CItyMouse@confused.com

Today I am thinking about email addresses.

When we were getting near to graduation the "business" class we had with our assistant dean (which, as I recall, was not required or at all geared towards the directors, which in retrospect is kind of a shame) gave a talk about the professionalism of our respective answering machine and voicemail messages (no one had cell phones then - we all bought VM Service plans for like, $6.95 a month).

"You all are graduating. You are adults now. You are professionals. Your outgoing message should reflect that."

Well. at least he got one out of three right.

What he neglected to address was the volumes that ones email address can say about them.

I'm putting together some auditions for the fringe show I am directing. And I have to say, nothing scares me more than an email address like: likestoact!@yahoo.com or singsintheshower@gmail.com or tuneinabucket@erols.com (I made these up. If they connect to anyone, sorry, my bad). In fact - any email address that includes the title of your profession? Makes me wary. It just does.

Because, frankly, they make you sound like a big dork. I'm sorry but email addresses like that are the equivalent of wearing a letterman's jacket in high school with drama masks or music notes on it.

BIG. DORK. Big one. And trust me, I know, because it takes one to know one.

Now, some people can get away with unusual addresses (cough, kickyourself) because they just are innately cool. But that is the exception rather than the rule.

Vague, cryptic addresses? I don't mind. They add to someone's mystery. I have a friend I've known for nine years and I have no idea what the derivation of his email address is. And I have never wanted to ask. Because he has dark curly locks and sings in a rock band and that mystery? Add to his coolness quotient.

It always fascinated me when people still have a school email address decades after they graduate. Everyone I know who went to Princeton still uses a Princeton address. Which is strange because they all went to school when I did, and the whole email thing has gone through several overhauls since, well, the mid-nineties. So, what's the deal with that? Are they that proud of having gone to Princeton?

Fine. You have a right. But the Yalies all changed their addresses...

Now, in a pot calling the kettle twist, my beloved aol email address is in itself the source of some... conversation.

Beloved, not because I love aol (hardly) but because it is the one thing in my life (save for some friendships) that has lasted since high school. Everything else changes. The email address stays the same. It is the last six letters of my last name. Simple. Straight-forward. Appropriate. Or so I thought.

I recently had to write to a playwright I know to ask him an annoying question. A friend of a friend is doing his play at a small black box theater out in Southern Maryland. Very far away. Very small black box. He wanted to "ask the playwright some questions" and I opened my big mouth and said we'd shared a cab ride once.

So after months of procrastination (me? procrastinate?) I finally sent him an email with the request.

Lovely dear playwright responded the next day welcoming questions from small black box in Southern Maryland man and also had this to say about my own email address:

"Your last name is dignified and has a rich history, I'm sure, but couldn't a lovely, productive woman like yourself have an email address that's more evocative of the fullness of her gifts?"

Ummm, what? Wow. What "gifts" exactly is he referring to?

Good lord. I am really not quite sure what he meant. Frankly, I'd be surprised if he even remembers who I am.
Playwrights. You can't live without 'em.

Did Your Mother Teach You to Behave That Way?

I am actually at work on this fine memorial day. I have loads of work to do and figured I'd keep Miss Sarah company while doing it. Needless to say, I haven't actually started doing any WORK yet.

In honor of the holiday read this. It's a great story, all about the people rather than the political mishigas or fucked up ideology or underhanded manipulations going on behind this ugly war we got ourselves into.

But enough on that.

The show closed last night to a sold-out house, which was, yes - great, but I dare say this audience was also the RUDEST AUDIENCE EVER.

Two cell phones, count them, two cell phones went off. The second one was truly the loudest ring I have ever heard in my life. The woman reached into her purse to get the phone out and turn it off, and unmuffled the thing could indeed wake the dead. Then first row house right there was this girl with glasses and curly hair and her short little red head hipster boyfriend with an empty water bottle in the second act:

Crinkle, crinkle.

Crinkle, crinkle.

Ummm, hello? We can see and hear you, you know. It's a very small theater. The light spills over into your row. I will remember your face and shame you the next time I see you.

I will. And I will enjoy doing so.

Crinkle, crinkle.

Then she drops it.

Kathunk, rolllllllllllll.

She looks at her boyfriend and giggles. Giggles!!! Then slumps down into him because maybe then the entire house won't see her.

Imbecile.

It was all hpmelon could do after the show to hold me back from throttling her. But the lovely and talented Jen-Men more effectively shamed water-bottle girl after the show in the lobby by giving her the Jen-Men intense stare and crinkling her own water bottle several times.

Crinkle. Crinkle.

Crinkle, crinkle.

CRINKLE, CRINKLE.

And with that, water-bottle girl quietly slipped away into the darkness of H Street.

That's What I Like About You

I'm applying for a couple of things right now that require letters of recommendation. The packet I'm putting together right now requests that, "if possible one should be from an industry professional".

Oh, really?

This is a director's lab type thing. Doesn't that kind of go without saying? Who else would I get to write it? My mother? My Uncle Pete? My boss at my day job in the collections department at a law firm?

"City Mouse is diligent and committed. She is very good at finding debtors who owe money and back rent. Therefore I think she is perfectly suited for your program."

I do get a little bit flummoxed when I have to fill these things out. For one, I never know who the PERFECT PERSON TO ASK FOR A RECOMMENDATION is. I get a little over-ambitious and start thinking, okay, who is the most important person in the theater world who has seen my work? Even if they know nothing else about me, even if we have only shaken hands once, or shared eight minutes worth of conversation, they are *important person in the theater world* and therefore, it will be impressive simply that they signed their name.

Of course, they would also be like "City Mouse who?" when I asked them.

Secondly, it reminds me of the time in my life right before college (when I was getting recommendations for college) and then the time right after college (when I was applying for a load of these sort of programs and internships.)

Thinking of those times in my life makes me a little bit queasy.

So, I hate it. I do. And I also think, people hate writing these things. They must. How can I ask *busy, important person* to write me a recommendation that I'll need in a week when *busy, important person* has lots of *busy, important things* to do?

I have written a few recommendations in my day. I actually enjoyed doing it. Because it felt like it was finally a chance to give back something to the actors that had done so much for me.

Okay. Do this. Ask someone. Now.

Where I Reveal My Dorky Obsession With Musical Theater Once and For All

Last Sunday Ben Brantley wrote about the dying art form that is the musical theater in this country.

In the past when these kind of dire predictions have been made I would have said that the critics were overreacting. But when Lestat, Tarzan, and Hot Feet all emerge in a period of just a few months - one begins to wonder if the new musical exists solely to challenge reviewers to see just how negative a review they are able to write.

With the meek excuse of scheudenfraude I have to admit I sort of love reading really, really bad reviews (as long as I have no personal investment in the show, of course). And with the trio named above, Brantley and Isherwood outdid themselves.

And it's easy to. Because these shows are bloated corporate endeavors. They have no soul attached. There is no reason to "feel bad" that a reviewer may be forever ruining the career of a young upstart composer who was weaned on Sondheim, or a shiny eyed lyricist who grew up idolizing Finn and has spent their life dreaming about writing the next great American musical.

Or if not a goal quite so lofty, simply dreaming of making people smile at the creation of a truly elegant rhyme. Or making them laugh with the achievment of a particularly smart and clever patter song.

Or simply making them feel something, anything, that is true and authentic. Good musical theater has the power to achieve that. When the equation is right and the symbiosis between story and words and music clicks - a musical (or play with music, or what have you) can twist something someplace inside you that words or music - on their own - fail to reach.

This just opened in DC and it may be the first DC theater ticket I actually buy this year. I saw the show when it played in New York and was moved by a musical for the first time in a long time that evening (incidentally - the Sweeney Todd revival, while one admires the skill involved, left me totally cold).

So, what to do? Support young artists. See new musical theater. It may be awful but it just as well may be fabulous. And usually it will at least be authentic. And the tickets will be loads cheaper than a Broadway ticket.

See what's playing at the Fringe Festival here, or the one in New York, or at the Musical Theater Festival. See the show I am working on for some of these very festivals.

But more on that later.

Finger Foibles

I am biting my cuticles to bits this week. It's pretty.

Why now? If anything I should be less stressed these days.

I chew my cuticles. There. I said it. I do it. A lot. It's kind of awful.

Friends have dealt with this in a number of ways over the years. One would ask"Do they taste good?" every time she caught me doing it. An ex would just gently take my hand away from my mouth whenever I was feasting. I've had doctors of all sorts try to prescribe mood altering drugs when they notice I do this, thinking I suppose, that it is a strange form of self-mutilation.

I tell them it is just a habit. I can stop any time.

So stop already.

Navel Grazing

A meme. Because today I need someone to tell me exactly what to do.

Two Parts of Your Heritage:
1. Italian
2. Russian

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now:
1. Shirt from the Spam museum
2. Clark's clogs

Two Things You Would Want in a Relationship:
It would easier to narrow down to two things I wouldn't want in a relationship. But I'll stick to the question. So.
1. Laughter and conversation
2. Lots of ethnic food.Especially sushi.

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies:
Wow. Do I have hobbies?
1. Reading stuff and buying stuff to read
2. Finding new music to listen to

Two Things You Want Really Badly At The Moment:
1. New eye glasses with frames that are not broken and the correct prescription (I know. Pathetic, isn't it?)
2. A trip overseas. Anywhere.

Two pets you had/have:
1. fluffy. My childhood cocker spaniel. I was a neglectful mother.
2. A series of mice in the fifth and sixth grades. I think one was named Tsunami because I thought it was a cool word. They would die and then I'd go to the pet store and get a new one. I was happy to be saving them from the pet snakes. That is, indeed, the inspiration for my blog title. I was a weird kid.

Two things you did last night:
1. worked at the law firm
2. vodka tonic at Child Harold's

Two Favorite Places to eat:
I'll stick to DC. Too hard to include New York and elsewhere.
1. Cafe Atlantico
2. Zaytina

Two People that live in your house:
1. Me
2. My cousin

Two things you ate today:
1. A balance bar
2. an apple

Two people you Last Talked To:
1. Scot (yes, with one "t")
2. Amy at work

Two Things You're doing tomorrow:
1. work at theater
2. work at law firm
God, that's pathetic too. This is what happens when I do primarily theater for three months. I end up in the red and having to "work" so that I can WORK again. Doesn't someone want to be my patron so I don't have to have two day jobs?

Two longest car rides:
1. Las Vegas to DC
2. come on, nothing is longer than Las Vegas to DC.

Two Favorite Holidays:
1. Thanksgiving
2. Fourth of July

I Can Fondue - Part Two

Okay, if I don't get this done quickly I never will.

Sunday was brunch with my parents, huge amounts of Italian food, then this show, which a Louisville colleague directed. It was really wonderful. See it if you can. Especially anyone who has ever dabbled in the public school system. She's a wonderful performer.

That evening I went to see columbinus. It was marvelous to see DC folk like Karl and Jimmy, as well as several NCSA alum, doing such solid, committed work. I was very proud. The show has not officially opened yet but I am phenomenally curious as to how it will be received by New York (and yes, by the critics). As far as I can tell, it is anybodies' guess.

Had an unexpected encounter with my dean and assistant dean in the NYTW lobby which I was not entirely emotionally prepared for. Nonetheless, I was happy to see them both.

Beers in the east village then met B when he was out of work and had another beer and fondue at Blue Ribbon. (Dare I mention, I spent money like a rock star this weekend. Thankfully, due to the kindness of friends, the theater tickets were all free or very cheap.)

Then home and bed.

Monday I decided to go to the Museum of Natural History to see the Darwin exhibit. I'm directing a play next year about the relationship between Darwin and Fitzroy (who commandeered the five year trip on the HMS Beagle which proved to be life-altering for Darwin, and really, for the course of Biology). It seemed serendipitously appropriate to have this major exhibit all about Darwin about thirty blocks from where I was staying.

Of course, this was not incentive enough to get me out of the apartment before 2pm.

I got to the museum, waited in the wrong line twice, then finally got up to a ticket seller who told me that admission would cost $21 with the special exhibit (I didn't even ask how much it would be if I'd wanted to see the butterflies).

So I hemmed and hawed, and instead bought a ticket for the next morning, thinking, I will get my money's worth by spending five hours at the museum tomorrow! Ah silly short attention span girl, don't make me laugh.

So then it's 3:30. I'm meeting L for a coffee at 5:30. The weather is miserable, so what to do? I make a bunch of phone calls. I take the bus through the park to the upper east side. I window shop. I people watch.

I meander in the drizzle.

I do love New York.

(this will be done with soon, i promise)

The City Named Twice - Part One

Lovely New York. So much good food, so much great company. Here's a start, I'll take it day-by-day:

SATURDAY
2:30 PM: Took the train which I rarely do. So much better than the bus.

6:18 PM: Got in a touch late, met (former) speechwriter boy here for a lovely Italian dinner.

6:48 PM: Got a call on my phone as dinner started from L, whose play we were on our way to see in the next hour. Called her back concerned that something was wrong. "Look to your left" she said. L was at a table eight feet away from us with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. H.

6:55 PM: The tuna sashimi appetizer was wonderful.

7:45 PM: Headed here to see L's play. It was closing night so the energy was really positive and excited to see the play. The writer is super young (twenty-four maybe) and the director not much older (yes, younger than thirty) so both have really bright futures, we can be assured. I liked a whole lot about the play, had a few questions about shape and direction, but really enjoyed the evening. L was fabulous.

7:53 PM: Sitting down in the audience I started talking (loudly, I'm sure, as usual) to Mr. and Mrs. H about DC, where they lived for many years. I hear someone behind me "blah, blah, blah" and think "wow, do I sound that obnoxious?" because it wouldn't really surprise me if I did. Turned around and Louisville Playwright (wrote the ten-minute play) was there. What a wonderful surprise. He said he just happened to be in town and it wasn't until the next day that I found out he was receiving an obie award. Hoorah for Louisville Playwright who I think is talented and deserving.

9:25 PM: Told L she was fabulous, found myself slightly overwhelmed and intimidated by the "we are young hip new yorkers in the downtown theater scene" vibe and escaped here for a drink. Which was a little bit obnoxious and model-y, but fun for people watching and tasty sidecars (the drink).

10:55 PM: So, the Soho Grand is known for their generous pet policy. Pets can stay there and if you don't have a pet but want some pet love you can actually borrow a "gold fish companion" (sic) from the hotel.

I love rich people.

But the hotel makes it explicitly clear that furry things (and presumably scaled things ) are not welcome in the bars or restaurants because, you know, we are not in France and we have health codes and shit. So, this woman in a god-awful but probably very expensive flower print dress comes in with an adorable but furry black lab puppy. She looked a little like a Bush twin. Her fellow looked like someone a Bush twin would date. Little puppy is on a leash but has some room to wander, so he comes over to us and starts sniffing at our feet. I'm a little confused that he is there in the first place but it is not really a concern to me until little puppy pees at our feet.

Pees. At our feet.

Henry Hager look-a-like comes up and says, "Well, that means he likes you!"

Fuck you rich people.

Flower print comes up and says, "Oh, I'll clean it up, I promise, I'm so sorry...!" She disappears with the puppy and is never heard from again. About fifteen minutes later a short mexican man emerges from behind the bar (where he probably stays now so that we don't deport him away from his job where he gets to clean up the piss of rich people's dogs, yes, American-dream-on short mexican man!) and kneels down to clean up the pee, which is already pretty much soaked into the floor, scrubbing away with his busboy's rag.

Yeah. I love America too, don't you?

Blame the Trappists

I'm exhausted. Less exhausted than I would have been had I followed through with my "plan" (and I mean that in the loosest sense of the word) which was to leave New York on a 6:15 am train after getting home last night a little before 3:00 am. Yeah. Didn't happen.

I did still think the "plan" was in place as late as last night (or rather, this morning) when I set my phone to go off at 5:00 am as I turned in at 3:00 am. The phone that hadn't been working all weekend. The phone that was mysteriously turning itself off all day. And yet, I said, "Well, if the alarm doesn't go off I am sure I will be nervous enough about missing the train that I will just wake up when I need to." I thought this, at 3:00 am, after several, and several meaning many, Chimays.

Instead, I woke up from a very involved dream that I don't actually remember and thought, "I have no idea where I am". After a few moments of that I remembered that I was in NY at Ben's and that I was supposed to be on a 6:15 train. I checked my phone, which had not actually shut itself off, but also had not gone off as an alarm as I'd set. And yes, it was 8:30 am. So much for my "plan".

Ben wandered in from his room as I was madly dialing Amtrak. "You're still here?" he asked, also a bit groggy and confused. Nothing seemed quite as it was supposed to be.

I was able to switch to a later train with a very minor monetary investment. And I slept the entire way back. But even after an egg sandwich, a vitamin water, and four more hours of sleep, I was still feeling the effects of the Chimays. Those Belgians know what they're doing.

I feel better now. But sore. In that bad sleep kind of way.

But New York was wonderful. I'll get to that eventually, I promise.

At the Corner of 42nd and Park

I'm sitting in Bryant Park taking advantage of the free wireless and the first thirty minutes of sunshine we've had all day.

What a great weekend. I love this city when I don't live here. I loved the city when I did live here, but it is much easier to have an idealized romantic dalliance with the big apple when you eventually have to go home.

I must have lost my "don't talk to me" face in the four years since I've been out of the city, maybe it reappears in DC, because I've had more encounters with strangers in the past few hours than I have in weeks.

The man next to me in the park just asked me how to pronounce William Rehnquist's name for his citizenship test tomorrow. Then a homeless woman came up and told me this whole shaggy dog story about how she was reading a copy of a Shakespeare play in the park when it started raining and now she can't find the book where she left it. I wasn't quite sure what to say to her. She talked a lot though, and assured me that she had graduated from highschool. She also showed me her black teeth and warned me never to start smoking cigars.

Advice taken,

I will tell more about my time here, which included three shows - all worth mention - and several chance and planned encounters with friends, new and old (including DC favorites Arcticactor and Jimmy the Bag) - as soon as I have a moment.

Getting A Life

I've been a little bit... absent lately. In every respect.

Pushing through a bout of post-show blues, which happens, and is especially strong this time around. I think because I had so much keeping me busy and occupied really, since mid-February, I am now suffering the letdown of two and a half months of rehearsal highs. Not that I'm complaining. It has been a wonderful spring. And I am glad to have a break. Just unsure of how to fill it.

Because really, I haven't been so good about filling my life with anything other than theater.

When Kathy Bates spoke at our commencement ceremony she gave this wonderful speech with the main message being "Get a life!" It still sticks with me today, even if I have not managed to heed its plea. Her point was, fill your life with things other than this career choice. Sure, commit to the career, and put your heart and soul into it, and stay driven and organized and all of those essential things - but don't make it everything and all that you are.

I've been kind of guilty of that lately. So when the show is open and I am no longer needed there (total empty nest syndrome) well, umm, what do I do?

Get a life City Mouse, that's what you do.

Easier said than done.

I have been reading. Working a lot (which is sadly necessary). Cut my lawn with grass clippers. Making many ipod playlists. I went to the Dada exhibit. And I am waaaaay over planning my four days in New York, which currently includes drinks/meals/shows with best friends, ex-boyfriends, new friends, new mothers, recent transplants, new friends, and ma mere et mon pere.

Today's Playlist (no theme)

Buildings and Bridges - Ani
Don't Make Me Laugh - Gomez
Haiti - The Arcade Fire
TV Show - Martha Wainwright
Living Proof -Cat Power
The Slow Decent into Alcoholism - The New Pornographers
Wake Up - The Arcade Fire
Parting Gift - Fiona Apple
Sweet Virginia - Gomez
Lived in Bars - Cat Power
Left Behind - Aqualung
Whippin' Picidilly - Gomez
Red Red Red - Fiona Apple
We Haven't Turned Around - Gomez
Seventeen - Keren Ann
Lolita - Martha Wainwright
Mass Romantic - The New Pornographers

In other news, I had a lovely chat with "Wee Jane" (moniker courtesy of theaterboy) this morning during which I am sure I said many inarticulate and misguided things so that's something to look forward to.

Or maybe she'll just write "City Mouse is thirty" and nothing else, since she did indeed ask that question - to which I fortunately caught myself and stopped short of sighing and answering "almost THIRTY-ONE".

You Jane

Can you imagine?

I Just Stick Out My Chin and Grin

The one bad thing about not having a TV (or rather, not getting TV reception) is that I have no reliable source of weather information. I mean, I could step outside our back door every morning and check it that way, but that would make too much sense. Instead I put on clothes based on the weather we had the day before.

This leads to frequent mis-matching of clothes and climate.

Take today for example. It was sunny out yesterday - remember? So I am wearing a yellow summer-y top which would be totally fitting if it were a nice May day. But it's not. It's grey and drizzling and overcast. So instead I just look... silly.

Oh, and the other bad thing about not having a TV is I can't watch American Idol and West Wing which gives me one less thing that I can talk to MB about.

Still on my A-List

Because I haven't talked about the panda in a really long time...

But what is the Greek pronunciation for "George Bush"?

Yesterday I directed a reading of Judith Malina's translation of Brecht's version of Sophocles's Antigone.

Got that?

It was fun. I have such a love-hate relationship with readings. I agree to do them most of the time because they always sound like a good idea and are usually an opportunity to work with a company I haven't worked with before on material that would be difficult to produce otherwise (new plays, extinct plays, plays with large casts). And I always think - well, it's a reading, so low pressure, right?

But the date that I agree to is always a week after I open a show. Seriously - this has now happened three times. I could go six months without working at all, and then I'll have a show, and the week after I sign on to it someone will call and say "Do you want to do this reading on Date X?" and Date X will be exactly one week after my show opens.

So, not one to buck trends, about two months ago I agreed to do this reading knowing full well that my show would have opened the weekend before. And, par the course, I have the whole reading thing in the back of my head and suddenly it is two weeks away and I have one cast member confirmed and eight (eight!) still to cast and then suddenly I curse ever agreeing to do it.

But it always works out.

And this one - really, turned out to be such a dreamy cast and such a powerful script (and only an hour long!) that by the end of it we were all in that, "We should actually produce this play!" fervor. And we should.

Malina did the translation from the German when she was in jail being held for tax evasion on property taxes for the East Village theater that she and her Living Theater cohorts owned. It later turned out she was not guilty. I bet that theater is now a boutique. Or a restaurant that only serves rice pudding. Or something pretentious and New York-y like that.

The translation was done during the Vietnam War. The piece (as does most Living Theater stuff) definitely has that anarchist-protest-spirit about it. The actual Brecht version was written a few years after WWII and focuses primarily on Creon - and how his thirst for power allowed him to drive Thebes into an unethical war. The people of Thebes are also indicted for having let him do it. There are a few references that really suggest WWII Germany (Creon at one point talks about Antigone's antagonism being tempered in the "ovens" if necessary. Kind of chilling.) But for the most part it feels applicable to any situation where a nation has allowed their leader to wage an uncalled for war, and has done nothing to stop it.

At one point Antigone asks, "Where are all the young men?" The war is over and the men are not back. Where have they gone to?

The elders later demand "Bring them home." When Creon protests, "Empty-handed?" they respond "Empty handed or without hands."

Can't help but think of all the stories of the Iraqi amputees, eh?

Can't help but think of this administration at every plot turn, really. During the talk of cleansing the state of dissenters. Of invading nations for "metal" (oil?).

Of gaining wisdom only when it is too late.

Tiresius speaks of looking into the future - which he sees more clearly than anyone who actually possesses sight - and he says simply, "I shuddered".

We should all be shuddering.

Road Trip and More

I spent several hours in the wilds of West Virginia (remember West Virginia?) on Saturday, at the wedding of my lovely stage manager from Steel Magnolias. It was a perfect day for a wedding, and I relished the opportunity to actually see the sunlight for more than fifteen minutes at a time. I drove up with friends, and we made sure to stop for fast food on the way up AND on the way home (due to timing issues and the need for two of us to get back in time for a show we had to leave before the actual "dinner" part of the wedding, which was kind of a bummer).

Fast food stops are difficult for me. Even with all the attempts that those places are making to be perceived as more "healthy" (the result I imagine of Super Size Me and other indictments) they still are not veggie friendly. We stopped at McDonald's on the way up and all these new salads they have are still laden with chicken. I ordered the Asian salad sans chicken (which was basically iceberg lettuce with a few pea pods on top) and the man looked up at me and queried with a Western Maryland twang:

"Yoga or cardio?"

"Excuse me?"

"Yoga or cardio? Ya git a free cd with yer salad. You want yoga or cardio?"

I chose yoga. I'll let you know how that works out for me.

In other news, I am itching to get out of town for a bit and am thrilled to be headed up to New York next weekend. Plans are still being made but I should have time to see both family and friends.

Reviews have continued to roll in. The Washington Times one was another really positive notice and the two internet fellows were generally positive but sided with the Sicilian on the slide show choice.

Frankly, now, I am tired of hearing/reading/thinking about the slide show choice. It's making me tense. Thinking about it.

Maybe I need to crack open the yoga cd. Maybe if New York is actually sunny I will just stay there. There is no greater healing force than a sunny day in New York.

(I just checked on Weather.com and the prediction is for rain all weekend so the chances that I will be back the following week are very, very good.)

Lasts Longer than Flowers

A friend got me the new Gomez album on itunes as an opening show gift.

Gomez always makes me happy. I love their poppy melodies. I love their in-between-song British banter. I love their dozens of instruments (though apparently less this time around). I love their scruffy hipster looks.

I'm not so sure how I feel about the "Gomez Blog" but they weren't hired for their skills as memoirists, right?

Best of all, Gomez makes me feel like summer time.

No verdict on the album yet as I'm only halfway through my first listen.

Gotta love itunes. Making gift giving as easy as a click of a button.

It was the best of reviews, it was the worst of reviews

The reviews started to roll in today.

The Post review and the one in Metro Weekly are like little sparkling treasures from the great big critic in the sky - I couldn't ask for better. They are well written and both reviewers really seemed to get what we were trying to accomplish.

I was flying high for most of the day with those two.

Then I read the one in the City Paper.

It is not yet postable, but I'll put it up when it is. It is one of the worst reviews I have ever read. He hated every single choice we made, including but not limited to the selection of Blessing's play.

Fascinating. It's like they saw entirely different shows.

But it proves the point that a friend wrote to me the other day in the midst of my review anticipation stress:

"If you believe the good ones then you have to believe the bad ones and that gives critics far too much power."

Is That My Honing Instinct?

Last night I was hit with an overwhelming sense of home sicknesses. Which is a bit confusing because I'm not exactly sure which home I am sick for. Poughkeepsie, NY - where my parents are? Rochester, NY - where I spent the first eighteen years of my life? Or New York City, where my brother and oldest friends live?

The best I could figure was that I am missing New York State. The entire state. Missing it something terrible.

I have this longing in my stomach for all of these places and smells and tastes and views.

For the drive between Rochester and Ithaca where you pass all the wineries and produce farms. For the hills and small towns of the Western Frontier where my grandpa had a hunting cabin. For a view from a lawn chair on the shore of one of the finger lakes with zabs hots grilling in the background. For the walk from the West Village to Tribecca along the Hudson River. For lunch at the Moosewood Restaurant. For a picnic in Highland Park. For shopping in Woodstock among the packs of leftover hippies and Rhinebeck yuppies. For a Manhattan roof party. For a fifteen dollar four course meal in a Poughkeepsie Greek diner. For a French film at the Little Theater. For dinner at a cash only Italian restaurant in the East Village. For a walk on the beach in the Hampton's. For a meander through an upstate Wegman's. For a new play workshop on the Vassar campus. For a concert packed with SUNY students on the lawn at the University of Buffalo. For a trip to Darien Lake.For a Sunday morning reading the Times while sprawled in Prospect Park. For an authentic Chinatown dim sum. For an abbot's custard cone.

I want it all. All of it. Right now.

The thing is, I go and I spend two days in these places and it's never enough. It's just never enough time.

(As a small consolation I am listening to Ani and Dar, our New York girls, on a constant loop. They get it.)

People Eating the Best Meals of their Lives...

The show opened on Saturday. I can’t really write about it. It still feels a little too personal, this one.

So the dust settles and I get to look at my life again.

It will be nice to have some free time, which I really haven’t had since mid-February. It will be nice to see my parents and to reconnect with friends here and elsewhere. It will be nice to see the sunlight, every once in a while.

My aunt and uncle were in town last night for a quarterly meeting of the The Multiple Sclerosis Society – my uncle serves on their board in some capacity – I really don’t know exactly what he does but I know he has been working with them for years. So my cousin and aunt came to see my afternoon show, and then I went with them over to the Mayflower Hotel where the conference is being held. C (my cousin) and I had Martinis at Town and Country while her parents got ready for dinner (she had the Town and Country signature martini, I had a Pear-tini) and we feasted on really salty mixed nuts.

The dinner group centered around a couple who are important donors. They have a foundation of their own but also contribute to other causes, MS being one of them.
They were phenomenally nice, humble people. In addition, there were several other MS board members, so C and I were the only two at the table under fifty. It was really lovely though. Everyone was so, genuinely I believe, interested in what we both do – C because she is saving the world by traveling to countries that most people have never even heard of armed with a phenomenal understanding of different cultures and several foreign languages – and me, I guess, because people still think an artist’s life is interesting even though, in reality, it often isn’t.

We had dinner at Vidalia. The food was wonderful – but richer than anything I’ve eaten in months and one of those meals that you reach the end of and think, okay, now I never have to eat again – both because it was so good and so much food. I had the goat cheese salad to start, then the Alaskan Halibut with roasted baby artichokes, several pieces of the onion foccacia, and panna cotta for desert – everything was so pretty and little and delicate – but deceptively so. I don’t think my body was ready for all that food.