner. It is a major concern in the neighborhood.

I don't know what the answer is. I have to wonder whether eliminating the takeout place would actually eliminate the problem. Certainly, a deserted storefront wouldn't be any better.

It's a tough call.

On a brighter note, this little gal spent part of the day at work in the box office with us. I so admire that my friend S would follow through with action when her heart goes out to a cause like lost felines. I daresay I would not have the energy or commitment to do as much as she has done.

Music Challenge II

This meme is addictive.

Are you male or female: "Flinty Kind of Woman”

Describe yourself: “It's A War In There”

How do some people feel about you: “Are You Out There”

How do you feel about yourself: “Another Mystery”

Describe what you want to be: “You’re Aging Well”

Describe how you live: “The Great Unknown”

Describe how you love: “So Close To My Heart”

Share a few words of wisdom: “Southern California Wants To Be Western New York”

Band: Dar Williams

Help

A woman just called here at the box office and started our conversation off with the following:

"I need some help on something. I need help (pause) with something I need sorted out. I hoped someone there could help me with something (pause) that needs sorting."

I waited for her to finish.

The "something" was actually very simple. But the lead in to the problem was phenomenally complex, and far too wordy.

I thought afterwards how frequently we do that in life. Deal with the problem around the problem, all the while avoiding talking about the problem itself.

No deep revelations here, just a vow. To try and deal more directly with the thing, and not the stuff around the thing.

Music Challenge

This was a music meme on DCeiver.

You have to pick a band or single artist, and answer the following questions using only song titles from that artist. Yeah - total time waster. This is what happens when you work on a national holiday.

Are you male or female: "Joyful Girl"

Describe yourself: "Not So Soft"

How do some people feel about you: "Asking Too Much"

How do you feel about yourself: "Willing to Fight"

Describe what you want to be: "Worthy"

Describe how you live: "Face up and Sing"

Describe how you love: "Imperfectly"

Share a few words of wisdom: "Roll With It"

Band: Ani Difranco. Her prolific-ness helps on this one.

Try it. See what you can come up with.

Visionaries

It feels like my friend Susan and I are the only two people on all of Capitol Hill that are working today. Thus, it is kind of hard to motivate to do anything.

Anything. At all.

My parents came for a visit this weekend. They saw my show on Saturday and I believe they enjoyed it (or so they say). They had a number of questions about some of the plot twists, but reasonable and smart questions, which provided for interesting conversation fodder.

Other weekend highlights included:

Dinner on Friday at Sonoma. The restaurant/wine bar opened up about maybe six months ago, an exciting addition for hill dwellers since, generally, the Hill has been home only to mediocre pub type places and a handful of decent but very casual ethnic restaurants. Sonoma emerged on the scene as something of a destination spot, which is exciting and needed over here.

The place is lovely, very sparse design but really well conceived - loud, would be my only complaint (lots of hard surfaces that bounce the sound around) - the service was almost ridiculously attentive, and yes, the food was good. My dad brought wine (yeah, my dad brought wine to a wine bar) because despite that being something of a focus for them, they actually sport a really reasonable corkage fee. Dad read that on the web site, and since he is currently obsessed with Italian wines, brought two of his picks down from Poughkeepsie.

Both very good, though admittedly by the third glass I may not have been the most discerning drinker.

The food was simple - we started with a cheese plate that we shared (my cousin came along as well) then each ordered some small, some larger plates. I had a delicious tuna, extremely rare and wonderfully tender. All good, engaging conversation (my cousin is a vibrant addition to any dinner, having spent time in Mozambique, Georgia - the country, and Nicaragua, all in the past two months), and a pleasant atmosphere. Overall a great spot for a special occasion. Two thumbs up.

The next day we traveled through the monsoon that hit the East Coast this weekend, to make it up to Baltimore for Saturday. One of my best friends from college was in town for a wedding, and staying in Baltimore with her husband and eleven-month-old, whom I had not yet met. So, the parents and I headed north, and first hit up the Baltimore attraction I have wanted to check out for years now, but have not managed to see.

The American Visionary Art Museum emerges just as you hit the Inner Harbor area of Baltimore (lots of museums, chain restaurants, and touristy spots). We followed the directions from the website, and suddenly there was this warehouse-like building with crazy things coming out of it in the more unexpected of places. A gigantic hand on the third floor. A huge bird's nest made of twisty wrought iron coming out of the side of the building.

Surrounding the complex of buildings were trees festooned with shining mirrored mobiles, magical, delicate ornaments totally covering the tree - with the result being something that you imagine must exist only in Alice's wonderland, or Narnia, or somewhere, anywhere - but Baltimore, MD.

The museum is truly wonderful. I'd heard that, but didn't quite get it until visiting. The work is all by self-taught artists (meaning that they didn't go to art school - duh) but it encompasses so much more, something far greater than that simple definition.

Each artist displayed there has an amazing story - really, each and every one. And you don't get bored of reading them. There are the pieces of art, their titles, and then a little placard that explains who the artist is and how it is they came to create art.

One woman lost her aunt and two relatives to a house fire where the firemen simply could not break down the front door, and immediately afterwards she started creating these vividly painted doors, covered with words and images and bits of found art materials. Another woman was diagnosed as retarded, sent to a home, where she developed her own form of pointellism and started painting paper plates.

They were beautiful. Truly stunning.

Art provided an escape, a dream, a home, and therapy for most of these practitioners. They were often the victims of abuse, of poverty, or economics, of racism. And they managed to channel the dark scenes from their lives into stunning art. Truly magnificent.

As our country continues to cut arts funding and schools can no longer afford art and music classes, I think - a trip to this museum should be mandatory for every legislator with any say in these decisions. I have never seen a better argument for the necessity of art in our world.

Truly. If you are in the area. Go. Please. It is worth a trip.

I can't wait to go back.

Afterwards we headed deeper into the inner harbor where we met my friends and their small new addition for lunch. The child is beautiful, happy, joyful. The parents are beautiful, happy, joyful. My mother got her baby fix for the weekend. And I got to catch up with friends who I met when I was eighteen and somehow knew even then that these people should be in my life, forever.

Shameless Plug and Reviews

The show has made the review circuit now, and the press has been pretty consistently positive. Here's a smattering:

DC Theatre Reviews did double duty for us, and we love them for that.

Here, and here.

Walter Ruff wrote, "To say Upshot is one cool piece of theatre would be accurate, but that statement alone would not do it justice. Ami Dayan's play is highly entertaining and full of dark humor. Unique ideas and presentation make Upshot a production you should include in your fall theatre plans."

And Luke Edward wrote, "Upshot is host to impressive performances, most notably Jason Lott's Man, John's written character who finds himself the last human being on the planet. (With) humorous dialogue and a plot of infinite wit... It emerges upon the stage as a sort of elastic one act, stretched to two hours yet concise enough in plot and portrayal to hold attention. Upshot is entertainment as it should be, and Forum Theatre and Dance's production is more than worth a visit."

I promise that I am not related to either of these men.

City Paper's review is here.

My favorite quote from Winters is her closing: (The character) John progresses from a mere Matthew Broderick harried Everyguy to the protagonist of a spectacular scene near the end in which, "becoming" Man, he recounts that lost soul's visit to a deserted theater: "Is anybody here? Hello? Can you hear me? Empty seats? Come, help me. Bring back, revive the souls, the spirits of those who were inside you, who sat inside you, who rubbed their life force into you." As (actor) Graham delivered this speech, with Lott and Nelson sitting in the aisles next to us few outsiders, I felt a chill that wasn't from the air conditioning.

Winters also does not shy away from mentioning the fact of our very, very small house on the afternoon that she saw the show. We like her candor.

The Washington Post reviewer (review here) had a lot of issues with the actual play, which is a risk any theater takes with a world premiere. The play has not yet stood the test of time.

Fortunately, the Post review is still quite complimentary to the production, actors, and design.

Actor Jason Lott deserves all the praise he gets here: "Lott flings himself into the role with such gusto and agility that the narrative acquires a suspenseful urgency. The actor clambers over the pedestal-like cubes that stand about the stage; he stares dazedly into space, face wracked by the sights of the apocalypse; he arcs himself into an agonized backbend that would do credit to Mary Lou Retton."

The other actors also get their due: "Graham and Nelson are likable and energetic as the conflicted John and Helen, and Nelson also gives pizazz to two subsidiary fantastical characters." and the designers get much deserved mentions.

Finally, Bob Anthony's review. Mr. Anthony is something of Washington Theater legend. He apparently won the lottery some years back and started up his review website because he so loved the DC theater scene. Or something like that. Check out the site, scroll down a bit for the review.

Anyhow, that's it right now. Any one in the DC area... come see the show! Bring a copy of this post, and you get $5 off a ticket. Since tickets are only $15-$18 to begin with, you can't get a better deal than that.

Phew. All done. Shameless plug over and out.

Let it Loose

One of my part-time day jobs is selling tickets in the box office of a local theater. This is a generally pretty low key job, with the occasional downside of exposure to a cranky or surly customer. The people I work with are fabulous, smart, wonderful, talented women. It is, for the most part, a good thing.

Well, a moment ago a customer actually came up to the window to make a purchase (most of the business that we do this time of year happens over the phone). She was pushing her child in a stroller - a beautiful little girl, maybe 9-12 months old, and just as we finished up the transaction, the little one opened up her perfect little mouth and let out a high pitched scream. No apparent reason. Unphased, she did it again a moment later.

Mom and I both looked at her, surprised. Was she telling us something? Was she hungry/tired/sad/cold? Did she maybe like the way it resonated within the lobby's stone walls?

Or did she just feel like screaming?

And then I thought - god, wouldn't it be great if that was socially acceptable among the grown-up world to let out a scream when the urge strikes. I would be doing quite a bit of it these days. I do think it would make me feel better.

But I suspect my co-workers would get tired of it quickly.

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Credit Card Therapy

I know I am not the only one who does this. Although I think women are probably more prone to it than men. I certainly do not have the level of income that enables me to do it often.

Shopping as therapy.

When I am not feeling good, or right, or content with how things are going with the rest of my life, shopping becomes a bit of a panacea for my doldrums. It is interesting how something that, when my life is a bit more in order can be such a conscious, careful thing for me (that is - spending, or lack thereof) suddenly becomes the thing that might possibly make things all better when the foundation of my world gets ripped out from beneath me.

It won't of course. Make things better. It will just mean credit card bills that I will regret for the next decade.

But money suddenly feels like "the least of my worries". I just want to feel better. And maybe a new belt, or earrings, or a new book, or $20 worth of itunes, will do that. And usually, for a moment at least, I do feel better.

Then I get my next visa bill.

I think this is a phenomenon for our generation - one that eats, breathes and sleeps on credit. I know there are much better ways to heal oneself (exercise, time with friends, yoga, meditation) but there are certainly a slew of more ominous means as well (like ummmm, crank? heroin?) - so that makes me feel a little better.

And I also know that no matter how low I go, I will always seek out the bargains. I can't help myself with that.

A Weekend in the Country

Or at least, a day.

I went up to Poughkeepsie again this weekend to see my folks. After a brief layover in NY to see my very pregnant best friend (who totally looks like one of those pregnant supermodels - there is the baby bulge, but not another extra pound on her) and then a quick drink with another friend, I met my brother and his girlfriend for the 11pm Metro North train upstate. We all caught up (as other Metro North riders harrumphed our chatting and tried to sleep for the hour and a half) and my brother managed to avoid paying for his train ticket. He's good like that.

The weekend (for me, just Saturday really) was pretty low key. We started the day in Kingston, NY, where we strolled along the Hudson River and then ate Puerto Rican food (plantains and yucca. mmmmmmmm.)

We then headed over to Woodstock. It's a strange place, that doesn't seem quite sure where it fits into this century. There are some vestiges of 1960's/early 70's hippie, community life - a few folks who are out every day in the town square, protesting, or singing, or teaching, or doing something (I couldn't quite tell which.)

One was a woman dressed in so many layers of clothes she couldn't put her arms down. She was doing weird sun salute type moves, and may in fact, just be homeless. Another guy has a bike completely wrapped in cloth and ribbons, that is plastered over with protest signs. None of these folks looked old enough to actually be holdovers from Woodstock-Woodstock.

I'm not sure where they come from then. You sort of get the sense that a lot of people head there looking for something they can't find elsewhere, and then staying whether they find it or not.

It was a beautiful day. Chilly. The leaves are starting to change up there.

We waited in line in the evening to see a film at the Woodstock Film Festival. The movies were all sold out (the venues were all pretty small) but you could wait and they would sell any empty seats due to no-shows.

I was out-voted in my movie picks (I dare say I was hoping for something that would make me smile) so we ended up seeing Fateless, a Hungarian holocaust epic.

So, I didn't smile much, but it was beautifully shot and very subtly acted (except for one strange overwrought scene with a young Hungarian girl).

More than anything, it made me want to read the book.

The story deals with a young Hungarian jew who is taken off a bus one day on his way to work and sent to the work camps at Auschwitz and Buchenwald. It is unlike the stories of jews in other countries, like Germany or Romania, in that when he comes home when the war is over, there are some things that have hardly changed back in Budapest. Parts of the city have been destroyed, but the holy men who lived next door to him are still arguing about what it is to be a jew.

I think that the book must do a better job of raising these questions than the movie does -- the boy is a secular jew, a Hungarian, hardly considers himself a jew at all -- and must face up to these identity issues inside the camp. We see this, but we do not see or hear what he thinks about it all, until we get to the end and there is a kind of sum-everything-up type voiceover at the end. It felt a bit contrived. Or perhaps something was lost in the translation.

It was indeed an engaging two hours, and fun to see a film in this small town art house, with all the art-y yuppies who live along the Hudson River Valley.