The Four Choices Meme

I used to write a lot in my posts. I think maybe at times I've said a bit too much.

I had to look back in the archives for a reference to something and I realized this. I felt a little sheepish reading some of them, in the "Did I really write that in my diary about Rick who was in the class down the hall when I was nine?" kind of way.

But a little better, because I think I managed to maintain some sense of the fact that other people read a blog.

I'm not sure how I feel about how I come across in some of them. I really did forget about writing a lot of this stuff, and frankly, June seems like it was about twelve years ago. It was not.

Anyhow, several fun stories in my mental queue (love that word, queue) but they'll have to wait. For now, I am carrying on this meme from Joziu, even though he did not officially tag me.

(P.S. If blogs are already a sign of above average self-absorption, how much more narcissism does the constant posting of meme's reveal? It's a little bit embarrassing.)

Four Jobs You've Had In Your Life:
1. Theater Director (that's the one I like)
2. Collections Associate (my dirty secret)
3. Content Writer (whatever that means)
4. Assistant to a Rabbi (a very long story)

Four Movies You Could Watch Over and Over Again:
1. The Graduate
2. You Can Count on Me
3. The Breakfast Club
4. Say Anything

Four Places You've Lived:
(These were all for at least two years)
1. New York, NY
2. Ann Arbor, MI
3. Winston-Salem, NC
4. Washington, DC

Four TV Shows You Love(d) To Watch:
(I don't really watch TV anymore, but I do rent all of these on DVD's)
1. Curb Your Enthusiasm
2. Sex and the City
3. Six Feet Under
4. The Office (British version)

Four Places You've Been On Vacation:
(I'm going to keep this to the last three years)
1. Florence, Italy
2. Avignon, France
3. Chicago, Illinois
4. Seattle, Washington

Four Websites You Visit Daily
1. www.dcist.com
2. www.theaterboy.typepad.com
3. www.aol.com
4. www.washingtonpost.com

Four Of Your Favorite Foods:
1. Sushi (especially yellowtail)
2. A good tuna melt
3. Falafel with lots of toppings
4. Artichokes

Four Albums You Can't Live Without:
1. Damien Rice O
2. Dar Williams Out There Live
3. Gomez Split the Difference
4. Peter Gabriel So (because I may not have made it past fifteen with my sanity without that one).

Four Vehicles You've Owned:
1. A Blue Aries K Car
2. A Silver Eagle Summit (??!!)
3. A bike, when I was ten
4. My current Metro card

Seven Up

I've started the same post twice now but lost it because of a power outage and my own stupidity. So I'll write that one tomorrow.

Today I'll respond to a meme because it requires less thought.

This, from my friend T-Ro.

SEVEN SONGS:
List seven songs you are into right now; no matter the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're any good. They must be songs you're really enjoying this week. When you're done, tag seven people to see what they're listening to.

1. Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) - The Arcade Fire
2. At the Bottom of Everything - Bright Eyes
3. Where is My Love - Cat Power
4. Fisherman's Woman - Emiliana Torrini
5. Not About Love - Fiona Apple (actually, the entire Extraordinary Machine album)
6. TV Show - Martha Wainwright
7. Staralfur - Sigur Ros

I'll tag my blog list: Lighting Designer, Playmaker, Playful in DC, Archwords, Damian, and HpMelon, and No Finish Line but please, feel no obligation.

Oh jeez - I tag Joziu too...!

Hate This Computer

Fu*k me. I just lost my whole blog entry.

Shit.

And just like Ron Burgandy, I would never say "fuck". Never, fu*kin' never do something that fu*ked up.

"The Most Fun Of Them All..."

We got a nice little review.

They Want Us to Throw the Babies in the River, But Leave us to Try and Pull Them Out

This post is not going to be nice. I'm sorry.

I have friends and family who are pro-life for their own reasons and I respect them for that and for having convictions that they believe in.

But I have to say it. There are few sights that have the power to instigate such a deep sense of anger and resentment in me than the masses that are lingering at the end of the day on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade.

I hate them. I do. For that moment, for that day, I hate them.

I always forget it is that day. Always.

And then there they are. So young. Throngs of them. White, white and whiter. Ruddy faced. Southern and Midwestern and probably a busload or eight from my own Upstate New York.

Carrying their posters. Completely oblivious to life outside of the suburbs. Filling Union Station with their whiteness and loudness and their ridiculous self-righteousness and religiosity. Wearing matching red t-shirts with stupid sayings like "Sex is good, the pill is not." (What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean??!!)

And this is what gets me the most.

They come, they march, they leave their garbage and signs and propaganda and shit all over the hill and then they get back on their busses and go back to their big houses and SUV's and flat screen tv's.

And leave us to clean up their mess.

I feel like there is a metaphor at work here. And this is my biggest issue with most pro-lifers. They want to force a woman to have a child, that is not yet a child as far as I am concerned, that they don't want to have, or don't feel capable of having. And yet most don't support social programs in this country. They don't campaign for a better welfare system or good public schools. They don't fight to save Head Start or to improve social programs.

They want the babies born. And then they leave.

And they leave the rest of us to clean up the mess.

More Good Theater

This is the email I got from my friend MBF this morning:

AND.....dude. time to update your blog. seriously. i'm at work today with not a goddamn thing to do and you don't write anything new? you're dead to me.

This is my response:

We have a queue of 8 calls. It is crazy here. It's all your fault. You should write a blog entry and I'll post it as a guest blogger.

You fuckers. I was going to do my taxes today.

She is in this production of Measure for Measure, that my friend Aaron directed and several people I adore are involved with. I am so friggin’ proud of them right now. Peter Marks wrote a great review, very smart, and I am so glad that he *got* it.

I saw the show on Saturday and was pretty jazzed. I learn so much from watching Aaron’s work. He jumps in all the way and takes some monumental risks and when they pay off it is thrilling. I actually love this play (I am a sucker for the "problem plays") and I think they have done some wonderful things with this one.

Yeah for good theater. Yeah for Shakespeare’s complex plays (who decided that “complex” had to be labeled “a problem”)?

And yeah for puppets.

It's Curtain Time and Away We Go...

My show opens tonight. It is a different kind of feeling about opening as it is not really *my* show (it is a series of 8 short plays, so I share that honor with seven other directors) and because the Madcap Festivals do not get reviewed.

These two factors eliminate a lot of the pressure (and the consequential second guessing) that can plague me towards the opening of a show. It's actually been pretty liberating this time around, as it has truly felt like we were exploring the work without having to be extremely product oriented (process over product - a luxury hard to find outside of school) and I have explored some new ways of working on this one that really reinvigorated me.

It's been a really good time.

With the exception of one actor, my folks are all new to me, and I have very much enjoyed getting to know them all both personally and professionally. I heart my actors. And the band. And the musical director. And the writer.

Awwww. I know, load on the sentiment City Mouse.

Nevertheless, all of it is true.

So, come see the show. The right thing about evening of vignettes is that if you hate one, there is always a new one waiting just around the bend. And the pieces are all really interesting. The evening is, overall, much darker than it has been in years past. But I don't know that that's a bad thing.

So, come see the show, and do let me know if you are coming (and that is the collective "you") so I can try to be there as well. (Technically speaking, when a show opens, the director's job is done.)

Come and See

Missing Jingle

There is no lonelier feeling than the sinking in my stomach when I realize I have lost my keys.

When I realize I have lost my keys and it is 10:34 pm and I am in Silver Spring.

I have lost my keys and I have to call the actor who I depend on to let us in and out of our rehearsal space, the actor who has already started on his long drive back to Olney, to let me back into the space to see if my keys are there.

The feeling when the keys are not there.

I have lost my keys and the extra set I made when I moved in to my apartment six months ago that I gave to my ex-boyfriend who was not my ex-boyfriend at the time are no longer good because we had to get the locks changed several months later. The extra set of the new keys are now locked in my apartment, on the coffee table where we stack the mail.

I have lost my keys and my cousin, who is my roommate, left this morning to spend two weeks in Georgia for work. Georgia, the country. My cousin, who is my roommate, has left for Georgia, and she has the only other correct set of keys that I know of. I don't know what time it is in Georgia, the country, but it is now 10:56 pm in Silver Spring. I don't think her cell phone works there.

I have lost my keys and I suddenly am remembering all the places I stopped between locking the door as I left this morning and arriving at the Metro platform in Silver Spring, where I am now standing. It is really cold. Places where keys get lost and never found. Places like Union Station, like several metro trains, like Whole Foods, like Starbucks, lots of places, lots of places to lose keys.

I have lost my keys and suddenly I think, I am alone and homeless and tonight I will experience what it feels like to sleep in Union Station. Because I have lost my keys and what if I can't reach any of the people that might let me sleep on their couch since it is now 11:23 pm and I rarely answer my phone past 11:00 pm so why should they.

I have lost my keys so I call H who lives up the street and she answers her phone and she offers her couch and she makes me feel so much better and now at least I have a plan.

I have lost my keys but the day job I worked today is at a National Landmark, or a place registered as a Historical Site, or something, so there are guards on duty 24-hours-a-day, including holidays. I can stop there on my way between Silver Spring and H's house, just in case, in case, in case. Just in case I have lost my keys, and they are there.

I have lost my keys and the guard lets me in, even though I don't think I have ever seen this guard before. And the extra bag I brought that day that I left at work that I'd used to carry paperwork I needed to get done that day is still there, since I figured I'd finish working on it the next day, and there in the bag are my keys. My keys. Sigh. My keys...

I have my keys. I have found my keys. I have found my keys, and I can go home now.

Why do I let this happen? At thirty-years-old I should not be losing my keys. Thirty-years-old, with at least twenty of those years spent dealing with keys (back in the day I guess my brother and I would have been deemed "Latchkey kids"? Do they still call them that?) and yet still, I am thirty-years-old, and, on occasion, I lose my keys.

(P.S. Just to be clear - I was in no way scarred by being a latchkey kid. I didn't mind it, really. So no worries about that, Citymouse mom. The truth is, I would probably still lose my keys latchkey kid or no. The psychology behind the whole losing things phenomenon is too deep for me to figure out. The good part is that, on the whole, I really do think I have gotten better about all that.)

Please Hold

I'm working today. I may be the only one on all of Capitol Hill working, but gosh darn it - if people get the hankering to buy theater tickets on MLK day, we will be there to serve them.

I am frustrated because my life is a little on hold right now while I wait for several people to call or email me back with answers to specific questions. This is perhaps the universe's way of teaching me that I should be better about calling and emailing people back right away. It's never been my forte. I know. I'm sorry. Everyone.

I am experiencing right what it feels like to be on hold. It is frustrating in general, but maddening when it is career related. Because I just need an answer from people. Yes or no. And yet the answers don't come. And the result, I fear, will be me burning a bridge when all is said and done, and resenting that I end up looking like the slacker.

Shit.

I tried to like the Cremaster Movies

I really did. I tried.

I actually got more out of the Barney exhibit at the Guggenheim than I did sitting and watching one of the Cremaster's at the now defunct Visions Movie Theater (I don't recall which one it was.)

So I think this is funny.

I saw Bjork in a Thai restaurant in the West Village once. She was emitting strange Bjork-like sounds (Icelandic?) from across the room, and as I recall, was acting out little performance art pieces with her chopsticks.

Really.

Squeak.

Last night at L'Enfant Plaza while I was waiting to transfer to the Blue or Orange lines I saw a real, live city mouse.

She was tiny, lost, and confused, and she kept scurrying out from under one of those concrete bench things then would wander around exposed for a while before retreating back to the shelter of the bench. She had to be a baby (mouse or rat, but I prefer to think mouse) and it looked like she couldn't evev see enough to find her way home.

Each time she darted about the tiled floor people sitting on the bench would notice her and a few of them would jump up, alarmed. Then she'd disappear again, and a new crew of people would sit on the bench unaware that they were guarding a mouse shelter.

I kept thinking, "Oh shit, someone is going to get his thrill by stepping on this little furball and please don't let me be around to see it."

But I couldn't figure out a way to rescue her. My guess is that the rest of her crew lives somewhere down in the tracks of the metro - I see them down there all the time - but who knows which side they are on? (Towards Franconia or towards New Carrollton?!) and do I just hoist her up by her tail and throw her to the tracks? If she's already disoriented and confused then she'll surely wander over to the third rail (And is there really a third rail? Or is that just urban legend?)

So I just watched, and hoped for the best for my furry little friend.

Lost, confused, overwhelmed, ever squinting her way into the distance...

It's bound to get better.

Tater Tots and Temper Tantrums

I am getting a little bit sick. I didn't want to admit it because sometimes I think that if I don't acknowledge sickness it won't actually happen, but I have, it's true, if nothing else, a little head cold.

I spent last night breathing through a single nostril and not really sleeping. Lovely.

So I am not going out this week after rehearsals, at all. Really, I'm not.

On Monday I did go here for a birthday drink with a friend. (Their birthday, not mine).

It's cool. I like the vibe. And they have a picture booth at the back. And tater tots. I didn't get tater tots, but I noted that they were there.

The location used to house a Salvadoran/Mexican type restaurant that we would go to occasionally while rehearsing Titus! at the now defunct Source Theater. One particularly memorable evening was spent there on the night that, two days before opening at the Summer Festival, I burst an artery (metaphorically) by blowing up at the actor who was then playing Aaron (not the actor mentioned in the article).

He missed an entrance for the third or fourth time in a row during a run and suddenly I found myself channeling the spirit of Jerome Robbins or the artistic director of that Shakespearean Theater in Chinatown, DC, who is known for his temper.

I rose from my seat in the audience, tripping over seats as I descended on the stage. Actors had continued on with the show, working around this suddenly raving maniac (me) - notepad falling out of hands, pens falling out of pockets, eyes flashing, hands darting:

"What do I need to do?!" I bellowed.

The music grinded to a stop. I went on for several minutes, now the only sound in the room, ranting, condescending, spitting, snarling.

It didn't really fix the matter.

We had a break at the end of the run, and I scurried around trying to heal matters. Said actor wouldn't look me in the face when I tried to talk about it, his defenses and guard was up and in full force, and he still wasn't any better than before the blow up.

The band headed over to the aforementioned Salvadoran restaurant to get our drummer lubed up for the evening show (no joke - in typical drummer fashion he could not perform a show sober) and so I went over there to say hello and to try and make sure that their spirits were relatively high (ideally metaphorically, more likely literally).

So I walk through the darkened bar to their table to join the band and I realize suddenly that the fellow with his back to me is the actor I'd just reamed out. No one told me he was going over with the band.

He never, ever, ever, ever hung out with people from the cast, and there he is, eating a papusa.

He still won't look at me, I have to sit down because it would be too obvious to walk away at that moment, and so we sit, in complete awkwardness, no one really wanting to talk to me or the actor, for our thirty minute dinner break.

My point is (if I am to have a point) I guess, that yelling never really helps. I know that. Sometimes being firm is necessary, sometimes coming down on an actor is necessary. But yelling?

Nah.

It feels kind of good in the moment, but the rewards are not worth the expense.

In the Land of Nod

Last night I dreamt I was making out with Christy Brinkley.

Not, like, a peck on the cheek. Really making out. Tongues involved.

Now, this struck me as odd on a number of levels. For one, while she doesn't look it, she is old enough to be my mother. Two, she's a blond. I don't generally go for blondes. Oh, and yeah, SHE'S A WOMAN. Really, what's that about?

Not to mention - why the fuck would I dream about Christy Brinkley!!??

I did manage to track down the imprint from the other night when a friend was talking about Billy Joel and the album he referred to as Joel's "I Love Christy" album. Apparently, the woman has been on my mind ever since.

I did some research. Ladies Home Journal (which is now giving Cosmo a run for its money by actually writing about sex) explains the two main components of this dream as such:

"Seeing Stars
Chloe*, a 36-year-old Chicago mom, still remembers vividly a dream she had her senior year of college, as she was emerging from a dysfunctional relationship with an alcoholic boyfriend. "I was dating Rod Stewart -- who I didn't even like that much at the time -- and I was so aware of how much he loved me," she says. "And his mother loved me, too! I woke up with this really strong feeling that I should wait for someone who would love me this much."

Celebrity dreams are quite common among women, says Richmond. A dream about a movie star you've always had a crush on may be simple wish fulfillment. But if, like Chloe, you dream about someone you're not particularly attracted to in real life, "it may indicate a desire to feel more special, to be romanced," says Richmond. Famous people have a special status, and being treated well by a celebrity -- not to mention his mother -- shows that the dreamer wants to be part of that VIP world.

Chloe's celebrity dream was so powerful that she did indeed hold out for someone who would treat her right. And she doesn't think it's a coincidence that the man she ended up marrying turned out to be a musician."
I feel better about this because Christy Brinkley is a lot more appealing than Rod Stewart and she has much better hair.

Further, they explain the girl on girl action as such:

Girl Power
"Both straight and gay women dream of sexual encounters with another woman," says Richmond. "It may reveal a need for more sensitivity or creativity from your partner, since we associate females with sensitivity and nurturing."

In McPhee's book Ask the Dream Doctor, a 22-year-old woman named Amanda describes a dream that took place at her best friend's house. "We were lounging around and drinking wine," she says. "All of a sudden we're in her bedroom and she is seducing me. I was totally into it." At the end of the dream, she finds out her mother has died in a car accident. Amanda was not sexually interested in other women -- she had a boyfriend -- but had been having problems with her mother. According to McPhee, the dreams signals that "her mother's reign as an arbiter of morals and values is coming to an end. Amanda is now rapidly ascending to the throne of deciding what's best for herself -- including her sexual self-expression."
So basically, I have a deep, hidden longing to be romanced and made to feel special by someone who is sensitive, nurturing, and a VIP. Which to me seems pretty obvious:

What I really want is to date Rod Stewart.

Revenge Mouse

Serves him right.

"Let the Oscar Race Begin!"

A friend of mine says the above phrase whenever movie previews look particularly dismal. It never fails to make me, and the people within earshot, giggle. Because you gotta wonder sometimes, really, what were they thinking?

Movies like the film version of Miami Vice.

I have been fortunate however to see a bunch of quality fare in the past few weeks. Nothing that altogether changed my world (those tend to be few and far between) but a handful that I can say with confidence are "really worth seeing".

King Kong (did I already talk about this one?)
It's worth seeing on the big screen for the effects, for the dinosaurs, for the big metrosexual ape (I mean, talk about a sensitive guy) and for Adrian Brody. The screenplay is clunky (what was all the stuff with the orphan boy on the ship and his black sailor friend? Huh??!), Peter Jackson should have gotten over himself and cut at least forty minutes from the thing, but it is still fun and engaging and for the most part, delights the senses. And I do adore Adrian Brody. He now makes my short list of crush-worthy actors. Even after the shlock he had to do in The Village (speaking of egomaniacal directors).

The Squid and the Whale
I was really excited about this movie. It was marketed as one of these depressing, angsty, so human it hurts films that I seem to eat up like buttery movie popcorn.

I liked it a lot. I thought the screenplay was great, it was extremely well cast and the performances were spot on. Jeff Daniels almost cancels out some of the shitty movies he's done in the past and validates his impressive theater background. The kids are phenomenal, and it made me think that the two boys from this should get together with the kids from You and Me and Everyone We Know and make their own movie, sans adults. It didn't affect me emotionally as much as I expected it to. Some of the breakup stuff hit home, but the divorce stuff, not so much, probably because I never have gone through that. I loved the hints of the 1980's throughout, and the nod to Kyrie made me laugh harder than I have at a movie in a long time.

Munich
There is such a maelstrom of controversy surrounding this movie, that I almost hesitate to weigh in myself. I was engaged, throughout, that I can say. I thought the acting was pretty great, the accent work is impressive, and the schmaltz was kept to a minimum, for a Spielberg film. Then I started reading what other people were saying about it, from the right, and from the left, and from somewhere in between. (Mr. V, let me know if you don't want the link to the archive provided, I'll take it off) and it made me more confused about the implications of the movie, though not about my enjoyment of the movie itself. I enjoyed the gritty 70s look to it, I thought the direction was great (apparently Kushner helped with the one on one actor work, and I think it shows) and if I approach it as a MOVIE, as FICTION, I was pretty happy with it.

See it, and let me know what you all think.

That's it right now. I also saw Sin City last night on Netflix, and I dare say it is easily the most misogynistic film I have seen in the past decade. I found it extremely distasteful that:
A. Not a single woman in the film was ever fully clothed, ever.
B. Every woman in the film needed rescuing, and those that were "self sufficiently keeping up their den of prostitution in 'Old Town' eventually, still, needed a man to rescue them.
C. What the women were fighting so hard to preserve was their right to be prostitutes. To screw for money. Get a better cause girls. But then, all of the women in the film were prostitutes or strippers and the one "Parole Officer" was a lesbian who still didn't wear clothes and also, yes, needed rescuing.
D. Jessica Alba. She's hot but she's just kind of bad. She's not a good actress. Neither is Rosario Dawson. Sorry, but it had to be said.

That said, the movie had some cool effects and often looked great.

I am sure I just don't get the graphic novel genre and that's why I didn't appreciate this movie. But frankly, I don't really care.

Massage Mouse

Someone did a search for this: "massage parlor poughkeepsie" and found my blog.

I hope they found what they were looking for.

Trapped

Full disclosure. I am a big musical theater dork (like you all didn't know that already?) As a result, most of my knowledge of Russian pogroms during the late 19th Century comes from Fiddler on the Roof. My awareness of the old testament stories comes from Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat. The New Testament - Godspell and JC Superstar. Of Arthurian England? Camelot. Presidential assassins? Assassins.

You get the picture.

So while the whole incident of the mining tragedy was unfolding I couldn't get Floyd Collins out of my head.

It's one of my favorite shows. The story based on the true tale of Floyd Collins, who was trapped in a cave in Kentucky on January 30, 1925. Rescuers made every attempt to pull him free but they did not reach him until February 16, and by then he'd already perished underground.

The show is wonderful and creative, and tells the story not only of Floyd, but of his relationship with his sister and family (these aspects may all be fictional, I'm not sure), his role in the town, and of the media circus that soon surrounds the trapped young man, particularly the role that one nervy reporter has with the story (think Baby Jessica down the well).

Anyhow, not to minimize the mining accident by comparing it to a musical. And I know that the situations are very different, since Floyd was a cave-obsessed spelunker who would tempt fate again and again going down because he loved exploring, while the folks in West Virginia were simply trying to put food on their table.

But the lyrics to Floyd's last song are beautiful nonetheless. At this stage he has accepted the inevitability of his death and he is questioning what will come next.

So, as a tribute of sorts, courtesy of Adam Guettel and Tina Landau:

How Glory Goes
Is it warm?
Is it soft against your face
Beside the breeze?
Do you feel a kind of grace?
Will there be trees?
Is there light?
Does it harbour on the ground?
Does it shine from all around?
Or just from you?
Is it endless and empty
And you wander on your own
Slowly forget about the folks that you have known?
Or does rising bread
Fill up the air
From open kitchens everywhere
Familiar faces far as you can see?
Like a family?
Do we live?
Is it like a little town?
Do we get to look back down
At who we loved?
Are we above?
Are we everywhere?
Are we anywhere at all?
Do we hear a trumpet call us
And we're by your side?
Will I want?
Will I wish for all the things I should have done
Longing to finish what I've only just begun?
Or has shining truth been waiting there?
For all the questions everywhere
In a world of wondering
Suddenly you know
And you will always know
Will my mother be there waiting for me
Smiling like the way she does
And holding out her arms as she calls my name?
She will hold me
Just the same
Only heaven knows how glory goes
What each of us is meant to be
In the starlight
That is what we are
I can see so far

Astute End of the Year Theater Wrap Up

I'm in Safari, so I can only link in the title.

But above - an article by Jayne Blanchard, Theater Critic for the Washington Times that is really smart, cohesive, and well written. It blows Peter Mark's "end of the year review" out of the water. I totally agree with most of her points and I couldn't have said (well, written) it better myself.

Her folks to watch are right on, and mostly local (I don't think that Gillentine is):

"Fresh faces we'd like to see more often. Cooper D'Ambrose, still a college student at North Carolina School of the Arts, displayed unusual poise and bearing playing Oscar Wilde in "Gross Indecency" at Theater Alliance.

James Flanagan was outstanding in "The "Intelligent Design of Jenny Chow" and "Kimberly Akimbo," in which he played two characters trying to hide their insecurities through a fusillade of sarcasm.

Meg Gillentine gave us a Lola from the musical "Damn Yankees" embodying graceful athleticism, killer pipes and that kittenish Laura Petrie-style sexiness.

When Alexander Strain walked onstage at the Washington Shakespeare Company in the small but essential role of the Narrator in "Medea," people were muttering, "Who is that guy?" He went on to have a brilliant year, playing everything from Jennifer Mendenhall's drug-dealing lover in "You Are Here" at Theater Alliance to various roles in "Gross Indecency." We hope to see more of this promising young actor in 2006."

I didn't see Damn Yankees so I don't know anything about Gillentine. But Cooper is lovely and full of so much potential. And Jimmy and Alexander will make your heart pitter patter. They are two of the most endearing, engaging, and totally egoless actors I have encountered in a long time. They deserve the praise.

But I'm gushing.

The familiar faces is also spot on. Rick was wonderful in Take Me Out, Jennifer was masterful in You Are Here, Aubrey is always a talent and a sweetheart, and really - I can't argue with anyone she mentioned. Aaron deserves the praise for Two Gents as much as for his several year run of effervescent, exquisite Shakespeare plays at the Folger...

Anyway, she wrote the article, I didn’t, so the fact that she praised so many of my favorite people if nothing else, confirms that I at least have good taste.

And I have to say, all of these people, wonderful people. All of them. I'm proud to know them.

Sunday Reading on Monday

I have resisted the urge to buy an actual physical copy of the Sunday New York Times this week. I finally cleaned my room on Saturday and once I purchase a Times it is all downhill from there. In this most recent excavation I found the equivalent of four Sunday Times editions hiding out in the recesses of my room. That's a whole lot of paper to be shuffling around.

Willpower!

So I am trying to get my fix by reading it on line, an experience that has never quite matched the feeling of newsprint in hand for me.

Anyhow, the Modern Love column is smarter than it has been in weeks (and relevant in some way to various thoughts and realizations I have been having about not putting all your eggs in one basket either in terms of relationships, or people, or career) and the Chris Ware cartoon is so sad it makes my heart ache. Particularly sad this week, I think. Read them.