Yes, Indeed, Sex Still Sells

After my mention of Dov Charney in that last post, I went home to discover a whole article about him in the Sunday Times (link above).

It actually makes him seem much more human and vaguely less disturbing than other accounts I've read.

While reading it, I had a career-crises-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life induced moment where I thought, "They sound like fun people, maybe I should go see if I can work for them..."

Of course, I am one of the least innately stylish people I know. And at the rate I'm going, I'd hesitate to wear one of their cute little fitted girl-y tees anyhow.

But I do like to read about what the hipsters are doing.

All You Can Eat

I hate writing about food but it's better than writing about theater right now.

So I just got back from the gym where I discovered I had gained two pounds in two days.

Let me tell you all about tech week(end).

Saturday started with a meeting with my lighting designer. I suggested we meet at Bagels and Baguettes because he wanted to get breakfast and I haven't been there in a long time. They have the best egg sandwiches in DC. I figure I can use the protein to get through what is bound to be a stressful day, so I get one with yellow cheese and ketchup and hot sauce. I don't think about my resolution not to eat eggs unless I know that the chickens popping them out weren't kept in tiny cages with welded off beaks. No room for liberal guilt when it's tech weekend.

When I arrive at the theater I notice that the associate artistic director has brought donuts. How nice! I think. What a show of support! In fact, it looks like several people have brought donuts, as there are several different "brands" of donuts, as it were.

I walk around and tell everyone that I never really liked donuts. People are busy doing important things, and I tell them that no, really, I never liked donuts, even when I was a kid. Unless they are fresh beignets from like, f & b or something.

I go backstage and come back with half a jelly donut. I figure this will show my appreciation for the theater's show of support. Everyone looks at me funny. They thought I didn't like donuts. But I'm the director. I don't have to explain myself.

After we begin I get some news that makes me mad (it has nothing to do with anyone actually involved in this production). I circle around the theater and yell fu*k a lot. I calm down then do it again. Then I'm okay but drained. I go to the little corner store on H Street to get a Vitamin water to replace electrolytes. I think about what life must be like for the little woman in the bullet-proof plastic box.

I also buy Mike & Ikes to "keep my sugar levels up".

Around 2pm I decide to eat another half of a pink frosted donut. I call it lunch.

At four the artistic director brings Al's pizza in so that we can have a "working dinner". I think for a moment, oh we should have gotten a salad too, for some greens. I eat two large pieces of cheese pizza. People ask me questions. I nod yes or know . I eat another piece of cheese pizza.

At 11 the actors go home. At midnight we all leave. At Tunnicliff's I drink a vodka tonic, or... two. I order french fries. I put lots of ketchup on them.

Sunday I vow to be better.

I eat a power bar on my way to the theater and get a fruit salad and Vitamin water for "later" at the Safeway. At the theater I see that the associate artistic director has brought bagels this time. Nothing like Day 2 of tech to carbo load.

We begin. First break I get half an everything bagel. Second break I get half a raisin bagel, so that I don't smell like garlic when I whisper things into the set designer's ear. That would be rude, right?

I eat my fruit salad and vitamin water. I eat some trail mix back stage. I eat a chocolate marshmallow egg.

We take an early "dinner", and I head with the artistic director over to the Argonaut, one of the newest fixtures on H Street. Because he is the artistic director and he is having a jack and coke, I order a beer. I also have one of the best veggie burgers I've ever had. With Swiss cheese. And sweet potato fries.

Comfort food is good during tech week(end.)

We go back to the theater and make an announcement that makes pretty much everyone's life more difficult. I give a pep talk. In solidarity, the set designer offers me a piece of his very dark chocolate. I accept, even though chocolate never makes me feel good, and can at least be comforted by the thought of all the antioxidants I am consuming.

We finish at 11pm. The actors go home and designers pow wow. After that I look at slides with the associate artistic director and eat twizzlers that I stole from my stage manager.

Finally I head to Tunni's. I have a vodka tonic but no french fries. Because it is Sunday and I am trying to be better.

When I get home I eat my last two marshmellow peeps.

Lucky for all of us, tech only lasts two days.

Light at the End of it

I emerged from the theater after two ten of twelve's in a row, bleary eyed and unable to form complete sentences (not that I am very good at that most days) but I do think some really great work got done.

Made some major changes, conceptually. That is always scary, but also exciting, and makes me feel like we are doing theater in the way I aspire to do it - where the exploration doesn't end when we reach tech. In fact, within reason, I hope the exploration continues through to the last show.

It's scary. I am not sure what show we will have now come Tuesday. But it is freeing as well. We shook things up, so let's allow ourselves to find stuff then, right? And we had fun doing it. (I did, at least, I hope everyone else did).

Really - in a case like this, the process feels so vital that it takes my mind off the product. Which is good. Because fixating on the product in the wrong ways (of course, we all want a good product, but forcing it in an inflexible way can be deadly) takes all the joy out of the doing.

We will see.

We will see.

In other news, it looks a DSW and an American Apparel are set to open soon in Silver Spring, right across from Day Job #2. Silver Spring, the land of franchises and facades. Silver Spring, home to turf lawns and manufactured main streets (and admittedly, one of the best movie theaters around).

But I'm not complaining. American Apparel may have their skeevy connections, but I do so love the way their girl tees fit. And a DSW is always a good thing.

Funny Girl

I have been having a lot of great girl dates in these past few weeks. It makes me feel very lucky to have wonderful women in my life.

Spent some quality time with HP Melon last night. In lieu of an actual post - she has an interesting discussion about funny women, and expectations based on gender, over at her blog. Worth checking out.

More Bad News For New Plays

Do all roads lead back to Charles Isherwood? And what the fu*k are the "nuanced pleasures of truth telling"?

Inside the Bubble

I had crazy dreams last night. Lots of them. Of course, I didn’t write them down so all that I actually remember is the process of waking up disoriented, thinking I was not possibly going to fall asleep again that night, and then, again, waking up two hours later after yet another dream.

We start tech on Saturday. I am working with extremely smart and talented designers so that’s something to look forward to.

I had a conversation with Arctic Actor on Monday night and he mentioned that I never really write about anything going on in my life outside of theater stuff (and I’m paraphrasing here) – as in, interesting day job, other pursuits, hobbies, interests...

And I realized that’s because I don’t really have an outside life. I don’t. Not right now at least. I do have a couple of day jobs but they are not really worth writing about. Other than working on this show, and going to Tunnicliff’s to drink vodka tonics and talk about working on this show, and reading about the Middle East right now, I don’t have much to share.

Yes, I know. That does make Jane a dull girl.

I listen to NPR and Democracy Now podcasts to try and keep up with the world. I read my cousin’s New Yorker magazines. I occasionally make it to the gym where I can watch bad TV.

And, ummm… yeah. That’s it.

At one time I had a more well rounded life. Perhaps that is something to think about trying for when the hostage play is said and done.

I’ll have time in May. I will make trips up North that month – to New York to see friends in shows and to visit my best friend’s stunningly beautiful baby and to Poughkeepsie to spend time with my parents and brother, who I haven’t seen since December and November respectively.

I got a message from my father the other night on my cell phone. He’d just picked up the message I’d left several days earlier (these new fangled cell phones…!) and he called me himself (usually he and my mother call together) to say “I think we haven’t been spending enough time with you. We really need to see you more often. It’s just been a while, and we haven’t gotten to spend time with you. Let’s make sure we find a way to see you soon…”

And of course, being the emotional livewire that I currently am, I lost it.

Someone told me that their friend shorted out their cell phone by crying into it. I should be careful.

Start Wearing Purple

My Helen Hayes nails are chipping already.

Another year, another ceremony. I was very lilac. I love my shoes. I live most of the year in the most practical shoes possible (this year it has been a pair of Clark’s clogs, literally every day in those same friggin’ clogs) and so once a year I wear completely impractical shoes and get to be a girl. It’s fun, on some level.

So many congratulations this year to Joe Calarco, who swept the awards with his production of Urinetown at The Signature Theater. It was encouraging to hear every person involved with that show mention in their thank you’s that working on the show was about feeling safe to explore and take risks and even, potentially, to fail. That’s what theater should be about.

Joe directed me when I was fourteen years old in a local summer theater production of Godspell - one of my first shows outside of a school setting. He was all of nineteen or twenty, and it was this thrilling experience because he was so damn smart and creative. I remember we did this exercise where we got in touch with our chakras – chakras! – and I was just a kid but I thought, wow, this is really what I want to do with my life. To have the chance to explore and create and discover what was going on inside of me and try to translate that to an audience, well, there didn’t seem to be anything more worth doing with my time. That experience was indeed one of the reasons I stayed in it. For better or worse. Hearty congratulations to a Rochester boy.

And so proud of the Clean House folk as well. Again, a group that seemed to truly adore the work they were doing. I love that. When you get the sense that a show was great because of, not in spite of, the process.

The party, well the party was overwhelming. It always is. I was loud and talked too much and found that I was overly connected to my emotions. Nothing new there.

But I love my shoes.

And to be able to go into rehearsal today and leave all the other stuff behind makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. To be able to put on jeans and a t-shirt and the aforementioned clogs and sit in a half designed room and work with people I love and respect on a play that I care deeply about. Really, could I ask for anything more than that?

No.

It may be an escape. But it’s my escape. And still, now, sixteen years after working on that production of Godspell I still feel like there is no better way that I could be spending my time.

If I were a shoe, where would I have gotten to?

It looks like the sun has come out to shine for Helen Hayes.

We were all worried, weren't we? (You would be worried too if your shoes looked like this.)

When He Goes Away, That's a Rainy Day

I never actually named my Ipod or anything, but if I had it would totally be a guy.

He wooed me quickly, sucked me into his magic, murmured the sweet somethings of Death Cab and Cat Power and Bright Eyes to me, and then one day without warning at a time in my life when I needed him more than ever, he fell silent.

He starts out acting as if everything is fine and normal and then he just clams up. He won't tell me what's wrong, just gives me little cryptic messages that I can't understand.

He allowed me to become completely dependent on him and then skipped out as if nothing had ever happened between us. Now he's driving me to turn to other men - the "mac geniuses" at Pentagon City who speak at least some version of english and don't simply turn off when I try to talk to them.

But still, I miss him so.

TGIF

I've already erased my ipod twice this morning, so it's bound to be a good day.

Things are going as well as they should be. We run the whole play today and that's sure to be a learning experience.

Happy Passover all. I have some thoughts on that, but they'll have to wait.

Read the transcripts of the Flight 93 tapes yesterday on the metro after leaving rehearsal and was a bit overcome with the realization that this isn't going to end. This may never end in our lifetime. This may never end. All of this.

I know - when I was a kid we were scared of Russia and that ended.

But this is different. This is about God or Allah, or whatever.

Anyhow, need to go meet with our props designer...

New Forms

The letter below came to me from a listserve I am on. I assume it was actually published in the Times, but I missed it. It is a pretty brilliant response to the overall tone of Charles Isherwood's reviews (I posted a link a few days ago) of the Humana plays.

To be frank, I didn't read the review that carefully. I was glad to see good work rewarded and I glossed over the bits where a major critic made draconian declarations about what playwrights should be tackling with their work. That part is a little frightening.

If he thinks these are simply not good plays, that is one thing. (And not true, in my opinion). But to dismiss the stretching of boundaries and the exploration of new territory in dramatic literature in one sweeping gesture, well, yeah, that's certainly not the future I want for the theater.

Treplev said it best: "We need new forms. New forms are needed, and if we can't have them, then we had better have nothing at all." I don't personally believe that we need new worlds at the exclusion of the familiar, the identifiable, but it is important to remember that what now appears as familiar was indeed once a new and revolutionary form itself.

------------------------------------------------------
Dear Editors:

It has been a hard year for playwrights in the Off and Off-Off Broadway theatre, and on Wednesday, April 6th, Times critic Charles Isherwood brusquely revealed why. Two sentences in his review of the Actors Theater of Louisville's Humana Festival of New American Plays have overnight become the year's most quoted lines of criticism among playwrights. They are certainly the most chilling.

In the process of praising one Humana play and disparaging at least one other, Mr. Isherwood writes, "There's not much point in aiming high if you can't hit your target. And is it really necessary for playwrights to dream up new worlds?" Mr. Isherwood's ambition-deflating premise would, I suspect, shock even him, if he thought about it in any other context. Would he suggest that scientists, political activists, athletes, or, even, artists of other disciplines never attempt to reach beyond their grasp? Does he truly believe that writers should set their sights only on what they know they can achieve? I doubt that, if he examined his statement, he'd find it defensible. But this lack of self-examination, this assured condescension towards writers, has distinguished Mr. Isherwood's tenure on the Times. Personally, I would hate to envision a theatre without some of our great over-reachers-from Eugene O'Neill to Tony Kushner, Suzan-Lori Parks, and August Wilson.

Isherwood's rhetorical question also demands an answer: Yes, it is necessary for playwrights to dream up new worlds, just
as it is necessary for playwrights to dramatize with passion and precision the one we live in. Shakespeare led the way, and his new worlds were brave and full of wonders. So are Caryl Churchill's and Lee Breuer's, as well as those of several lesser-known artists whose imaginations have failed to excite Mr. Isherwood's own this season. This critic's bias toward the small, realistic, and conventional blinds him to his principal responsibility: to evaluate work on its own terms-what it's trying to do and how well it accomplishes that.

By negating ambition and invention, your critic, who through the prominence of the Times holds unmatched sway over potential audiences for new plays in non-commercial theatres, encourages producers and artists alike to think small, stay safe, avoid experiment, and limit themselves to the naturalistic and the known. One playwright told me that reading Mr. Isherwood's statement she saw the great works of all art forms disappear one by one. By exercising this limited and limiting critical perspective, Mr. Isherwood discourages new great works of theatre from ever appearing at all.

Todd London
Artistic Director
New Dramatists

Inner Monologue and Bad TV

Hmmmm. Transitions, transitions, transitions, transitions. If I were a transition what would I be? Wonder twin powers, form of, transition. If I were a transition and you were a lighting effect what kind of story would you tell about me? And how would sound be a part of this story-telling? And what do these transitions we speak of look like? What is their physical life?

This is why I go from being a relatively well-rounded person (maybe, sort-of) to the most uninteresting, self-absorbed, generally dull person possible when I am working on a show. I'm sorry. It doesn't make me fun to be around, I know.

And yet I am probably worse when I am not working on a show because then I just feel like a vestigial limb to the world.

Delightful.

So okay, I watched this on the TV at the gym this morning. Does anyone else find it a little disturbing that a former super model without any medical credentials is doing shows about eating disorders? At least for the portion I saw there was no recognition of the fact that Ms. Banks has spent most of her life in an industry that has done little else but enforce to young women that the ideal of beauty is a woman with the body of a pre-pubescent thirteen-year-old.

So the two girls I saw were both bulimic. And the one was on with her boyfriend, who realized she was bulimic and started crying when he talked about how helpless he felt about the situation. These are really big things, and so should be addressed in a private setting with a professional. The girl herself looked unshaken, her facade never cracked.

So then Tyra looked at her and said, "Look at you boyfriend. He is crying. That is a really hard thing for a man to do. So how does that make you feel?"

What?! This is lieu of professional help. Tyra Banks, ladies and gentlemen.

The next girl was still in highschool. She had been doing better about her bulimia but then the boy's soccer team had started a rumor that she slept around and had an std. Tyra had her look straight into the camera and say something like "I don't sleep around" to all the soccer boys. Tyra then looked straight at the camera and said, "She doesn't sleep around."

Highschool is a tough place to begin with. And this is supposed to help?

My feelings about talk shows are that if they owe up to being total mindless crap, then at least there is some honesty there. Like, Jerry Springer or Jenny Jones. But when they purport to actually be helping people - I mean, really? A public forum for extremely private matters is supposed to make things better? Really, really? Unless you are Oprah, you just don't have the resources to pull that off.

So says I.

The Excavation

I had the morning off and instead of doing something really worthwhile like going to the gym or to the bank or to the Post Office (all of which I really, really need to do) I decided it was a stellar time to clean out my closet.

I didn't want to tackle cleaning my actual room (which, since Louisville, has been a really frightening sight) so I figured - let me just weed out some of the many clothes that I own that I rarely, if ever, wear.

I think when all was said and done I parted with, like, two pairs of jeans and one sweater. One pair of jeans was pleated, purchased circa 1994 at a Banana Republic in a mall in Cincinnati when I was visiting my brother. I also got a black bodysuit at the time because, you know, bodysuits were totally "in" in the early 90s and would stay tucked into - you got it, pleated jeans.

The other pair I inherited from my friend Jessica at some point after we'd all moved to NY. She was a bit of a shop-a-holic and would have to clean out her closet every few months because she just couldn't store all of the clothes she had. I would go over there and troll through bags of her stuff on a regular basis. The jeans were a little peg-legged and almost stone washed and I'd torn a big hole in the knee one of the first times I wore them falling up the stairs at a Chinese Restaurant near Columbia.

I have absolutely no idea why I kept them for this long.

I also have no idea why I can remember complete histories for nearly every item of clothing I own.

The big question is, why do I hold on to so many clothes that I so rarely wear? Rationales tends to break down into several main categories:

1. Sentimental Value. This is a biggie. With sub-categories.
a. Clothing that had some historical significance in my life (My black velvet senior prom dress. Really.)
b. Clothes purchased while traveling (Like this great pair of hippie pants with camels embroidered on them that I bought while in Amsterdam at a flea market. They now need about six minor repairs, but will be like-new once that's done. No matter that they have needed these same repairs for over seven years.)
c. Items that I once loved to wear but are now horribly out-of-fashion. For some reason I hold on to in case they... come back in to style? (A black shrug and several, I shudder to say it, tube tops from, god, when? When were shrugs really popular? And why do I still own four tube tops when I am thirty-years-old?)
d. Stuff once owned by ex-boyfriends ('nuff said).

2. The "I hate these pants but they will be useful if I ever start to temp again" items. I have a slew of really lame clothes (button down blouses, pleated khakis, cheap blazers) that exist for this purpose alone. God-willing, I won't need them for a long, long time, because I have grown very attached to the idea of having jobs where I can where, really ANYTHING I want, but I keep them around. Just. In. Case.

3. The "If I lost ten pounds this would look great again" section, and conversely, the "If I gain five pounds this would be useful to have around" drawer. It happens. Sometimes. Some of the stuff is ridiculous, like the previously mentioned black velvet senior prom dress which is in all honestly not nearly as "timeless" as I once thought, hello 1993, or velvet pants that I wore to several memorable parties my senior year of college, which ALSO qualify for sentimental value (and why all the black velvet?) but certain jeans come in and out of my life as my body sees fit. And there are always my very favorite corduroys, which I believe I have even written about before (get a life, Citymouse) purchased at the Urban Outfitters in Ann Arbor, MI in the Fall of 1993, which truly, have only gotten better with age. But don't we all?

So, my closet is not much cleaner, but I had a rollicking trip down memory lane. I also realized that I own thirty-one tank tops, in various colors and styles. Which can only mean one thing.

It is about time for summer.

Press Notes

A little review for our ten-minute play (scroll down to the bit about Sovereignty). They seemed to get it (and to enjoy it) which is encouraging.

Also, a big review for the play that I assisted on (The Scene). I don't agree with Isherwood's pat assessment of the end of the play but I do agree that credit is given where credit is due as far as the acting, directing and writing goes. They are an extremely talented (and really very lovely) bunch of artists.

Bouncing Baby Blog

My blog is exactly one-year-old today.

But since my first real post (besides random West Virginia stats) wasn't until the eleventh, I'm granting myself some time to come up with a kind of year in review.

It's bound to be messy, with tears and revelations and lamentations to the gods.

Or probably not.

You Write So I Don't Have To

Some fun posts floating around:

I love this one from Joziu. It's really pretty gross, but imagining Joziu going through the whole "get this thing out of my mouth without completely ruining my veneer of professionalism" routine gave me a giggle.

And one in a series of posts about her chats with the little people who emerged from her womb, hpmelon teaches us (and them) the ways of the world.

And, as a tribute to my first trip to Tunni's since returning to town (I'm not really back 'til I'm back at Tunnicliff's) a link to the post that the girls from Sex Habits, running at Signature Theater, told me about last night over half price jack. Courtesy of CP - my favorite blond from Alabama, and TC - the woman whose name makes me remember so fondly my uber-Italian-American hometown roots.

Good Thing Dissonance Didn't Rhyme

Ebony and Ivory is playing over the speakers as I sit at the Rhythm and Beans coffee shop on H Street NE (link above). It's a lovely sentiment, this song. We used to play this 45 all the time when I was growing up. (Yes, I remember 45's very well - we also had Dancing on the Ceiling).

Perhaps a bit idealistic, but lovely, no?

Anger Management

Wow. Even after two really good night's sleep I am still ready to jump down anyone's throat given the slightest opportunity.

This morning I got into an argument with a Starbuck's worker because they were out of normal sugar. I know that brown sugar is better for me (I also know that all sugar is poison, whatever, it's not heroin) but I don't care. I like white sugar. And I ask if they have any more and she goes upstairs, presumably to get some, and I wait and wait and wait and no one comes back. So I go back up to the other woman behind the counter and say, "The other woman went to look for sugar. She's been gone a long time. Should we be worried?"

"Oh no, she already came back. We don't have any sugar."

A. Why didn't she come tell me so I didn't have to stand in a crowded Starbucks for twelve minutes waiting, twelve minutes that I will never get back?

B. It's a coffee shop. How can they not have sugar??

A woman I work with caught the tail end of all this and I started to spew out the whole story to her and her fiance (who was meeting me for the first time, hoorah for first impressions) and the woman who had gone on the sugar safari saw me gesticulating and ranting and shouted from the counter, "Do you have something you need to say to me?"

Right. So now I can't go in to the Capitol Hill Starbucks. I mean, I can, but maybe I shouldn't. And I've already declared the Firehook off limits because for some reason the woman who is always there has hated me from the start. Which makes me think maybe I should leave a bit early and go to Murky and then walk to work from there.

Because I do love me some Murky.

Home

I'm feeling a little bit of a let down. Like coming home from summer camp.

When I was in junior high I spent two weeks for two summers in a row at Camp Stella Maris, a Catholic camp (I know, who knew) on one of the Finger Lakes. I was not one of those superstar campers who everyone knew and loved, in fact I was (especially the first year) a little bit socially awkward and slow to make friends. But midway through the first week I found a soulmate in Jen, who lived in the cool part of downtown Rochester and taught me all about where to shop for funky earrings and little chinese slippers on Monroe Avenue. We were both a little bit darker in spirit than the wealthy preppy eastside suburban campers, and I so admired Jen's city-girl ways.

Those two weeks of independence taught me a lot. I was introduced to Peter Gabriel (the music, not the man). I learned how to make stained glass. I tried wind-surfing. I shaved my legs for the first time with one of Jen's pink razors.

But the two weeks would wind down and inevitably the last night would arrive and while I looked forward to going home and seeing family and friends again and sleeping in my own bed and taking showers that were actually hot, there was always a deep sense of quiet sadness in saying goodbye, not only to the friends I'd made there, but to the person who I'd been given the chance to become - a person defined completely by my actions for those two weeks and those two weeks alone. I had no history. I'd been given a clean slate.

I felt something of that sensation leaving Louisville. Yes, I had a few friends there to start with, one of whom I've known for a good nine years or so, so that's history. But it still felt like something of a clean slate. Here's my work. Here are my thoughts. Here's who I am. That's it.

And the simplicity of it all. Living out of a suitcase so no overwhelming collection of 'stuff' to deal with day in and out. Maybe three restaurants to choose from for lunch and dinners. An easy walk from home to rehearsal to home to gym to the Border's. A bus ride now and then.

Simple.

If there was a way to bring that simplicity home with me. More than anything I think it would require me to be in a position where I didn't have to do anything but theater work. I think dropping the day jobs would allow for a sense of focus and centeredness that was so within reach while I was away.

But it's wishful thinking. I'm not in a position to do that right now. So, the struggle is to find that sense of focus and drive while doing the things I need to do to keep paying the rent. And perhaps finding other aspects of my life that I can simplify.