Pink

I got a manicure from a special lady last night.

Tiny fingers clutching the bottle, brows furrowed, completely intent on getting as much polish as possible out of the bottle and on to each nail. Stay in the lines, stay in the lines, the human lines of skin and nail and finger. White overalls, so close, don’t tip, don’t tip, death grip on the bottle, “Let’s save some for next time, maybe, maybe, don’t you think? Maybe daddy will want his toenails done.” Successful. Moving on to crayons. Crayons are excellent.

Crayons can’t spill.

Such a Perfect Day, I'm Glad I Spent it With You

Yesterday was, like, the most perfect-est lovely day ever. And I don’t mean weather-wise, I know the weather was dreary and soggy and mushy and grey. But the day? The day!

I had a weekday off. I shouldn’t have weekdays off but I am sort of between work-work and have an inconsistent schedule and I am trying not to stress about that. So let’s not talk about it. But we live in this city? With lots of free things to do. And so C and I had a day to spend as tourists in our own city and it was great. (Yes, so, I think we are all tired of the cryptic nickname and it makes people all confused about the horse thing so for now on it’s just “C”.) Anyway, we went to the Hopper exhibit at the National Gallery, but first brief stops at the Jasper Johns exhibit and to see the Matisse cut outs. I told C about my mother calling a set of underwear I had when I was eight my “Matisse underwear” because the print on them resembled a Matisse painting--colors, abstracted flowers--all that. I am sure that the good folk at Fruit of the Loom had no idea that there was a little girl running around upstate New York proudly proclaiming about her Matisse panties, but there I was and you can blame the Ceil’s for that. I hadn’t thought about that for a long time. It made me smile.

The Hopper exhibit was well worth the little bit of crowd battling necessary at any of these big showings. In retrospect though, knowing we had a limited amount of time because of parking and meters and such, I would have spent a little less time on the early stuff and focused more on the latter part of his career, which really is where he hits his Hopper stride. Nighthawks was surrounded (a la Mona Lisa) so we kind of breezed past that one, but the figures he did towards the end of his career are subtly moving and quite stunning.

Afterwards we headed north and had a surprisingly tasty lunch at one of the random Indian restaurants in Woodley Park. It was late for lunch and really quiet, but they had a great vegetarian thali option which I love because it means I don’t have to make a decision and I get to try a little of a lot of things. Mmmm. So much food though. Ridiculous.

An afternoon nap (did I not say this was the greatest day ever?) some emailing, then over to Shirlington to say hello to the rest of the returning Ireland tour. Yes, the fellas stepped off the plane at Dulles then headed over to Cap City for a Jameson and a toast, troupers, all of them. Finally over to Tunnicliff’s to say hello to that crew, which was a nice mix of regulars and sort-of newbies, then once and for all off to bed for crazy deep sleep which is a nice change from the bizarre dream-laden sleep I have been having lately.

Other things, besides a wonderful weekday, worth celebrating this morning:

Miss Callaghan won a big prize. It makes me happy when deserving people win prizes.

And ummm, hello? (Is this objectifying? If it’s objectifying I’ll take it down.) But that’s really something, right? Boast, boast, brag, brag.

Accidents

Weekend, weekend, weekend, weekend, WEEKEND!

Wednesday: Box Office at the Folger and Tunni’s afterwards. Thursday: THE TRIAL at Catalyst and Tunni’s afterwards. Friday: Box Office at the Folger. Saturday: Box Office for both shows at Catalyst and Tunni’s afterwards.

And you wonder why I don’t write more about my thrilling, unpredictable life?

Oh, wait. I did go to another Burlesque show at Palace of Wonders with Shawn and producer-man as *research* for a show. And I put that in irony asterisks because it sounds like it wants to be a joke, but it isn’t. It actually was research.

The burlesque show was not all that great. I don’t know if I would know the difference between good burlesque and bad burlesque, but based on the two shows I have now seen at Palace of Wonders “Burlesque” basically means a less sexy strip show that uses some humor and only gets down to pasties and bottoms. No full nudity. And some irony. And a greater acceptance of varied body types.

If anyone out there can give me a better definition, bring it on.

It was an interesting evening, capped off by a terrible event. Shawn and I left the bar and were sorting some things out with producer-man when we heard a dog get hit by a car. It was, truly, the most harrowing noise I have ever heard. That dog’s cries will stay with me for years. Maybe a lifetime. Several people carried him out of the street and placed him on the corner. He was collared and so small and sweet, please people keep an eye on your dogs, don’t let this happen to them, and we had to walk by the terrified broken pup, Shawn was very protective, “Don’t look that way, you don’t want to look, please don’t look Citymouse”. So I didn’t. And I’m glad. But the sound. The awful sound.

When I got home I showered Holden with love. He was all confused. “Large cold woman why are you letting me crawl all over you? Why are you cradling me? Why aren’t you kicking me out of your room yet?” I needed to give a creature some love after that experience. Holden was the lucky receiver. Take it while you can get it, furry one.

Spoooooky

Standing Room

Listen to this week’s THIS AMERICAN LIFE. Hamlet in prison. Great episode. Life affirming and all.

So much theater this week. I got back from Connecticut and was all like, “I am just not in the mood to see theater right now.” So I saw five shows in seven days and my eyes bled and my bum fell asleep and I patted myself on the back for being cultured and in the know.

Actually, it’s just that everything is opening right now. And it’s good to see theater and people. And all of it has really been good stuff, very different stuff, all sorts of theater, but nothing that I wouldn’t whole-heartedly recommend.

So:
MADE IN CHINA, AMBITION FACING WEST, THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, CALIGULA and THE TRIAL.

Consider yourselves recommended.

Go forth and enjoy.

Celebrate

I’m waking up every morning feeling like I have a cold. But I don’t think I do. I think I am mildly allergic to the cat, or at least my body is not used to having a warm heavy breathing furry thing perch itself on my chest for hours on end while I try to read. He doesn’t sleep in my room but I let him hang out there quite a bit. I’m wondering if we need to take a little break.

Find ourselves.

Remember why we got into this in the first place.

We don’t have to split up.

I just need to be able to breathe again.

Literally, cat, I need to breathe.

So the wedding. The wedding!

Most. Amazing. Wedding.

The best man gave a very quick toast before dinner and said, “There is so much love in this room…!” And that’s the best way to say it. So much love at this wedding. So much love amongst friends, family, colleagues. It just felt like, we have all been through so much together—at different times in our lives, for different reasons, with different end results—but we have been there for each other, and now we get to revel in the joys of life for one whole night. And by “we” I mean the universal “we”. Everyone, whether I know their story or not, seemed driven to celebrate what life is because it had taken so much to get there.

The humanity was uber present.

So we ate, we drank, we dressed up pretty, we listened to words carefully chosen and eloquently executed, we were surrounded in songs so perfect for this couple, we reveled in the sunshine and in the dusk as it fell around us, we stood beneath the leaves and trees and migrating ducks and we danced, we danced, oh how we danced.

So many mention-worthy highlights: the stunning vows that MB and Jason wrote and committed to heart and presented to each other, the remarkable beauty of the bride, the perfect-ness of every wedding element from sunflower bouquets to the oysters at the raw bar to the selection of the readings to the martini luge (yes, look it up), J-Lo on the dance floor singing EVERY SINGLE WORD to Ice, Ice, Baby, J-Church on the dance floor doing things with his body that I had no idea could be done (not like that silly), great music—the Pogues, the Proclaimers, James Brown, G & R—not a cheesy choice in the bunch, slow dancing with my fake-date Joey P., Papa Fritzky literally dancing the night away, smiles, hugs and laughter everywhere.

Good times. Let’s all do it again some time, shall we?

Punk Heebs

The last seven days have been a divine mix of joy and melancholy.

I did not go up for my aunt’s funereal. The cousins were not encouraged to--no one wanted anyone to turn their lives around for it and so we didn’t.

The whole thing still feels a little surreal to me. I found out she had died when I checked my email on my phone while in line outside of the Black Cat. I was waiting to attend a panel discussion on a book about the connections between the punk movement and Judaism (The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's, by Steven Lee Beeber).

I know--WTF, Citymouse! What two groups could have less in common?

If you clear the picture of white-skinhead-neo-nazi-youth-punks from your mind it actually starts to make sense.

Jews have been involved in nearly every fringe movement this nation has experienced. Mr. Beeber spoke much more eloquently than I ever could about a history of questioning and examination, or being an outsider population, of the drive to make the planet a better place, that are important values to both punks and jews. Sometimes it felt a little bit like an outing ceremony (two of the Ramones? Jewish. Lou Reed? Jewish. The guy who founded CBGB’s? Jewish.)

In the review of the book on Beliefnet, Saul Austerlitz explains, “According to Beeber, the common thread for many of these Jewish punks was a desire to overturn the stereotype of the feeble, brainy Jew, the yeshiva student or the bespectacled clerk, replacing him with a brawny Jew in closer touch with his inner beast, and intent on shocking society out of its narcotized comfort.”

Anyway—I read the aforementioned email on my phone, and then spun into a “what do I do now? Should I go home?” spiral. I spoke briefly with my dad, who’d emailed me because my voicemail had been out of commission ALL DAY (fuck you Sprint networks) and so, he sent it in print. Weird, weird.

I stayed. I was already there. Hanvnah was introducing the event, and I was looking forward to catching up with her, something that doesn’t happen nearly often enough. And the discussion was interesting. At times the connections between jews and punks felt a little bit forced, but as Hanvnah said, I like jews and I like punks, so how could it not, in some way, be an engaging evening? It inspired me to take another crack at Lipstick Traces, a book I started when we were first working on Titus!. I couldn’t get through it, my mind was all over the place then and the book is written in a somewhat slapdash, pastiche style—that mirrors the movement it examines—but that I just couldn’t get in to. I’m still working on ULYSSES, and will now take a break from that for October’s Book Club pick, MOTHER NIGHT, but after that maybe I’ll look back at the Marcus book.

And it was wonderful catching up with Hanvnah, let that be said. I am very glad I stayed.

The rest of the week felt like it needed to be life as usual. I wasted no time in jumping back into my social life here, and was very happy to see people, and theater, and friends, and cats, and cousins, and all sorts of welcome sights again.

The wedding? The wedding will have to wait until the next post. I am trying to get back on a more consistent schedule of posting. We’ll see how that goes.

Processing

My aunt passed away today. Yesterday. Tuesday. Whenever that was. Maybe I shouldn't write about it. Anyway, I'm not good at dealing with these things. Who is.

The truth of it is, I am terrified of death. Always have been. As a child I was scared of the dark, but really, I was scared of death. Imagining that someone was once here and with us, and is then gone, and will never be with us again, is an overwhelming and fearful idea to me.

I sound selfish. I sound like I am making this about me. It's not about me.

I am trying desperately to find the thing that we take away from an event like this to make the world, our lives, someone else's life--better off. Be well. Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.

That's all I've got right now.

Mainstream Economics

Okay, so for me to go to the SWELL SEASON show in November it will cost me $50. If I buy a ticket for a friend, that’s $100. Goodness. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of concert that would set me back $100.

Tickets to see Maroon 5 at the MCI Center are $50. To see Springsteen? $70. Those aren’t so surprising. But Swell Season seems like it would be a lower profile show.

And I am head over heels now for Glen Hansard, and all the while walking around Grafton Street I was like, he’s here, I’m going to see him busking (I didn’t of course—‘cause that was a movie and this is real life, and in real life he's not a street performer/vacuum repairman) but I have grown content with the fact that the shows I want to see will rarely cost more than $30. So there you have it. I don’t like paying mainstream prices for my not entirely mainstream tastes.

Speaking of bargains: Sunday’s Post had a great feature about Catalyst’s $10 ticket policy. The guys look and sound great. Here’s hoping this will be another publicity boost for the season.

In other news, I have taken to reading the corresponding Cliffs Notes' chapter with each chapter I read in Ulysses. The notes can be annoying—they get way too much into the symbolism of every nook and cranny of language in a way that I think completely distracts from the actual story-telling—but nonetheless, they are helping to keep me on track.

For Real This Time

I’m back. Feeling a bit overwhelmed playing catch up, so I’m still not altogether present.

But the show in Connecticut shaped up quite well. The owner of the company—in from Boca Raton—got all teary after watching it. It is such a moving story, that much of the work was done for us. I was sad to say good bye to my sweet company of actors. They were a delightful bunch and I do hope we all cross paths again.

My parents drove up to Milford on Friday night for a bit of a visit. We actually had a pretty wonderful dinner at a restaurant in the marina in Milford (Connecticut, by the way, as I think I have failed to mention). Then back to the Ho Jo where they stayed the night, a brief once through of my Ireland photos, finally to bed, then up at 6:30am to get breakfast and head into the city where they dropped me off at Port Authority for my trip back to DC. Easy ride home--quick, quick shower and change—then off to a bachelorette bar crawl along the H Street corridor.

Which went very well, I’d say. We started at Dr. Granville’s, which has worked out any of the service/logistical issues that we experienced when we went soon after its opening. The mussels and fries were divine, our waiter was helpful and prompt, and we beat the crowds by starting at 5:30. Go—but go early. Then to Martini Lounge, which was a complete hit, again nicest staff ever. And best yet: $5 martinis until 9pm. Things, ummm, got a little fuzzy after that. Literally and metaphorically. I looked at my pictures yesterday and sometime during our next stop (Palace of Wonders) my camera settings were shifted so I have a series of photos, taken, I think, without the flash on. So they are all kind of hazy looking: blurry, sort of over-exposed, as I assume my camera tried desperately to find enough light to process the image. Or something. But it kind of seems appropriate. Me and MB and a woman with bat shaped pasties. Fiona and Kate warily eyeing the woman in pasties. An image or two of a penis pen (our one bit of traditional bachelorette memorabilia—thanks to Schwartz). Did it all really happen? I think so…

We finished out the evening at Rock and Roll Hotel. Where my shoe broke. Perfect. The more resourceful types in the group helped tape my foot into it so I made it home safely, but looking only a smidge better than my shoe.

Pretty much slept the day away Sunday. A little pathetic, but necessary. The last six weeks have kind of done me in. Wonderful, wonderful: page to stage, Ireland, DC for a day, Connecticut, New York, Connecticut, New York, and finally home for a spell. But the sleep was necessary and rejuvenating.

And I love getting away because it actually makes me glad to be back. The hill looks glorious today, and I am so content to be in a city where I have myriad of dining, shopping, viewing options available for my choosing, all accessible by foot or metro. The things we start to take for granted, right?

And I look forward to catching up with friends. You hear that? So call me, do.