Sort of Smiling

Life is funny.

Not always ha-ha funny. Sometimes dripping and doused with irony funny.

I burned the proverbial candle at both ends and in the middle this weekend.

I talked too much, I slept too much, I worked too much, I played too much.

Someone has to make me stop saying "It's all good." It's such a fucking meaningless sentiment. Things are never "all good". It's just easy to say when there is not really anything else to say and everyone knows that there are definitely things that are not "all good."

I'm finally back to "From Beirut to Jerusalem". We picked our next book club book. It's almost 700 pages. On it's way from half.com.

Happy Halloween everyone.

You Had Me at "White Shoes"

Last week I watched the Felicity where her art teacher sets her up on a blind date with her son. The date is terrible, he's still bitter about an ex, she never wants to see him again, blah-blah, blah-blah. Of course two episodes later she is sleeping with him. Because that is the way things turn out in TV land. Bad dates turn into great boyfriends.

Not so in real life.

The episode got me thinking about the one honest to goodness set-up blind date I'd ever been on, also set up by the gentleman's mother.

It was, hands down, the worst date I have ever been on. I feel bad that the story has made its way into the folklore of my life and sometimes I think the fact that I still tell it continually increases my bad dating karma. But, whatever.

It was a few months after I graduated from North Carolina and I was waitressing at Blue Water Grill in Union Square. The restaurant is relatively pricey, which was good, but they run the place like corporate Nazis and I did not fit in to the environment. In other words, I was a sucky waitress.

One day I served an older woman there for some sort of client business lunch. We started chatting and it turned out she was a literary agent and producer of some sort. She thought I was sweet and she invited me for coffee to talk about her experiences in "the business" as a woman. We planned to meet later that week.

Fast forward, she doesn't actually want to advise or mentor me at all rather she wants to set me up with her son. She was all coy about it of course, "I don't usually do this, but..."

Sure lady.

Again, non-jaded me agrees, no questions asked. So "Eric" is supposed to call me. And he does. And we talk and he seems relatively normal. So we agree to meet. He asks me (remember this for later HE ASKS ME) to a concert in central park (free) and dinner (presumably not free).

Then he tells me how I will recognize him. He says he looks like Noah Wylie and he will be wearing white shoes.

Can you see where this is going?

I adore Noah Wylie. He is one of very few celebrity crushes I have allowed myself over the years (also and in no particular order: Mark Ruffalo, Ed Norton and Ben Schenkman). But I should have known. No one who actually looks like Noah Wylie would have the gumption to say they look like Noah Wylie.

And, um, white shoes? Sure, it was summer and I don't care about the white after labor day shit anyway, but quick - picture a cool pair of white shoes (not sneakers, he didn't say sneakers or tennis shoes). Can't do it, right?

Exactly.

So there we are at one of the upper west side corners of the park and across the street is a short man with a pony tail, jeans, a dress shirt tucked into the jeans, and shiny white dress shoes.

So. Not. Noah. Wylie.

Anyway the date unfolded in several choice moments including but not limited to: him telling me that he hated to identify as Jewish because he didn't really like most Jews and he thought it pigeon holed him, him explaining - loudly on the subway - how much he hated Oprah Winfrey and thought she was a fake, and finally him arguing that he was more of a feminist than any of his female friends because they chose to oppress themselves in ways that they didn't even recognize because the oppression was so deeply ingrained in their psyche.

Which is why, of course, he absolutely could not treat me to dinner.

So, right - check comes, we'd ended up at a bistro in the East Village - his choice - cash only, I have none on me. He does. He has plenty of cash. But he won't pay for me because that would be oppressing me and he doesn't want to do that (I am not making this up). I look at him, puzzled, "Do you want me to go to an ATM?"

"I am sure there is one in the deli on the corner. I noticed it on the way here."

Needless to say, I thought about not returning when I went to get the cash. But at the time I still thought I didn't want to be rude, more because I felt some sense of obligation to his mother (who HAD paid for my coffee). I return, I pay my half of the bill (which he'd kindly figured out for me) and I say goodbye. He says something about "Do this again" and I mumble a "Sure" or "Of course" or something vaguely non-committal but not a no, because I am young and not jaded and A TOTAL PUSSY, and I just want him to go away but I don't want to actually say that.

Over the next week he calls several times. This is pre cell phones, so he leaves messages on my voicemail service (ahhh, voicemail services) or on my phone at home. Then one day he catches me. I answer my home phone, I don't look at caller ID, and sure enough...

"Ummm, CityMouse? I've been trying to call you. Didn't you get my messages? Why didn't you call me back?"

"ahhhhh, yeah, llkjsdh mmmgmmfmmtthlk...? (meek excuse about being really busy)"

He then launches into a twenty minute tirade about how indirect and inconsiderate I was (in a way he was right, but hello pot meet kettle) and finishes it off with:

"And my mom never wants to talk to you again! She thinks you are flakey now too."

I never did hear from him again, which was good. I did however think I'd handled the situation poorly, which was bad. And after that I vowed that I would never again let a mother set me up with her son.

Unless she's Mark Ruffalo's mom, in which case I would make an exception.

Long Lost

I got an email from my mother yesterday.

"Your father spoke to his half sister yesterday!"

My father spoke to his half sister yesterday. For the first time in forty-three years.

My father was an only child. His father was a Russian Jewish immigrant who came to New York via most of Eastern Europe when he was barely in his teens and later had a home on Flatbush Avenue and a cabinet making business on the lower East side of Manhattan. Apparently, when my father was in his mid-teens, his father took him to help on a woodworking job. The work was being done at the home of his father's first wife. She lived with his father's first two children.

My father had never heard about any of them.

By my understanding, this was the first and last time he ever met his half sister.

I remember some more involved stories about the half brother, maybe having to do with baseball, maybe having to do with some other sport, but the details are foggy in my head.

My father only first mentioned the half siblings to me (my half aunt and uncle?) a couple of years ago. It was in a completely nonchalant setting - driving or shopping at a Home Depot or something like that - and I was shocked.

"You have to tell me these things!" I insisted. "Because, you know, I could end up dating my half cousin and not even knowing it!" And with my luck I would somehow end up in some crazy oedipal machination and never even know. Because, actually, the world IS that small.

My father found out in the phone conversation that his half sister had retired to Florida and has three children ranging in age from thirty-eight to forty-three. Her daughter helped her do the internet research that located my dad.

My father's father was, from the accounts I have heard, a distant father. My dad was closer to his mother, who passed away when he was nineteen. I never met her.

She was my namesake. For years I had a framed photograph of her gravestone in Brooklyn. I thought it was kind of neat because it was the only time I'd seen my exact name in print without it being me, actually. It's an unusual name. I'd venture a guess that I am the only person with my combination of names on this planet right now.

My college roommate hated the picture. "Can we take that down?" she finally asked me one day. "It's kind of... creepy."

It served as my own personal memento mori, which I liked. For the sake of peace however, I took it down.

The idea of having half siblings that you don't even know about is mind-boggling to me. Our own immediate family is such a tight little bundle that I sometimes imagine we speak our own language that no one else quite understands. In a manner of speaking, I guess we do. Maybe all families do. For better or worse.

Because A and I are twins there wasn't even a time when the unit was made up of three instead of four. All of us. Always. Dinners. Vacations. Outings. Morning to school. Choir concerts. Plays. Trips downtown. Visits to the library. All of us.

My father became the father that he never had, and for that I will always be grateful.

I met my father's father once that I remember. Barely remember. I was six or seven. Were there clues, traces of my father in that man? Somewhere? There must have been, right?

Of course now I wonder what my half cousins do. Do they appreciate the arts? Do they value words? Are they democrats or republicans?

It doesn't really change anything. But it shifts. Perspective. Just a tiny bit. Just enough.

One Thankful Woman (No Angry Men)

They let me out at 2pm.

Lalalalalalalalalalalalalala.

No voi dire. Just 2 and a half hours (not counting lunch) of waiting in lines and then watching MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING in the juror's lounge.

Each time they called a series of names I'd get a little rush of hope in my chest (maybe I'll get out today and not be on a jury!) which I'd then quickly suppress knowing that according to the way my life works, merely thinking such thoughts would curse me to a month long trial.

Can you be assigned to month long trials as a petit juror?

If you are six foot five are you still a petit juror?

And then at 2pm - a list of last names - all starting with "S" (Strange, right? No "S"s will serve in the District of Columbia today! We decree it!) - mine, miraculously pronounced correctly, to report to the jurors office. Where they relieved us of both our badges and our juror duties.

Someone smiled nicely upon me today.

And don't get me wrong, I am all about civic duty. But it was only five years ago that I gave three weeks of my life to a trial, and right now I don't have that time (or money) to spare.

That's it. No more about jury duty. Evah. I promise.

Voi Dire My Dear

Tonight I am going to Trader Joe’s to get microwavable eggrolls and potstickers for our book club meeting Tuesday.

Or maybe, like, cheese sticks and deep fried poppers.

I am so very near the end of KAFKA ON THE SHORE. I swing back and forth between really enjoying the book and feeling like I am reading some odd combination of Harry Potter and soft core porn.

Now you all want to go out and read it, don’t you?

Seriously though.

Tuesday is also special because I HAVE TO REPORT FOR JURY DUTY.

Jury Duty.

I have a love hate relationship with jury duty. I was called in during the summer of 2001, just before I left New York. I’d quit my day job, I’d just gone through my first grown up break up, I had some savings, and I wasn’t working on anything theatre related. So the idea of being chosen to serve on a jury was actually not all that tragic. It would, shake things up somehow in a way that I needed. I went through the voi dire, not expecting to get chosen (I still always think that people have a view of theatre people as flaky and unreliable). But sure enough – my name was called when they announced the jury.

So for three weeks (three weeks!) I headed downtown to the Tribecca/Civic Center area of New York. Bear in mind – this part of New York would change forever come that fall. Heck, all of New York changed forever that fall.

It was fun to explore on my way to and from the courthouse every day a neighborhood that I’d barely broached in my two years in the city. Especially during that summer which, little did I know at the time, was to be my last in New York (for the time being at least).

Our jury was a perfect mix of real New Yorkers. There was the older Hispanic gay man who worked for a healthcare related non-profit. He had that hint of melancholy in his eyes, the sadness that men who watched most of their generation wilt before their eyes have. There was a quiet Asian woman who worked in publishing. She recommended WHITE TEETH to me, which ended up being one of my all time favorite books. There was a beautiful woman in her fifties, so stylish and well spoken – who lived in the neighborhood. I think her husband did something that made a lot of money. She had just finished a course of astrology and by the end of our time had done all of our charts. There was a very sweet short Jewish thirty-something year old lawyer guy. And a graphic artist who had kids and a husband and always seemed a bit frazzled, but happy. And me.

I think I’m forgetting someone. Maybe an alternate.

It was a civil case. A guy who was working as a roadie for Phil Collins whose foot was run over by a forklift (one of those small ones that scoot around backstage) while loading out of Madison Square Garden. He didn’t really tend to the injury, kept driving for the tour, and within the year had terrible back issues that he blamed on the foot injury that he blamed on the forklift that he blamed on the driver (a woman who was a man at the time the injury happened – no joke – a trannie techie) that he blamed on Madison Square Garden.

It was a fascinating experience. The lawyer for MSG was really good. A complete dick, but really good. The plaintiff’s lawyer always seemed really nervous. He wasn’t good at talking and listening. I thought he could benefit from some acting classes.

Anyway, the jury got along really well. It was actually, dare I say, fun. I won’t get into the details of the case and the outcome, but I will say – I have always really valued having had that experience. It taught me a lot about the legal system and it was a perfect way to say goodbye to that city.

That all having been said, serving on a jury would be a big pain in my ass right now.

Erase Contact

Don't write about your personal life. Don't write about your personal life. Don't write about your personal life. Don't write about your personal life.

I deleted a number from my cell phone today. It's the second time I've done that this month. I never, ever, ever do that. So rarely.

What is that? It's our modern day equivalent of deleting a person from our life. It's our attempt to master the technology of ETERNAL SUNSHINE.

It doesn't, actually, and I know this because I've tried it, well, it doesn't actually... work.

Do You Know Where Your Cat Is?

My thoughts so far about KAFKA ON THE SHORE:

It’s engaging. It’s unpredictable – I have no idea where the story is going. The language is not at all flowery or poetic, very clean, sometimes a bit too much so, almost removed and not used (so far) to any great effect like in NEVER LET ME GO (the last book I read, not for the book club) where the distancing effect made it all the more moving.

We’ll see. I want to keep reading at least.

Cat lovers – beware. There is some guts and gore involving felines that you all might not dig so much.

Other news:

I finally bought this month’s AMERICAN THEATRE and read the Jen Men interview. It is really wonderful. As a friend of mine said; you can’t read it without hearing Jennifer’s voice in your head. The Vivian quote is priceless. You can read it here.

But if you actually buy the magazine you get the bonus finds of an article written by one Mr. Posner (which I haven’t yet read) and great images of the lovely Aubrey Deeker and the radiant Michael Escamilla.

I love it. Totally American Theatre pinup boys.

There was a fire at the Folger. They had to cancel six performances. I’ve been helping out with calling people to get them to switch/return/donate their tickets. It's been quite a week for them. So if you know someone who works there – be particularly nice to them. It’s only when something like this happens that you realize how tenuous all of our work actually is.

I’m working on something for Extreme Exchange, finally. So I can put my money where my “we don’t do enough politicized performance here in our nation’s capital” mouth is. Come see it if you are not already involved.

Soft and Squishy

I just inhaled Chinese food, which I very rarely feel compelled to do. It might be because I finally started reading this, our next book club book, and the protagonist keeps talking about
the amazing udon he gets at a "diner" in Takamatsu, Japan.

Yes, that's right. I ate Chinese food because I was thinking about Japan.

And I purchased said Chinese food (steamed tofu and vegetables - boring Chinese food at that) at a restaurant called "Asian Bistro" in the great land of Silver Spring which boasts above all a giant astro turf lawn and a shiny manufactured main street filled out with Panera, Red Lobster and Macaroni Grill.

Pretty American that I am.

Anyhow.

I made a quick trip up to New York over the weekend and saw this and this.

I thought The Thugs showcased good work all around, it just felt a bit... fleeting, I guess. I ran into my costume designer from Lunch at the show, which was swell, and then had Belgian food in the West Village with a friend. All of the waiters had Belgian-French accents which, whether real or manufactured, was kind of impressive.

The Pain and the Itch was as worth seeing as everyone told me it was. I don't have anyone to talk to about it here though. With this kind of play that's kind of frustrating. There was one moment that I feel like I didn't fully get - maybe I wasn't supposed to - but it's driving me kind of nuts because I really want to hear what other people thought about it.

Design and direction were pretty darn impeccable.

AND - I have to say this. Whoever chose the seats when they were remodeling the mainstage space at Playwrights knew what they were doing. These are the most comfortable seats in a theater I have ever, ever experienced. And sadly, I remember these things. They like, melt to fit your body.

Although, because they are vinyl-y type material, they are a little bit noisy when you move. But who needs to move when you are so darn cushioned. Fuck suffering for our art. Give me comfortable seats. Hpmelon would love them.

Interestingly, it looks like the seats in the second stage "studio" space are the exact opposite (I've not been inside.)

What's that all about?

Refried Regionalisms

I have "I kissed a girl" in my head. I didn't... kiss... a girl... anyone... actually... that is... but the song is in my head.

It is a third stunningly beautiful day in a row. Fall weather makes me miss upstate NY. Few things make me miss upstate NY. Fall is one of them.

Leaves, apples, pumpkins, cider, colors, crispness.

All of that will arrive here eventually but it takes longer than it does further up North.

Lovely weekend but please, someone make me stop talking when you see me talking too much in a social setting. It's like my inner censor shuts down at gatherings and I rattle on and then have to wrack my brain later to try to remember what I said that I shouldn't have and to whom I said it.

Despite popular belief someone does not need to hear all about my junior prom date (including the story of how I asked him) just because they went to music school with him. They really don't.

Sunday night I saw my friend Josh's one man show for the umpteenth time. We both agreed I shouldn't see it again or else he'd have to qualify me as groupie rather than friend. I still enjoyed it. I love that Woolly is using their rehearsal room as a second stage sort of outlet, which is great and necessary and useful in this town.

We went to Austin Grill afterwards with the boys from the Rude Mechanicals.

I remember hearing about the Rude Mechanicals from my friend Chad at North Carolina who was also from Texas (and never let us forget it). They must have been in their incubative state at the time as they started in 1995 and this was not much later than that.

At some point in the evening it occurred to me that we were at a place called "Austin Grill". Brian from Woolly assured me that this was actually the selection of the Austin boys.

I can't imagine being in Texas and seeking out a place with a name like "DC Lounge" that served what? - bad crab cakes and unauthentic half smokes? - but there we were drinking sugary margaritas and eating mediocre tex mex with a bunch of folks from Texas.

Later (and completely sober) I got into another one of the aforementioned conversations. I've never ever been to Texas, not even close. And yet whenever I meet someone from Texas I have this tendency to say things like "Oh my friend Monica is from Houston, she's totally adorable and so funny - do you maybe know her?" or "One of my best friends is from South Texas, somewhere near the border, some small town, he played football in high school, do you know where that was maybe?" Or best yet "I've never been to Austin but I do have a T-shirt from Chuy's".

The Austin boy on the receiving end of this the other night finally said "Umm, Houston is the fourth largest city in the US. San Antonio and Dallas are also in the top ten. Texas is a really big state. It's really hard to make generalizations about a place that is so big".

In other words, stop trying to do that, chatty Northeastern girl.

I'm going to try to see their show, which got a great review in today's Post, tomorrow night.

Speaking of Consistency

So on Friday I proofed the Catalyst program for the show they just opened. (See it! $10 tickets, all the time!) and I realized that theater folk in this town liberally and consistently screw up the branding of local theaters. I'm not chastising (apparently I chastised a bit in my grammar post) I am simply bringing it to everyone's attention.

Kathleen Geldard and DCepticon were the only two members of cast or crew to get every "theater" vs. "theatre" correct.

So everybody - proof your bios and resume so the person editing the program for YOUR next show has an easy time of it.

I mean, just to be nice and all.

These were the ones that got screwed up the most:

Theater Alliance
Roundhouse Theatre
Journeymen Theater
Theater J
The American Century Theater
Didactic Theatre
Folger Theatre
Olney Theatre Center
Studio Theatre
Rorschach Theatre
Open Circle Theatre

I looked these up at each respective theater/theatre's website. If they've screwed it up themselves then I have no sympathy.

I also corrected all of my own errors in my sidebar.

Thanks,
The very flawed, often incorrect, so-not-chastising Citymouse

Grammatical Infractions

I'm the proud owner of my third ipod in less than two years. I finally made it to the genius bar, said genius hooked me up. Said applecare warranty actually hooked me up, but I like to think it was because I made said genius smile with my banter about the sad ipod man.

No - he wasn't just humoring me!

You never really realize how much you missed your ipod until you have it back.

Ever make a mix for someone then do a good listen and realize that you have compiled the most depressing mix of sad/angry/melancholy/heartfelt girl-y songs ever? That happened to me this morning. I'm going to shake things up a bit before I burn it so it's not a crying into your pillow dripping tears into your journal mix.

This weekend I made it to the new Trader Joe's. There's an article about it in the Post today. Remember the first time you heard about Trader Joe's? I do. My friend Lis had moved out to the West Coast after school and was east visiting me in New York (she'd driven back cross country). She had all these Trader Joe simmering sauces in her car. I think she used one at my apartment.

I didn't quite get the appeal then but now I'm pretty converted. The store is kind of made for me. I love condiments. Marinades, tapanades, hummus, dipping sauces, spicy mustard, plum sauce, mole, fancy vinegars - you name it. Yes, totally a ketchup on my eggs kind of girl. And hot sauce. (A friend of mine had a theory that the world is divided into two kinds of people - those who put ketchup on their eggs and those that couldn't imagine doing it.)

And Trader Joe's has it all.

This whole Foley thing is getting more ridiculous (and admittedly, disturbing) by the hour. Did anyone see the note the Post published written to former page Mark Beck-Heyman (I can't find an image of it on the web though I'm sure it's out there)? Was anyone else bothered by the fact that a congressman spelled busy "buzy" and substituted "your" for "you're" twice?

Well, it bothered me. Because young-boy-hungry fellas are one thing but at least LEARN TO SPELL.

And your/you're substitutions should be automatic grounds for dismissal from any major leadership position. Seriously. It's/Its as well. At least in the world according to Citymouse.

Sarah Ruhl's EURYDICE got perhaps the most consistently glowing review I have ever read from Isherwood. I wish I could make it up there to see it - New Haven is within an hour and change of my parents. But it closes too soon. I love the play, I'd love to see a fully realized production.

If You Lived Here You'd Already Be Home

I've been tagged by Lucky Spinster to do a Book Meme which I am working on and hereby warning you ahead of time that it will be long and boring and ridiculously self-important.

I am also thinking a lot about the Peter Mark's article about political theater in DC (rather, lack thereof) which kind of annoyed me but I never put anything down on paper about so maybe I will work up a post on that too.

But for now - I'll share my big epiphany: when you make plans to hang out with someone, and you invite them over to your house, and you hang out, and you maybe eat and drink food and beverages that you purchased from a grocery store, not only is it immensely less expensive than actually going out but when the night is over and you have to go home going home means walking down the hallway and entering your room.

I realized this the night of the book club (I promise, I'll stop talking about the book club eventually, because Tracy is totally right I am a big dork but I certainly never claimed to be otherwise). When everyone one else had to head out to their cars to head home to faraway lands like Virginia and Takoma Park, I walked down the hall.

Sweet.

So this weekend began with Friday night pizza, where? - yes, at my house. MJ and his sea of stories came by, we ordered good pizza, he told good stories, we ate my cousin's good cookies, really - it doesn't get any better than this. Cheap, no smoke, no women in small amounts of clothing, no battling the crowds of Adams Morgan or the white hats of Capitol Hill, and when all is said and done, I am already home.

hooray.

Saturday I did venture out of the district to Virginia where I saw closing night of Spinning Into Butter. It's a solid, well made play and a good production and it made me realize that I never really though about race issues while at North Carolina. I think that's because not only were black students stripped of some sense of identity there (or their "agency" as Gilman reminds us) - we all were. It was the whole exercise in reaching neutrality. It was less about who we were than about what we could do. Politics, identity, these things sort of fell by the wayside.

Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't change it for anything. Just interesting to realize, that's all.

That evening included a serendipitous encounter with two lovely ladies from the theater world with whom I then headed to some Crystal City sports bar complete with large packs of meatheads and a girl who had locked herself in a bathroom stall to be sick and then promptly died, passed out, or simply refused to exit. Her equally drunk but successfully standing friend would call to her every few minutes and we would hear a slight moan from inside.

"Sarah? Sarah"

"mmfmghhjhrto... oopffph"

three minutes later

"Sarah? Sarah?"

"Mmlallflfl!!! Mwarrrhghhh!!"

Oh, and they were wearing pieces of myler tied around their heads like pirate bandanas.

To be young again.

Sunday I followed up on my new plan to avoid drunk and stupid people and had MB over to watch the beginning of Season 2 Felicity while consuming mimosas and strawberries.

And in case you're wondering - Felicity just cut her hair.