Imagine you walk into your office on some random Tuesday morning, for example. You open your e-mail and see, “Jane Q. Public, you have an E-Greeting!” as the subject line of one of your e-mails. You open said e-greeting to discover that it is from your boyfriend of three years and it is a picture of two pairs of underwear hanging on a clothes line. The caption says, “We’re a perfect pair. Will you marry me?” I’m thinking the range of emotions would go something like this:
Shock: Oh my god, is he serious?
Amusement: He can’t be serious. Who proposes via e-greeting?
Bewilderment: But what if he is serious?
Anger: He proposed to me via e-greeting? I want a ring, you cheap bastard!
Resentment: No way in hell I’m marrying a guy who proposes to me with an e-greeting.
Thus ending the relationship.
Now who, you may ask, would propose via e-greeting? Does said e-greeting even exist? Yes, yes it does. I actually saw three of them today. Count them, three. Three ways to propose to the person you want to spend the rest of your life with via e-mail. Granted, the sunset one was a smidge nicer than the underwear or the slot machine, but still. If you want to spend the rest of your life with someone and can’t get up the courage to ask in person if they feel the same way, maybe you should re-think your relationship with said person. Or if you think this is a cute way to propose, let me fill you in on a little secret – every little girl dreams of being proposed to in some grandiose way. I don’t care how butch she is or how independent, we all dream of finding that person who compliments us completely and having him produce a ring at just the right moment with just the right words. We remember the moment we get engaged for the rest of our lives and if you screw it up, chances are you won’t make it to the wedding. Sorry, boys, that’s how it goes.
Though I do have one other semi-related question: what does the guy do if the girl doesn’t right him back? Or what does the girl do if the guy doesn’t write her back (for our politically correct friends)? What does the sender do when the sendee doesn’t respond?
Friday, May 31, 2002
So I'm going to go audition next weekend for a touring show. I don't know if I'll get it, I don't know if they would even have use for me, so I'm not going to say too much. But how cool would that be? To go on tour across the country for four months? I'm pretty sure I could work out all of the logisitics here so that I would have something to come back to when I come back, but still. Eep. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up because then I won't get it and I'll just be disappointed. But I'm going to go for it. Why not? What do I have to lose by auditioning?
Thursday, May 30, 2002
Speaking of legs, I was thinking that I should walk somewhere significant. Well, the destination wouldn’t have to be so important, but the fact that I walked there would be. Like walk from Chicago to New York or something. There are all these songs about “I’d walk a thousand miles” for whatever reason, usually to see the “you that the singer sings to.” What if I walked a thousand miles? And got sponsors for it and gave the money to some worthy charity or something?
Would something like that be possible? To walk from Chicago to New York? And what besides water and clean socks would I really need to bring with me? Sunscreen. Money. Are there enough towns between Chicago and New York that I could stop frequently enough for food and rest, or would I have to bring a tent and some non-perishables with me?
I can walk about four miles an hour. If I walked for ten hours a day, that’s forty miles. It would probably be about 800 miles from my house to Midtown Manhattan. So that’s, what, twenty days? I could walk to New York in twenty days. I’d smell really bad when I got there, but I could do it. Hmmm…I may need to think about this…or pick a different destination that really is a thousand miles away from here…
Would something like that be possible? To walk from Chicago to New York? And what besides water and clean socks would I really need to bring with me? Sunscreen. Money. Are there enough towns between Chicago and New York that I could stop frequently enough for food and rest, or would I have to bring a tent and some non-perishables with me?
I can walk about four miles an hour. If I walked for ten hours a day, that’s forty miles. It would probably be about 800 miles from my house to Midtown Manhattan. So that’s, what, twenty days? I could walk to New York in twenty days. I’d smell really bad when I got there, but I could do it. Hmmm…I may need to think about this…or pick a different destination that really is a thousand miles away from here…
I wore shorts last night. Not in public, mind you. In the privacy of my own home. (That’s pr-ih-va-cy, not pr-eye-va-cy, mind you.) But I wore them, nonetheless. For about four hours. It was unnerving and liberating at the same time. Why am I telling you this? Because it leads us nicely into:
Reason #463 why we think Kitty is on crack.
I have nice legs. Really nice legs. I should show them off more often. I don’t think my thighs are too big. I have lovely quads. My calves are nice and round. Cute ankles. I have really nice legs and I hide them all of the time. Partially because I don’t want them to get sunburned (in the summer) or because I want to keep them warm (in the winter), but I want to take a moment and give wicked mad props to my legs. They have withstood constant abuse, what with my random walking though the city for miles and miles at night and with all of the countless bruises endured on the social dance floor and the Osgoodschlatter’s disease I had in junior high. But my legs are still there, kickin’ away, carrying me everywhere I want to go and looking cute while they do it.
So while I will probably continue to keep them hidden most of the time, I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate my legs and everything that they do for me. I’m so lucky to have them.
Reason #463 why we think Kitty is on crack.
I have nice legs. Really nice legs. I should show them off more often. I don’t think my thighs are too big. I have lovely quads. My calves are nice and round. Cute ankles. I have really nice legs and I hide them all of the time. Partially because I don’t want them to get sunburned (in the summer) or because I want to keep them warm (in the winter), but I want to take a moment and give wicked mad props to my legs. They have withstood constant abuse, what with my random walking though the city for miles and miles at night and with all of the countless bruises endured on the social dance floor and the Osgoodschlatter’s disease I had in junior high. But my legs are still there, kickin’ away, carrying me everywhere I want to go and looking cute while they do it.
So while I will probably continue to keep them hidden most of the time, I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate my legs and everything that they do for me. I’m so lucky to have them.
I followed a link from Moby’s site to the site of an artist named James Turrell. I hadn’t really heard of him before, but I was trying to kill some time so I figured what the hell. And it got me thinking. (Oh, no, not another one of those blogs. I know, I can feel all of your little eyeballs rolling back in your little heads as you brace yourself for another strange Kittyblog.)
But first, there are bees on the flowers outside my window. That makes me happy.
Anyway, Turrell. From what I can gather from the pictures and descriptions of his works on his website, he did a lot of work with light and vision and how the human mind perceives light or the total lack thereof. He did one piece called Soft Cell wherein the viewer would go into a soundproof chamber where the lights would go off when the person sat in the chair in the middle of the room. And the viewer sits there in total darkness with no sound for about ten minutes before small adjustments are made with light. Kind of like being in an isolation tank, I guess. He did another one wherein the viewer is surrounded in light, like a tanning bed, I’m guessing, but without the purpose of turning brown in mind. And as the viewer experiences these works, the works become whatever the viewer perceives them to be, kind of. I don’t know. I’ve never seen any of his work up close and personal, I’m only hypothesizing. Just like I’ve never been in an isolation tank (though I wouldn’t mind trying it), but I can guess that the experience is different for each person who tries it because the experience becomes one that is generated in each person’s mind as his or her senses are slowly deprived of external stimulus. Or over-stimulated, as in the case of the one where the viewer is encased in light.
But this got me thinking about human vision and reality. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” is a catch phrase that a lot of people use as a cop out or as an excuse to not believe something that is outside the realm of his or her own reality. I wonder if this was the impetus behind the creation of photography and television – to prove things to people who need to see something with their own eyes. But when your eyes are deprived of external stimulus, you don’t just sit there looking at black. The rods and cones in your eyes work with your brain to produce images of things that aren’t there, things that exist in your mind only. So are those images real? You are seeing them with your own eyes, aren’t you?
So what defines real? Is something real if you can see it? Is something real if you can touch it? Is something real if you can smell it? The five human senses are wonderful tools that we can use to operate in the physical world around us, but as has been shown time and time again, our senses aren’t perfect. People can have audio, visual, and olfactory hallucinations. Or stimulation of one sense can lead to stimulation of another (sense memory). Whenever I smell Zest soap, I think of my grandmother’s bathroom in Minnesota and then I can see the strawberries on the wallpaper in there and feel the bath mats beneath my feet and I can begin to remember the feelings I had when I would go and visit her. And all of these things can become as vivid as if I was there. Are they real? Of course not. I’m sitting at my desk in my office, not at my grandma’s house in Minnesota. But I experienced them, so why are they not real?
I don’t know. I don’t have one solid definition for reality. I don’t think there is one because my best guess is that there is no one solid reality. I think that each person, each animal, each plant has its own reality and then there might be one great big reality that encompasses us all. I don’t think we’ll ever know what that great big reality is, but we can figure out our own realities and work as well as we can within them and try to make the places where our individual realities overlap with other people’s realities as pleasant as possible. But this could explain things like bigotry and hatred and misunderstanding – in my reality, there is nothing wrong with homosexuality, but in someone else’s, there might be. I have no idea what that reality would be like, but it could be out there. Just like there could be millions of alternate universes that are created whenever we make choices in our life paths like in that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Maybe I should keep my crazy talk to myself and funnel it in to science fiction stories.
But first, there are bees on the flowers outside my window. That makes me happy.
Anyway, Turrell. From what I can gather from the pictures and descriptions of his works on his website, he did a lot of work with light and vision and how the human mind perceives light or the total lack thereof. He did one piece called Soft Cell wherein the viewer would go into a soundproof chamber where the lights would go off when the person sat in the chair in the middle of the room. And the viewer sits there in total darkness with no sound for about ten minutes before small adjustments are made with light. Kind of like being in an isolation tank, I guess. He did another one wherein the viewer is surrounded in light, like a tanning bed, I’m guessing, but without the purpose of turning brown in mind. And as the viewer experiences these works, the works become whatever the viewer perceives them to be, kind of. I don’t know. I’ve never seen any of his work up close and personal, I’m only hypothesizing. Just like I’ve never been in an isolation tank (though I wouldn’t mind trying it), but I can guess that the experience is different for each person who tries it because the experience becomes one that is generated in each person’s mind as his or her senses are slowly deprived of external stimulus. Or over-stimulated, as in the case of the one where the viewer is encased in light.
But this got me thinking about human vision and reality. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” is a catch phrase that a lot of people use as a cop out or as an excuse to not believe something that is outside the realm of his or her own reality. I wonder if this was the impetus behind the creation of photography and television – to prove things to people who need to see something with their own eyes. But when your eyes are deprived of external stimulus, you don’t just sit there looking at black. The rods and cones in your eyes work with your brain to produce images of things that aren’t there, things that exist in your mind only. So are those images real? You are seeing them with your own eyes, aren’t you?
So what defines real? Is something real if you can see it? Is something real if you can touch it? Is something real if you can smell it? The five human senses are wonderful tools that we can use to operate in the physical world around us, but as has been shown time and time again, our senses aren’t perfect. People can have audio, visual, and olfactory hallucinations. Or stimulation of one sense can lead to stimulation of another (sense memory). Whenever I smell Zest soap, I think of my grandmother’s bathroom in Minnesota and then I can see the strawberries on the wallpaper in there and feel the bath mats beneath my feet and I can begin to remember the feelings I had when I would go and visit her. And all of these things can become as vivid as if I was there. Are they real? Of course not. I’m sitting at my desk in my office, not at my grandma’s house in Minnesota. But I experienced them, so why are they not real?
I don’t know. I don’t have one solid definition for reality. I don’t think there is one because my best guess is that there is no one solid reality. I think that each person, each animal, each plant has its own reality and then there might be one great big reality that encompasses us all. I don’t think we’ll ever know what that great big reality is, but we can figure out our own realities and work as well as we can within them and try to make the places where our individual realities overlap with other people’s realities as pleasant as possible. But this could explain things like bigotry and hatred and misunderstanding – in my reality, there is nothing wrong with homosexuality, but in someone else’s, there might be. I have no idea what that reality would be like, but it could be out there. Just like there could be millions of alternate universes that are created whenever we make choices in our life paths like in that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Maybe I should keep my crazy talk to myself and funnel it in to science fiction stories.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
Okay, something that I find interesting/funny about techno music:
The people who make and/or spin techno music need a tremendous amount of patience. Back in the days before computerized mixers and stuff, if a DJ wanted a drum beat, he had to play it for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted a cymbal on every seven, he had to play a cymbal on every seven for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted some sampled sound to come in every other three, he had to play that sampled sound every other three. There was no copying and pasting this sixteen measures over here kind of technology, but these people would sit and work out these amazing songs with layer upon layer upon layer of sound. And the mixing process when a DJ is actually spinning takes an incredible amount of patience, too. You put on one record. Then find another record that you think the first one would blend well with. You listen half with the headphones to your new song and half through the speakers to the record already playing, match the speeds, wait for the sweet spot, and slowly start adding the second song into the first until the first one is completely gone. DJs are always concentrating. If they have a five minute record, they might have a minute to chill, but if you watch a really good DJ, he/she always knows exactly where and when to throw on the next record. And once the speeds are matched, it can be a two-minute process to phase one song in and the other one out. They have to be alert and focused and steady and patient.
Yet the vast majority of the people who enjoy listening to techno music are hyperactive kids with MTV attention spans.
I dunno. It amuses me.
The people who make and/or spin techno music need a tremendous amount of patience. Back in the days before computerized mixers and stuff, if a DJ wanted a drum beat, he had to play it for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted a cymbal on every seven, he had to play a cymbal on every seven for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted some sampled sound to come in every other three, he had to play that sampled sound every other three. There was no copying and pasting this sixteen measures over here kind of technology, but these people would sit and work out these amazing songs with layer upon layer upon layer of sound. And the mixing process when a DJ is actually spinning takes an incredible amount of patience, too. You put on one record. Then find another record that you think the first one would blend well with. You listen half with the headphones to your new song and half through the speakers to the record already playing, match the speeds, wait for the sweet spot, and slowly start adding the second song into the first until the first one is completely gone. DJs are always concentrating. If they have a five minute record, they might have a minute to chill, but if you watch a really good DJ, he/she always knows exactly where and when to throw on the next record. And once the speeds are matched, it can be a two-minute process to phase one song in and the other one out. They have to be alert and focused and steady and patient.
Yet the vast majority of the people who enjoy listening to techno music are hyperactive kids with MTV attention spans.
I dunno. It amuses me.
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
So it was a nice, lovely, quiet holiday weekend. I didn't do much. Ate too much chocolate. Played my guitar (badly) down by the lake for some friends (I'm so sorry!). Watched Cannibal: The Musical. What a lovely bit of B-movie making that is. "The sky is blue/And all the leaves are green/My heart's as full as a baked potata/I think I know exactly what I mean/When I say, 'It's a schpedoinkel day!'" Tee hee.
I don't know what my problem is with singing in front of people. I'm an actor. I have a decent voice. I can carry a tune. Singing is just somehow much more personal to me than talking. Particularly singing things that I wrote because then it is my heart and soul up there on display for anyone within earshot. And what if they don't like it? What if they say I'm no good? I just don't think I could handle that kind of rejection. Tee hee. But seriously, I do have problems with singing in front of people and it is something I want to work on. But if you walk up to me and just randomly ask me to sing, you'll probably get little more than a smack upside the head. Because I know exactly which one of you, my seven faithful readers, would do that and you'd be doing it just to piss me off, so yeah, I'd hit ya. Not hard, but I'd hit ya.
There go my dreams of being a rock star, huh?
I don't know what my problem is with singing in front of people. I'm an actor. I have a decent voice. I can carry a tune. Singing is just somehow much more personal to me than talking. Particularly singing things that I wrote because then it is my heart and soul up there on display for anyone within earshot. And what if they don't like it? What if they say I'm no good? I just don't think I could handle that kind of rejection. Tee hee. But seriously, I do have problems with singing in front of people and it is something I want to work on. But if you walk up to me and just randomly ask me to sing, you'll probably get little more than a smack upside the head. Because I know exactly which one of you, my seven faithful readers, would do that and you'd be doing it just to piss me off, so yeah, I'd hit ya. Not hard, but I'd hit ya.
There go my dreams of being a rock star, huh?
I love the soundtrack of the city at night. It is worth taking a two-hour walk just to listen to all of the different sounds. The different sizes and types of car, truck, bus, and motorcycle engines. The heavy bass blasting from one car stereo followed by the thumping Mariachi music from the next. The buzz of the streetlights and the electric generators and air conditioners. The chatter of people sitting out on their front porch enjoying a beautiful summer night in Chicago. The snippets of conversations from the people passing by in the opposite direction. The music spilling out on to the street from any number of bars and nightclubs. The wind through your own hair. And each sound has a memory that goes with it, sometimes moreso than the visual cues you pick up on as you walk down the street. It is truly a walk down memory lane and it is so wonderful that coming home to my warm, comfy, beautiful apartment is a disappointment by comparison.
Friday, May 24, 2002
I'm playing hookey today. I know, I should care more about my job. I should be more responsible. But you know what? One of the perks of my job is a ridiculous amount of paid vacation time and paid sick leave. So since I have had nothing to do for the past couple of weeks while I am at work, I figured I could take a day off and live my life. And how fortunate that we all get Monday off, too. I now get a lovely four day weekend wherein I don't really have much to do. But at least it is more interesting stuff to not do than the stuff I don't do at work. If that makes sense.
For example, I started my day by watching footage of an 80-something year old mostly blind man dance. And I must say that while he may no longer have the stamina to last an entire song, he is a better dancer than a lot of the "new school" lindy hoppers out there right now. And it cracks me up that lindy hoppers can be divided into "old school" and "new school." Talk about a clash of street creeds. And while I was watching him dance (on a videotape, actually), I ate oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. I love oatmeal. Oatmeal doesn't get nearly enough credit. I wrote a paper on oatmeal once. It was fun.
And now I am catching up on my pop culture. I came out to my dad's house to get my bicycle. I was having delusions of grandeur wherein I start riding my bike places to get exercise and stop using my car so much (to save on gas money) only to find that my tires are 100% shot. I pumped them up to a decent pressure and they died as soon as I sat on the darn thing. And as I can't really afford new bike tires right now, I guess I'll have to go back to walking places. Or start dancing more again. Something like that. But anyway, so now I'm at my dad's watching VH-1 and MTV. Because I can. I finally saw Moby's new video, though I guess it really isn't new anymore, huh? But I saw it. I feel like I'm being a real fan now. I probably shouldn't mention the dream I had last night, huh?
Okay, I will. I dreamt we were filming the last couple of days worth of stuff on this film I'm currently shooting (Dancing with Gaia) and for some reason Moby was there to watch the shoot that day. He had me running around doing PA type tasks until I got to shoot. I think he was confused by the fact that I was a performer, not part of the crew. I blame that on my character's clothing. But yeah, I got to shoot this one scene (which isn't actually in the film but involved this woman who isn't necessarily my favorite person in the world drowning in a car that was sinking in a flooded building while her male counterpart talked to me on his cell phone and much hilarity ensued as it can only in your dreams. Or only in my dreams.) and it went pretty well and then the DP of the film told me that he had a crush on one of the extras, who happens to be a friend of mine. I remember feeling the stubble on his chin when it brushed against my cheek as he whispered into my ear that he had a crush on her and that's about all I remember now. *shrug* So I have weird dreams. So sue me.
Okay, I probably shouldn't even post this because it is the epitome of random stream of conscious writing that comes from the bowels of Kitty's brain. But hey, that's what this is all about, right? The bowels of Kitty's brain? Well, welcome. You wonder what people think about on their day off while they do laundry and watch cheesy pop culture icons on TV? This would be it. Or proof that TV rots your brain. One of the two.
This? This is your brain. This? This is your brain on TV. Any questions?
For example, I started my day by watching footage of an 80-something year old mostly blind man dance. And I must say that while he may no longer have the stamina to last an entire song, he is a better dancer than a lot of the "new school" lindy hoppers out there right now. And it cracks me up that lindy hoppers can be divided into "old school" and "new school." Talk about a clash of street creeds. And while I was watching him dance (on a videotape, actually), I ate oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. I love oatmeal. Oatmeal doesn't get nearly enough credit. I wrote a paper on oatmeal once. It was fun.
And now I am catching up on my pop culture. I came out to my dad's house to get my bicycle. I was having delusions of grandeur wherein I start riding my bike places to get exercise and stop using my car so much (to save on gas money) only to find that my tires are 100% shot. I pumped them up to a decent pressure and they died as soon as I sat on the darn thing. And as I can't really afford new bike tires right now, I guess I'll have to go back to walking places. Or start dancing more again. Something like that. But anyway, so now I'm at my dad's watching VH-1 and MTV. Because I can. I finally saw Moby's new video, though I guess it really isn't new anymore, huh? But I saw it. I feel like I'm being a real fan now. I probably shouldn't mention the dream I had last night, huh?
Okay, I will. I dreamt we were filming the last couple of days worth of stuff on this film I'm currently shooting (Dancing with Gaia) and for some reason Moby was there to watch the shoot that day. He had me running around doing PA type tasks until I got to shoot. I think he was confused by the fact that I was a performer, not part of the crew. I blame that on my character's clothing. But yeah, I got to shoot this one scene (which isn't actually in the film but involved this woman who isn't necessarily my favorite person in the world drowning in a car that was sinking in a flooded building while her male counterpart talked to me on his cell phone and much hilarity ensued as it can only in your dreams. Or only in my dreams.) and it went pretty well and then the DP of the film told me that he had a crush on one of the extras, who happens to be a friend of mine. I remember feeling the stubble on his chin when it brushed against my cheek as he whispered into my ear that he had a crush on her and that's about all I remember now. *shrug* So I have weird dreams. So sue me.
Okay, I probably shouldn't even post this because it is the epitome of random stream of conscious writing that comes from the bowels of Kitty's brain. But hey, that's what this is all about, right? The bowels of Kitty's brain? Well, welcome. You wonder what people think about on their day off while they do laundry and watch cheesy pop culture icons on TV? This would be it. Or proof that TV rots your brain. One of the two.
This? This is your brain. This? This is your brain on TV. Any questions?
Thursday, May 23, 2002
I don’t understand prejudice. I don’t understand racists. I don’t understand homophobia. Maybe I have just been incredibly blessed to know so many different people from so many different walks of life, but I don’t get it. How can you say that all homosexuals are wrong or paranoid or girlie or butch or whatever? How can you make a sweeping generalization about an entire country of people? Can somebody please explain this way of thinking to me? I mean, I understand running into a few bad eggs every now and again, but we all run into bad eggs from all walks of life. If you take a cross section of any segment of the population – Africans, Native Americans, Europeans, Middle Easterners, Caucasians, Asians, homosexuals, heterosexuals, whoever you want to pick out – I bet that there will be a pretty even distribution of “good” people and “bad” people in your sample. And I’m betting that the percentages of “good” to “bad” are pretty similar between cross sections. People are people. Why is that so hard to understand?
I’m sorry, but this is really bugging me. I met a random man today who seemed all nice and pleasant and intelligent and such until he made some very racist remarks and it sullied my day. It sullied my image of him. I physically watched him become ugly as he stood there in front of me and I just can’t get past it.
I know, if I am going to sit here and preach tolerance, I should be tolerant of everyone, regardless of his or her beliefs. But I have a certain prejudice against closed-minded people. Whatever experiences this man may have had however many years ago, that does not give him the right to judge people he is just meeting now who probably weren’t even alive back then.
I’m sorry. I sound like a horrible person. I’m angry and upset. Fuck, I’m not even 25 years old yet and I have a greater capacity to forgive than this man twice my age who I am supposed to look up to and kiss the ass of. That’s not right. I don’t think everyone should think like me, but I don’t think anyone should think like him. That is what causes things like September 11 to happen – hatred and stereotypes and unfounded judgments and sweeping generalizations. What good does it do you to think like that? Does it make you feel safe? Does it make you feel better than everyone else? Because all I can see it doing is closing off opportunities for you to meet some incredible people and learn some incredible things. And it makes you look small and ugly in the eyes of some other incredible people. It just makes me so sad. I’m sorry. I’m stopping now.
I’m sorry, but this is really bugging me. I met a random man today who seemed all nice and pleasant and intelligent and such until he made some very racist remarks and it sullied my day. It sullied my image of him. I physically watched him become ugly as he stood there in front of me and I just can’t get past it.
I know, if I am going to sit here and preach tolerance, I should be tolerant of everyone, regardless of his or her beliefs. But I have a certain prejudice against closed-minded people. Whatever experiences this man may have had however many years ago, that does not give him the right to judge people he is just meeting now who probably weren’t even alive back then.
I’m sorry. I sound like a horrible person. I’m angry and upset. Fuck, I’m not even 25 years old yet and I have a greater capacity to forgive than this man twice my age who I am supposed to look up to and kiss the ass of. That’s not right. I don’t think everyone should think like me, but I don’t think anyone should think like him. That is what causes things like September 11 to happen – hatred and stereotypes and unfounded judgments and sweeping generalizations. What good does it do you to think like that? Does it make you feel safe? Does it make you feel better than everyone else? Because all I can see it doing is closing off opportunities for you to meet some incredible people and learn some incredible things. And it makes you look small and ugly in the eyes of some other incredible people. It just makes me so sad. I’m sorry. I’m stopping now.
It looks like my archives are kind of screwy again. For which I apologize. I know how much you all love to read my incessant drivel. But trust me, I will stay on top of the situation and when the lovely people at Blogger.com decide to fix the problem, my archives will be back and viewable to all.
Man, I really need to get my own site up and running...
Man, I really need to get my own site up and running...
So I pulled my usual “I’m not leaving my house tonight” thing last night and watched probably more TV than is healthy. But I got one really good laugh out of it and they say laughter is good for you, right?
There was this show on that was like Bloopers, but from game shows. The clip that had me laughing hardest was not the woman on the Newlywed Game where a woman answered “In the ass” when asked what is the strangest place she had ever been tempted to “make whoopie,” but rather a clip from the British equivalent of Family Feud. It went a little something like this:
Host: Name something you take to the beach.
Contestant: Turkey
Host: Name the first thing you buy at the grocery store.
Contestant: Um, turkey
Host: Name an animal that is usually stuffed.
Contestant: Turkey
By this point, I’m rolling, laughing so hard I woke up my cat and he just sat there giving me the evil eye. I think it is partially because “turkey” is such a wonderful word to say with an English accent, but taking turkey to the beach? And for all that, the guy got 21 points. I laughed for about ten minutes straight – through the commercial break and into the next couple of clips.
There was also a woman on Family Feud who replied, “September” when asked, “During which months does a woman begin to look like she is pregnant?” That one had the host literally rolling on the floor. They had to stop the clock because both the host and the contestant just couldn’t get it together.
So yeah, fun was had by all. Except my cat who then moved to his pillow on the floor ‘cuz my laughing was shaking the whole couch.
There was this show on that was like Bloopers, but from game shows. The clip that had me laughing hardest was not the woman on the Newlywed Game where a woman answered “In the ass” when asked what is the strangest place she had ever been tempted to “make whoopie,” but rather a clip from the British equivalent of Family Feud. It went a little something like this:
Host: Name something you take to the beach.
Contestant: Turkey
Host: Name the first thing you buy at the grocery store.
Contestant: Um, turkey
Host: Name an animal that is usually stuffed.
Contestant: Turkey
By this point, I’m rolling, laughing so hard I woke up my cat and he just sat there giving me the evil eye. I think it is partially because “turkey” is such a wonderful word to say with an English accent, but taking turkey to the beach? And for all that, the guy got 21 points. I laughed for about ten minutes straight – through the commercial break and into the next couple of clips.
There was also a woman on Family Feud who replied, “September” when asked, “During which months does a woman begin to look like she is pregnant?” That one had the host literally rolling on the floor. They had to stop the clock because both the host and the contestant just couldn’t get it together.
So yeah, fun was had by all. Except my cat who then moved to his pillow on the floor ‘cuz my laughing was shaking the whole couch.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
Bless me, Bill Gates, for I am a geek. It has been a long time since my last confession. In that time, I have been guilty of the following acts of geekiness:
As penance for my geekiness, I will go out wearing pleather pance and eat a giant rum-coated ice cream sundae while having sex with seven men and not brag about it on the Internet the next day.
Or not.
- I have played many a video game. Usually while eating bittersweet chocolate. With my cat curled up at my side and/or chewing on the game controller cords.
- The video game system I have to play on is a Nintendo 64.
- I have consumed five glasses of wine and three beers since the middle of March. I go to bars and have nothing to order.
- The highlight of my day is posting in this blog.
- I am known across the country as the girl who did the bull fighting and doggie breaks at the American Lindy Hop Championships.
- I have a crush on a rock star I will never meet. I sent him a letter he will never read. Yet this is a source of comfort for me.
- I have not been on an actual date in five months. The date I went on five months ago was extremely painful at the time, but is now just a source of much laughter for me and my friends.
- I like sci-fi movies. I like Oingo Boingo and boys who shave their heads. I like curling up with my cat on my couch and not answering my phone all evening. I haven’t answered my phone in two days.
- I like fake meat and cheese products.
- I sing to my cat.
- I daydream about being famous and not working behind a desk all day.
- I wore a thermal top, flannel pants, and thick socks to bed last night and still woke up cold.
- I can sing Monty Python songs and can hold my own in a Simpsons quote war.
- I listened intently while my friend described his job to me. While I was lying next to him in my bed. Not touching him. Him not touching me ‘cuz he has a girlfriend.
- I keep taking IQ tests and finding that I am way above average.
- I keep listening to the same four CDs over and over and over and over and over…
- My TV has rabbit ears.
- I can’t draw for shit, but when I do, I use crayon.
As penance for my geekiness, I will go out wearing pleather pance and eat a giant rum-coated ice cream sundae while having sex with seven men and not brag about it on the Internet the next day.
Or not.
I’m sorry, but I need to complain about this for a second.
As part of my job, I fill out the vouchers for my boss’ association memberships and such. He is a surgeon and very high up on the political ladder at this University so he belongs to a lot of associations and the University pays for his memberships. Which is fine. I think the University should. However, this particular morning, I am upset about one of the vouchers I just mailed off for approval and when I give you these two tidbits of information, perhaps you will agree with me. Or perhaps you won’t and I’ll get sued for libel, but I’m just presenting the facts here and will later express an opinion, which belongs solely to me and will not be acted upon other than writing a pissy blog entry about it.
The State is in a budget crunch. Whenever the economy goes into a recession, the first thing to lose funding is higher education. As the majority of the funding for this institution is government money, the University is in a budget crunch. Meaning we are in the middle of a hiring freeze and to the best of my knowledge, nobody is getting a raise this year – not even the standard 3% cost of living increase. Which is kind of disappointing, yes, but at the same time, I’m doing okay. Not going out much, but doing okay. But here’s tidbit #2 for you – one of the vouchers I filled out this morning for my boss’ membership in an organization amounted to about half of my annual salary. For one year’s membership in this organization. Yes, it is a good organization for my boss to belong to, but with membership dues that high? Kind of makes you think.
Now, I‘m not asking for a 50% raise – I don’t need that much money. But the 3% standard would be nice. It would be nice if every employee here at the University could get his or her annual 3% raise. I can’t help but think how many people, even in just my department, could get that extra hundred dollars a month if those membership dues weren’t so outrageous. I dunno. I know I shouldn’t be asking for more than I already have because, as I said before, I am very rich in a lot of ways. This just struck me as being a smidge imbalanced is all.
And no, I’m not a communist. Communism only works in theory. In practice, it is a disaster.
As part of my job, I fill out the vouchers for my boss’ association memberships and such. He is a surgeon and very high up on the political ladder at this University so he belongs to a lot of associations and the University pays for his memberships. Which is fine. I think the University should. However, this particular morning, I am upset about one of the vouchers I just mailed off for approval and when I give you these two tidbits of information, perhaps you will agree with me. Or perhaps you won’t and I’ll get sued for libel, but I’m just presenting the facts here and will later express an opinion, which belongs solely to me and will not be acted upon other than writing a pissy blog entry about it.
The State is in a budget crunch. Whenever the economy goes into a recession, the first thing to lose funding is higher education. As the majority of the funding for this institution is government money, the University is in a budget crunch. Meaning we are in the middle of a hiring freeze and to the best of my knowledge, nobody is getting a raise this year – not even the standard 3% cost of living increase. Which is kind of disappointing, yes, but at the same time, I’m doing okay. Not going out much, but doing okay. But here’s tidbit #2 for you – one of the vouchers I filled out this morning for my boss’ membership in an organization amounted to about half of my annual salary. For one year’s membership in this organization. Yes, it is a good organization for my boss to belong to, but with membership dues that high? Kind of makes you think.
Now, I‘m not asking for a 50% raise – I don’t need that much money. But the 3% standard would be nice. It would be nice if every employee here at the University could get his or her annual 3% raise. I can’t help but think how many people, even in just my department, could get that extra hundred dollars a month if those membership dues weren’t so outrageous. I dunno. I know I shouldn’t be asking for more than I already have because, as I said before, I am very rich in a lot of ways. This just struck me as being a smidge imbalanced is all.
And no, I’m not a communist. Communism only works in theory. In practice, it is a disaster.
Tuesday, May 21, 2002
Whoever wrote the jingle for the new Pizza Hut commercial is a genius. “Where the cheese go? Where the cheese at?” It’s so catchy you just want to shoot yourself. And when it gets to the line “Where the cheese be?” I can’t help but laugh out loud. Seriously. That sentence is so grammatically wrong yet so something a Chicagoan would say it cracks my shit up. Yay Pizza Hut jingle guy!
I was thinking last night about marriage and kids and stuff. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe because of the wedding I went to over the weekend and/or the fact that I have been telling people about it left and right. But I had marriage on the brain.
I have been to weddings in the past where I have gotten really depressed that I have no real hope that I will one day get married. The more friends I have who are my age and are getting married while I keep plugging along with nary so much as a boyfriend…it can get a person down. But I didn’t get depressed at the wedding over the weekend. I think I’m learning that that may or may not be what I really want anymore. When I was little, I used to play wedding like all little girls do. But now…I don’t know that marriage is the final answer.
My instructor friend from Switzerland said that there really isn’t this pressure on young people to get married in Europe, or at least he doesn’t feel pressured to get married. Which is kind of cool. I had an uncle with a common law wife for a while and when they determined that things weren’t working for them anymore, it was a very civilized break up. I can’t help but think that that was at least partially due to the fact that they didn’t have to go through all of the legal hassles of an official divorce. I kind of like that idea. I think that if children are involved, marriage can be a good idea, but at the same time, if you have two people who are committed to one another, what is the point of the ceremony and the party and the headaches and such? Did you know that planning a wedding has been ranked the most stressful event in a person’s life? Well, next to a planning a lindy exchange, maybe, but most people don’t plan lindy exchanges so planning a wedding will be the most stressful thing they have to do. If you could avoid that, how much happier would you be?
I don’t know. I’m obviously still torn about the whole thing. I still have the little girl fantasies of meeting Prince Charming and being swept off my feet and getting married and living happily ever after with 2.5 children and a dog. Or something to that effect. But I think I know in my heart that the kind of man I am looking for would be committed to me with or without a ring and that if we were to get married, it would be symbolic only or for tax reasons or something, you know? That our relationship would be one wherein we could get married or not get married and still love each other and treat one another the same way.
Or maybe I should just admit that I’m a fuzzy bunny cheese ball and get on with my life.
I have been to weddings in the past where I have gotten really depressed that I have no real hope that I will one day get married. The more friends I have who are my age and are getting married while I keep plugging along with nary so much as a boyfriend…it can get a person down. But I didn’t get depressed at the wedding over the weekend. I think I’m learning that that may or may not be what I really want anymore. When I was little, I used to play wedding like all little girls do. But now…I don’t know that marriage is the final answer.
My instructor friend from Switzerland said that there really isn’t this pressure on young people to get married in Europe, or at least he doesn’t feel pressured to get married. Which is kind of cool. I had an uncle with a common law wife for a while and when they determined that things weren’t working for them anymore, it was a very civilized break up. I can’t help but think that that was at least partially due to the fact that they didn’t have to go through all of the legal hassles of an official divorce. I kind of like that idea. I think that if children are involved, marriage can be a good idea, but at the same time, if you have two people who are committed to one another, what is the point of the ceremony and the party and the headaches and such? Did you know that planning a wedding has been ranked the most stressful event in a person’s life? Well, next to a planning a lindy exchange, maybe, but most people don’t plan lindy exchanges so planning a wedding will be the most stressful thing they have to do. If you could avoid that, how much happier would you be?
I don’t know. I’m obviously still torn about the whole thing. I still have the little girl fantasies of meeting Prince Charming and being swept off my feet and getting married and living happily ever after with 2.5 children and a dog. Or something to that effect. But I think I know in my heart that the kind of man I am looking for would be committed to me with or without a ring and that if we were to get married, it would be symbolic only or for tax reasons or something, you know? That our relationship would be one wherein we could get married or not get married and still love each other and treat one another the same way.
Or maybe I should just admit that I’m a fuzzy bunny cheese ball and get on with my life.
Monday, May 20, 2002
I was talking to my rent-a-date friend about our jobs this weekend. His sounds so much more interesting than mine, though I’m still not sure how “useful” in the grand scheme of things, but when you think about it, what jobs really are “useful” in the grand scheme of things? Parenting (for which you don’t get paid), healthcare workers (debatable – see my earlier tirades on Western Medicine), teachers (though again, these people hardly get paid and/or kids can learn from parents and friends), and goddamn, I’m really pessimistic today, aren’t I? That’s not my point. I was talking about jobs with my friend and he asked if I was actively seeking another job or not. Which got me thinking.
I really do hate this job. I hate not doing anything for eight hours a day and getting paid for it. I hate dressing up and coming to an office that smells like tar and is often infested with roaches and/or mice and sitting on my ass staring at a computer screen trying to look busy for eight hours a day. I hate covering the front desk all the time because our receptionist has the most germ-ridden family I have ever met (though through no fault of her own – she’s always cleaning, but she and her family are always sick). I hate it. I need to be doing things and I’m running out of ways to keep myself occupied at work.
But I love the people here. And where else am I going to find a job where my co-workers not only know I’m an actor, but encourage me to go out on auditions and will come see my performances? How often does that happen? And my sitting around all day doing nothing – I get to keep my blog, I can take online classes in other skills I would like to acquire, I can listen to pretty much any music I want to in my office that has its own door. And because I took the road less traveled and studied theater in college, I’m not really qualified to do anything that pays enough except sit here on my ass all day hoping that maybe someone will have some copies that they need me to make or something.
So I guess the conclusion is that no, I am not actively seeking other employment. I still live in Kittyland where I will one day be successful enough as an actor to not need a stupidfey day job. And until that day comes, I will stay here in my roach infested office with its own door and I will sit on my ass and try to come up with a million other ways to use the computer placed before me. Though maybe I should keep my eyes peeled just in case.
I really do hate this job. I hate not doing anything for eight hours a day and getting paid for it. I hate dressing up and coming to an office that smells like tar and is often infested with roaches and/or mice and sitting on my ass staring at a computer screen trying to look busy for eight hours a day. I hate covering the front desk all the time because our receptionist has the most germ-ridden family I have ever met (though through no fault of her own – she’s always cleaning, but she and her family are always sick). I hate it. I need to be doing things and I’m running out of ways to keep myself occupied at work.
But I love the people here. And where else am I going to find a job where my co-workers not only know I’m an actor, but encourage me to go out on auditions and will come see my performances? How often does that happen? And my sitting around all day doing nothing – I get to keep my blog, I can take online classes in other skills I would like to acquire, I can listen to pretty much any music I want to in my office that has its own door. And because I took the road less traveled and studied theater in college, I’m not really qualified to do anything that pays enough except sit here on my ass all day hoping that maybe someone will have some copies that they need me to make or something.
So I guess the conclusion is that no, I am not actively seeking other employment. I still live in Kittyland where I will one day be successful enough as an actor to not need a stupidfey day job. And until that day comes, I will stay here in my roach infested office with its own door and I will sit on my ass and try to come up with a million other ways to use the computer placed before me. Though maybe I should keep my eyes peeled just in case.
They're doing something with tar outside and the stench is filling up my building. To the point that one woman down the hall is about ready to vomit and I'm starting to get light headed.
So this blog entry has two purposes -- to first beg with you to not play with tar unless it is absolutely necessary and even then to do it at night and far away from anywhere that there might be people, and second to warn you that I might start posting even more random, incoherant blogs than I normally do 'cuz I'm gettin' high on tar fumes.
This can't be good for me.
So this blog entry has two purposes -- to first beg with you to not play with tar unless it is absolutely necessary and even then to do it at night and far away from anywhere that there might be people, and second to warn you that I might start posting even more random, incoherant blogs than I normally do 'cuz I'm gettin' high on tar fumes.
This can't be good for me.
I went to my audition yesterday and I did my monologue and I did their cold readings and I got to read the film’s script. Which was cool, but odd. You almost never get to read the script at the first audition. But it was cool. It should be a fun piece. One of the characters is so not me and the other one, I could play standing on my head with one hand tied behind my back. Which means I probably won’t get either part. Oh well. C’est la vie.
I went to an Islamic wedding over the weekend. Wow. I didn’t know either the bride or the groom (I was playing rent-a-date for a friend of mine), but man, was that beautiful. I found myself staring at all of the saris on the female relatives almost as much as I was staring at the groom’s hat and the bride herself. She looked like a doll. You know, when you go into a store that sells those really ornate dolls from all different countries and cultures? Yeah, she looked like the Indian doll. She was so beautiful. It really got me thinking about how odd the traditional Judeo-Christian wedding as I know it to be is.
I spent a lot of the Islamic wedding being rather confused because there was a lot of milling about and greeting one another and eating and such going on during the “ceremony” which seemed to largely consist of the bride and groom individually signing papers saying, “Yes, I’ll marry this person” and then greeting each guest as a couple. I can kind of see where a wedding like this would come from – arranged marriages and dowries and stuff. But I thought that it was really nice that the bride and groom faced the crowd while all of this was going on. It made it feel very open and inviting and communal. My friend remarked that it was the most formal yet informal wedding he had ever been to, meaning that the clothing and decorations and such were absolutely stunning but the atmosphere was very relaxed and open. I can’t really describe it, but I am so glad I went. It was such an experience for me to see another culture’s wedding ceremony. And the food was really good.
So I’m sitting there with my friend in the hallway at the Hyatt waiting for the ceremony to start (yeah, the canopy thing was beautiful but it looked a little odd in the hallway of a hotel) and we are talking about our hypothetical future weddings. Not to each other, mind you, but that whole, “when I get married, I’m going to do it like this” thing that so many people go through when they are at someone else’s wedding. The reason why so many people don’t want to go to weddings. I found myself hoping that my husband’s side of the seating area would not be packed while mine had two people in it. I found myself questioning the traditional white wedding dress. I found myself questioning the tuxedos and the thing at the reception where she throws her bouquet and he takes off her garter with his teeth. We have such silly traditions and customs and I don’t even know where half of them came from. I hear from almost all of my married friends that they really didn’t enjoy their wedding. Weddings in America are for the family and friends, not for the bride and groom.
So I’m wondering what my wedding will be like, assuming I have one. I want a simple dress and a beautiful ceremony of some sort, though I no longer know of what sort. I guess a party afterwards is a good idea, but I want the day to be just as much about my husband as it is about me. I don’t want to be this perfect doll placed up in front of everyone in a floofy white dress that everyone knows is just going to be ripped off me as soon as my husband and I are alone. I guess that was my favorite thing about this Islamic wedding – it was about the couple, not about the bride. That makes sense to me.
And on a slightly larger note, with everything going on in the world, it was kind of nice to get that reaffirmation that we all want the same things – survival, love and happiness. This couple’s parents were just as proud to see them be married as the parents at the Filipino-Jewish wedding I went to last year as the parents at the Methodist wedding I went to last year as the parents at all of the Catholic weddings I have been to as I have been at my dad’s weddings. And I was welcomed and greeted at the Islamic wedding just as all of the other guests were. I dunno. I guess its just a nice reminder that not everyone in the world is full of hate and that there are a bunch of us out there with sound minds who can see past the differences and just appreciate the humanity in one another.
Hi, my name is Kitty and I think too much.
I spent a lot of the Islamic wedding being rather confused because there was a lot of milling about and greeting one another and eating and such going on during the “ceremony” which seemed to largely consist of the bride and groom individually signing papers saying, “Yes, I’ll marry this person” and then greeting each guest as a couple. I can kind of see where a wedding like this would come from – arranged marriages and dowries and stuff. But I thought that it was really nice that the bride and groom faced the crowd while all of this was going on. It made it feel very open and inviting and communal. My friend remarked that it was the most formal yet informal wedding he had ever been to, meaning that the clothing and decorations and such were absolutely stunning but the atmosphere was very relaxed and open. I can’t really describe it, but I am so glad I went. It was such an experience for me to see another culture’s wedding ceremony. And the food was really good.
So I’m sitting there with my friend in the hallway at the Hyatt waiting for the ceremony to start (yeah, the canopy thing was beautiful but it looked a little odd in the hallway of a hotel) and we are talking about our hypothetical future weddings. Not to each other, mind you, but that whole, “when I get married, I’m going to do it like this” thing that so many people go through when they are at someone else’s wedding. The reason why so many people don’t want to go to weddings. I found myself hoping that my husband’s side of the seating area would not be packed while mine had two people in it. I found myself questioning the traditional white wedding dress. I found myself questioning the tuxedos and the thing at the reception where she throws her bouquet and he takes off her garter with his teeth. We have such silly traditions and customs and I don’t even know where half of them came from. I hear from almost all of my married friends that they really didn’t enjoy their wedding. Weddings in America are for the family and friends, not for the bride and groom.
So I’m wondering what my wedding will be like, assuming I have one. I want a simple dress and a beautiful ceremony of some sort, though I no longer know of what sort. I guess a party afterwards is a good idea, but I want the day to be just as much about my husband as it is about me. I don’t want to be this perfect doll placed up in front of everyone in a floofy white dress that everyone knows is just going to be ripped off me as soon as my husband and I are alone. I guess that was my favorite thing about this Islamic wedding – it was about the couple, not about the bride. That makes sense to me.
And on a slightly larger note, with everything going on in the world, it was kind of nice to get that reaffirmation that we all want the same things – survival, love and happiness. This couple’s parents were just as proud to see them be married as the parents at the Filipino-Jewish wedding I went to last year as the parents at the Methodist wedding I went to last year as the parents at all of the Catholic weddings I have been to as I have been at my dad’s weddings. And I was welcomed and greeted at the Islamic wedding just as all of the other guests were. I dunno. I guess its just a nice reminder that not everyone in the world is full of hate and that there are a bunch of us out there with sound minds who can see past the differences and just appreciate the humanity in one another.
Hi, my name is Kitty and I think too much.
Friday, May 17, 2002
I have an audition this weekend for another indie film that will probably get shot and then spend three years in post. Its frustrating, yes, but at least it makes me feel like I’m doing something for the sake of my real life. But I think I freaked out the director when I talked to him on the phone. I told him, “I’m a mutant actor; I actually prefer cold readings.” And let me tell you why.
The vast majority of the auditions that I go on ask for a monologue, which is fine. They usually want one that is one or two minutes long. Great. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good one to two minute monologue? Yes, people will talk for a minute or two in a play or a film, but the 95% of those “speeches” are stories that one character is relaying to another. Do you know how boring it is for a director to sit and watch me as an actor tell a story? What is the director going to get out of that? Besides hearing what my voice sounds like and finding out how well I can memorize something. So really, truly, it is a waste of my time and of the director’s time for me to do a monologue. Plus, your chances of doing “the wrong monologue” are really high. For example:
I was called in for this audition once and they didn’t tell me much about the project over the phone. So I show up in my pleather pance and a black tank top and am ready to do my “when I find a guy who thinks he’s the shit, I fuck him until he can’t take it anymore and leave him” monologue from Whale Music. Before they ask me to do my monologue, we chat for a little while about the show and I learn that it is a touring educational show for high school kids to build their self-esteem. So I take a minute, go to the restroom, and come back and do my “would you please just talk to me” monologue from Mix Tape (one of my 8,000,000 indies that is stuck in post). Needless to say, I was not called back.
So the alternative to monologues is often cold readings. I know, I know, actors hate cold readings. Not me. I love them. They make sense to me and I am good at them. It seems a much more efficient casting process to have your actors come in and read stuff from the script as the characters you would like to see them portray. You know why? Not only can you see how your actors move and what they sound like, but you can see their believability as the character you would like them to portray, how well they work under pressure, what their interpretation of your character might be, how well they take direction, how quickly they memorize things, and often times, how they work with other actors. These are all strong points for me. In cold readings, I can go in there with the scene at least half memorized, just from looking at it in the hallway. I work well with other actors. I take direction well. I have watched my auditioner’s jaws drop so many times while I do cold readings its amazing. I’ve seen a few drop during my monologues, too, but not nearly as many as during my cold readings.
So yes, I am a mutant actor who thinks cold readings are a much more helpful, efficient way of conducting auditions. This is one of the reasons why I am not a “real” actor. Some of the others include:
I have never been a waitress.
I have a list of conversation topics that covers more things than myself (though you’d never guess it from my blog, huh?).
I’m not in it purely for the money.
I don’t think I’m better than everyone around me or that I deserve special treatment.
I don’t want plastic surgery.
I’m really bad at selling myself.
I don’t need to be “pretty” or “likable” in every role I play.
I have an above average IQ (about 125-130 on this online test I took yesterday).
I don't always want or need to be the center of attention.
I'm not a drug fiend.
I am not anorexic.
I don’t like LA.
I know there are other reasons, too, but those are the ones that are coming to mind right now. And it is because of those reasons that it will mean that much more to me when I do make it. And by “make it,” I simply mean “make enough money from acting that I don’t have to have a stupidfey day job.”
The vast majority of the auditions that I go on ask for a monologue, which is fine. They usually want one that is one or two minutes long. Great. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good one to two minute monologue? Yes, people will talk for a minute or two in a play or a film, but the 95% of those “speeches” are stories that one character is relaying to another. Do you know how boring it is for a director to sit and watch me as an actor tell a story? What is the director going to get out of that? Besides hearing what my voice sounds like and finding out how well I can memorize something. So really, truly, it is a waste of my time and of the director’s time for me to do a monologue. Plus, your chances of doing “the wrong monologue” are really high. For example:
I was called in for this audition once and they didn’t tell me much about the project over the phone. So I show up in my pleather pance and a black tank top and am ready to do my “when I find a guy who thinks he’s the shit, I fuck him until he can’t take it anymore and leave him” monologue from Whale Music. Before they ask me to do my monologue, we chat for a little while about the show and I learn that it is a touring educational show for high school kids to build their self-esteem. So I take a minute, go to the restroom, and come back and do my “would you please just talk to me” monologue from Mix Tape (one of my 8,000,000 indies that is stuck in post). Needless to say, I was not called back.
So the alternative to monologues is often cold readings. I know, I know, actors hate cold readings. Not me. I love them. They make sense to me and I am good at them. It seems a much more efficient casting process to have your actors come in and read stuff from the script as the characters you would like to see them portray. You know why? Not only can you see how your actors move and what they sound like, but you can see their believability as the character you would like them to portray, how well they work under pressure, what their interpretation of your character might be, how well they take direction, how quickly they memorize things, and often times, how they work with other actors. These are all strong points for me. In cold readings, I can go in there with the scene at least half memorized, just from looking at it in the hallway. I work well with other actors. I take direction well. I have watched my auditioner’s jaws drop so many times while I do cold readings its amazing. I’ve seen a few drop during my monologues, too, but not nearly as many as during my cold readings.
So yes, I am a mutant actor who thinks cold readings are a much more helpful, efficient way of conducting auditions. This is one of the reasons why I am not a “real” actor. Some of the others include:
I have never been a waitress.
I have a list of conversation topics that covers more things than myself (though you’d never guess it from my blog, huh?).
I’m not in it purely for the money.
I don’t think I’m better than everyone around me or that I deserve special treatment.
I don’t want plastic surgery.
I’m really bad at selling myself.
I don’t need to be “pretty” or “likable” in every role I play.
I have an above average IQ (about 125-130 on this online test I took yesterday).
I don't always want or need to be the center of attention.
I'm not a drug fiend.
I am not anorexic.
I don’t like LA.
I know there are other reasons, too, but those are the ones that are coming to mind right now. And it is because of those reasons that it will mean that much more to me when I do make it. And by “make it,” I simply mean “make enough money from acting that I don’t have to have a stupidfey day job.”
Thursday, May 16, 2002
I had a really strange experience this morning. I woke up after a really good night’s sleep (I went to bed ridiculously early last night just ‘cuz I could) and I felt really good. I’ve been feeling good lately. Don’t know if it is the diet making me feel all self-righteous or the fact that I’ve been really anti-social lately so I haven’t had to put up with unnecessary bullshit or what, but I’ve been feeling good. So, of course, I decide to pull my bathroom scale out from under my dresser and see what it says.
Now, let me fill you in on a little bit of the history I share with my bathroom scale and bathroom scales in general. I remember a time when I would weigh myself every day. At least once a day. Sometimes more. And it was the reading on that scale that would set the tone for my day – if I had gone down a pound or two, it would be a good day. If I had gone up a pound or two, it would be a bad day. Literally, my sense of self-worth was determined by some arbitrary number on a scale in the morning. It sounds silly, but its true and I know that the same thing is true for hundreds of other women out there. My best friend is absolutely gorgeous – she stops traffic – yet she thinks she needs to lose 25 pounds in order to be pretty. If she loses 25 pounds, she will look anorexic and unhealthy. Which is, I guess, in her mind, pretty. In my mind, that’s wrong. But I have spent the majority of my life feeling the same way about myself – until I look like Calista Flockhart, I am ugly, worthless, and useless. And the bathroom scale would let me know every morning just exactly how far away from my goal I was.
Needless to say, I got tired of this after about ten years. It’s a horrible way to live. So I started asking my doctor to not weigh me when I went in for a check-up. I hid my bathroom scale under my dresser so I would be less tempted to step on it every morning. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it because everyone needs that self-inflicted swift kick in the face every now and again. Addictions are hard to break. Particularly when they involve food. You can’t stop eating. If you are addicted to drugs or cigarettes or alcohol or gambling, you can stop cold turkey. People will praise you and support you and condone your stopping cold turkey. You can’t stop eating. You will cause serious damage to your body if you stop eating – anything from losing your hair to stopping your menstruation cycle (though this one doesn’t really apply to guys) to dying. Yes, you will die if you stop eating. I was/am addicted to food and weighing myself and I’m tired of it. But my bathroom scale still lives under my dresser just in case.
So this morning I weighed myself. The number on the scale was higher than I wanted it to be. But you know what? My day has not yet been ruined. I still feel good about myself. My clothes still fit. I looked at myself in the mirror right after stepping off the scale and you know what? I kind of like my shape. I have that whole Byzantine beauty thing going on. I have curves where a woman should have curves. And I have “ab dimples” – those three little lines that define your upper abs. Granted, I am about a million years away from a six pack, but you know what? Women aren’t supposed to have six packs. Women are supposed to have a higher body fat percentage than men so we can have babies. And when I have one, it will be a happy healthy baby and I will be able to breast feed it because I didn’t spend my teenage years starving myself.
Yes, I am in an industry where a high premium is placed on being scrawny. I will not be scrawny. I don’t want to be scrawny. I don’t want to be unhealthy. And this morning was the first time in my life when the arbitrary number on a scale did not ruin my day but instead gave me strength. Maybe even enough strength to throw my bathroom scale away.
Now, let me fill you in on a little bit of the history I share with my bathroom scale and bathroom scales in general. I remember a time when I would weigh myself every day. At least once a day. Sometimes more. And it was the reading on that scale that would set the tone for my day – if I had gone down a pound or two, it would be a good day. If I had gone up a pound or two, it would be a bad day. Literally, my sense of self-worth was determined by some arbitrary number on a scale in the morning. It sounds silly, but its true and I know that the same thing is true for hundreds of other women out there. My best friend is absolutely gorgeous – she stops traffic – yet she thinks she needs to lose 25 pounds in order to be pretty. If she loses 25 pounds, she will look anorexic and unhealthy. Which is, I guess, in her mind, pretty. In my mind, that’s wrong. But I have spent the majority of my life feeling the same way about myself – until I look like Calista Flockhart, I am ugly, worthless, and useless. And the bathroom scale would let me know every morning just exactly how far away from my goal I was.
Needless to say, I got tired of this after about ten years. It’s a horrible way to live. So I started asking my doctor to not weigh me when I went in for a check-up. I hid my bathroom scale under my dresser so I would be less tempted to step on it every morning. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it because everyone needs that self-inflicted swift kick in the face every now and again. Addictions are hard to break. Particularly when they involve food. You can’t stop eating. If you are addicted to drugs or cigarettes or alcohol or gambling, you can stop cold turkey. People will praise you and support you and condone your stopping cold turkey. You can’t stop eating. You will cause serious damage to your body if you stop eating – anything from losing your hair to stopping your menstruation cycle (though this one doesn’t really apply to guys) to dying. Yes, you will die if you stop eating. I was/am addicted to food and weighing myself and I’m tired of it. But my bathroom scale still lives under my dresser just in case.
So this morning I weighed myself. The number on the scale was higher than I wanted it to be. But you know what? My day has not yet been ruined. I still feel good about myself. My clothes still fit. I looked at myself in the mirror right after stepping off the scale and you know what? I kind of like my shape. I have that whole Byzantine beauty thing going on. I have curves where a woman should have curves. And I have “ab dimples” – those three little lines that define your upper abs. Granted, I am about a million years away from a six pack, but you know what? Women aren’t supposed to have six packs. Women are supposed to have a higher body fat percentage than men so we can have babies. And when I have one, it will be a happy healthy baby and I will be able to breast feed it because I didn’t spend my teenage years starving myself.
Yes, I am in an industry where a high premium is placed on being scrawny. I will not be scrawny. I don’t want to be scrawny. I don’t want to be unhealthy. And this morning was the first time in my life when the arbitrary number on a scale did not ruin my day but instead gave me strength. Maybe even enough strength to throw my bathroom scale away.
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
I have an inordinate amount of friends with birthdays today. When I was in high school, there were literally five people who I knew with birthdays on May 15th. And considering that I only hung out with about ten people in my whole high school career, it seemed like a lot. Since then, I've met a few more. I guess I should be happy that I know that many people ('cuz they are/were for the most part, cool people), but seeing as I am broke, I hope they will forgive me the fact that I'm not buying presents for any of them. Sorry. Doesn't mean I don't love ya. 'Cuz I do. I'm just (as I said) broke.
And happy birthday to the 8,000,000 of you with birthdays today.
And happy birthday to the 8,000,000 of you with birthdays today.
I'm plantsitting two plants for the woman who works across the hall from me while she is in Europe. I'm guessing that the plants wouldn't have minded a trip to Europe, too, but they seem content sitting in my window. Its nice outside today, so I opened the window for them so they can get some fresh air. Mmmm...fresh air...
Indoor plants are kind of sad, though. Think about it. They are like domestic pets who don't know they have been domesticated. They just wonder why they're not getting what they need from that giant flourescent sun above them and why the air consistantly smells of dog and shoes. But I will take good care of her plants while she is gone. Or buy replacements and do that whole sitcom-switch-a-roo thing if they happen to die before she returns.
Indoor plants are kind of sad, though. Think about it. They are like domestic pets who don't know they have been domesticated. They just wonder why they're not getting what they need from that giant flourescent sun above them and why the air consistantly smells of dog and shoes. But I will take good care of her plants while she is gone. Or buy replacements and do that whole sitcom-switch-a-roo thing if they happen to die before she returns.
I’m still kind of surprised by the number of people who make jokes when I either tell them I am on a vegan diet or when I politely turn something down because there are animal products in it. Granted, I am not an expert on veganism and I’m not 100% yet (though I am getting there), so maybe they are making fun of me because they know I’m not doing this for moral or ethical reasons but as an experiment. But still. For example:
This past weekend on set, I was offered a Rice Krispie treat. There is gelatin in marshmallows, so I politely declined. Another man standing nearby bit into said Rice Krispie treat and began making yummy noises while talking about how great it was to be eating animal feet and stuff. And I’m sitting there thinking, “You’re making me want to be a vegan even more.” Because seriously, when you hand a small child a marshmallow, the last thing they are thinking about is horse hooves. And if you then tell them, “There are horse hooves in that marshmallow,” chances are that the kid will either say “Cool!” and eat it out of the grossness factor, or the kid will not eat the marshmallow. So here I am confronted with a grown man who in an attempt to mock my choice of eating habits succeeded only in making himself look like the kind of kid who probably ate worms and paste and paint chips.
But there are other instances of it too. People laughing and turning up their noses when I offer them Veggie Booty. People scoffing when I ask the ever present yeast question. People sighing in exasperation when I won’t eat something with honey in it. Yes, I know that this eating style is my choice, but I had forgotten what it felt like to be teased like this. It almost feels like being teased for my name, as I was when I was younger. I like this diet. I feel good. I don’t know if I have lost weight or what my vital stats are, but I can feel my body feeling healthier. And for someone who has spent her entire life fighting with food issues (I remember thinking I was fat when I was about five years old and at the beach in Florida with my family), isn’t it a positive thing that I seem to have found a diet that makes me feel good about myself?
I dunno. I guess when you drastically change something about yourself in a relatively short period of time, people are bound to poke fun. “We fear change.” Or something. Whatever. I don’t know. I should stop complaining and go get some fruit.
This past weekend on set, I was offered a Rice Krispie treat. There is gelatin in marshmallows, so I politely declined. Another man standing nearby bit into said Rice Krispie treat and began making yummy noises while talking about how great it was to be eating animal feet and stuff. And I’m sitting there thinking, “You’re making me want to be a vegan even more.” Because seriously, when you hand a small child a marshmallow, the last thing they are thinking about is horse hooves. And if you then tell them, “There are horse hooves in that marshmallow,” chances are that the kid will either say “Cool!” and eat it out of the grossness factor, or the kid will not eat the marshmallow. So here I am confronted with a grown man who in an attempt to mock my choice of eating habits succeeded only in making himself look like the kind of kid who probably ate worms and paste and paint chips.
But there are other instances of it too. People laughing and turning up their noses when I offer them Veggie Booty. People scoffing when I ask the ever present yeast question. People sighing in exasperation when I won’t eat something with honey in it. Yes, I know that this eating style is my choice, but I had forgotten what it felt like to be teased like this. It almost feels like being teased for my name, as I was when I was younger. I like this diet. I feel good. I don’t know if I have lost weight or what my vital stats are, but I can feel my body feeling healthier. And for someone who has spent her entire life fighting with food issues (I remember thinking I was fat when I was about five years old and at the beach in Florida with my family), isn’t it a positive thing that I seem to have found a diet that makes me feel good about myself?
I dunno. I guess when you drastically change something about yourself in a relatively short period of time, people are bound to poke fun. “We fear change.” Or something. Whatever. I don’t know. I should stop complaining and go get some fruit.
I wrote a blog a little while ago about this strange attraction I have to intentionally bald men. Its true, I do like men who shave their heads, but it occurred to me that someone could mistake that for me liking skinheads. Which I don’t. If a guy like that asked me out and I found out that he was a militant racist, I wouldn’t go. People like that scare me.
But cool men who shave their heads are quite attractive to me. Moby. My best friend’s boyfriend. Another friend’s husband. This amazing dancer in the Chicago swing dance scene. Another one in San Francisco. And surprisingly, all five are on the un-datable list, though for different reasons. But bald or slightly stubbly heads are fun to play with. I was told by a friend of mine the other night that I give good scalp, which sounds really dirty, but it just means that it feels good to the guy when I rub his stubbly scalp. Stubbly beards can be nice too, except if they are involved in long make out sessions. Though since I can barely remember the last long make out session I was involved in, that’s not really an issue for me, now, is it?
But yeah, to summarize – bald and/or stubbly = good, skinhead = bad.
And one day, I will learn how to write a coherent blog entry.
But cool men who shave their heads are quite attractive to me. Moby. My best friend’s boyfriend. Another friend’s husband. This amazing dancer in the Chicago swing dance scene. Another one in San Francisco. And surprisingly, all five are on the un-datable list, though for different reasons. But bald or slightly stubbly heads are fun to play with. I was told by a friend of mine the other night that I give good scalp, which sounds really dirty, but it just means that it feels good to the guy when I rub his stubbly scalp. Stubbly beards can be nice too, except if they are involved in long make out sessions. Though since I can barely remember the last long make out session I was involved in, that’s not really an issue for me, now, is it?
But yeah, to summarize – bald and/or stubbly = good, skinhead = bad.
And one day, I will learn how to write a coherent blog entry.
I would like to take a brief moment to give wicked mad props to the guy who thought up indoor plumbing. I know Sir John Harrington is sometimes credited with inventing the first water closet, but if I were wearing a hat right now, I would tip it to the guy who put running water in our homes. Maybe the whole plumbing union, I dunno. But it occurred to me both last night and then again this morning that there is very little that is nicer when your apartment is freezing cold (as mine still is) than washing your face with warm water or taking a nice hot shower. Almost scalding hot. It’s a lovely way to start/finish your day.
So thank you to all of the plumbers out there. I’ll try to keep the ass-crack jokes to a minimum.
Incidentally, I did a Google search on “toilet” to try to figure out who invented it and there are multiple toilet museums out there. I don’t know if I am amused or disgusted by that.
So thank you to all of the plumbers out there. I’ll try to keep the ass-crack jokes to a minimum.
Incidentally, I did a Google search on “toilet” to try to figure out who invented it and there are multiple toilet museums out there. I don’t know if I am amused or disgusted by that.
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
Monday, May 13, 2002
I’ve been listening to Oingo Boingo a lot lately. I’ve missed Danny Elfman. I love his music and his choice of instruments and the way he plays with rhythms and all that stuff. He really is an astounding musician. On one of his websites (I forget if it is the official fan site or a tribute site or what), there is posted an open letter to the editor that Danny Elfman wrote once in response to someone criticizing musicians who never studied music in college, or something like that. Basically, Elfman replied by saying that one does not necessarily have to study art to be an artist. He uses stronger language than that, but I liked his point – Elfman didn’t have a lot of formal training, but his music speaks for itself. He knows what he is doing and is extremely talented and his music counts for just as much as anyone else’s. Its encouraging to those of us who would like to fancy ourselves artists that hard work and talent and hard work and drive and hard work and passion and hard work just might be enough to help us accomplish our goals.
But yeah, Oingo Boingo. They are one of those bands I wish I had paid more attention to when they were alive and kicking. Not that they are dead and not-kicking, they just disbanded and aren’t putting out any new records. I did see them in Chicago (they were just Boingo at the time) once and I am so glad that I did. I don’t think any other show could ever top that one. It was incredible. So at least I don’t have to look back and say, “I wish I had gotten the opportunity to see them live,” ‘cuz I did. Nyah, nyah. But if you are considering purchasing an Oingo Boingo disc without knowing too much about them, I would have to recommend Farewell, which is the live 2-disc set from their final concerts in LA in 1997 (I believe it was ’97). But there are songs on there that aren’t on any other records and there are the old classics like Cinderella Undercover, Little Girls, and of course, Dead Man’s Party. So you get to see kind of how their music changed over the years. I dig it. And I must say I love Reptiles and Samurai. Who else would write that but Oingo Boingo?
But yeah, Oingo Boingo. They are one of those bands I wish I had paid more attention to when they were alive and kicking. Not that they are dead and not-kicking, they just disbanded and aren’t putting out any new records. I did see them in Chicago (they were just Boingo at the time) once and I am so glad that I did. I don’t think any other show could ever top that one. It was incredible. So at least I don’t have to look back and say, “I wish I had gotten the opportunity to see them live,” ‘cuz I did. Nyah, nyah. But if you are considering purchasing an Oingo Boingo disc without knowing too much about them, I would have to recommend Farewell, which is the live 2-disc set from their final concerts in LA in 1997 (I believe it was ’97). But there are songs on there that aren’t on any other records and there are the old classics like Cinderella Undercover, Little Girls, and of course, Dead Man’s Party. So you get to see kind of how their music changed over the years. I dig it. And I must say I love Reptiles and Samurai. Who else would write that but Oingo Boingo?
There was a nine-year-old blind and deaf girl who was tied to a radiator and upon freeing herself yesterday, she fell out a third story window.
First of all, who ties their child to a radiator? A radiator that is radiating, too.
Second, why do you tie a blind and deaf child to a radiator that is radiating?
Third, how did she go about falling out a third story window? Weren’t there screens? Or why was the window even open if it is cold enough outside to warrant the radiator to be radiating? Wouldn’t this imply that perhaps she had “assistance” in falling out the window?
This is why I could never be a cop. When I found the person responsible for this, I wouldn’t even be able to talk to him or her. I would sit there staring blankly with my mouth hanging open like a fish in awe of the sheer and utter stupidity of the person responsible for this. I might have to smack him or her upside the head, but that would probably be the extent of it.
I can understand getting annoyed or upset with your children. I occasionally put my cat in his kitty carrier for a few minutes as a “time out” kind of punishment when he does something really wrong. His kitty carrier is not physically harmful to him. There are toys in there and a towel for him to lie on. And I never leave him in there for extended periods of time – just long enough for him to calm down, you know? But what would your child have to have done to deserve being tied to a hot radiator? I can’t really think of anything that a nine-year-old could do that would warrant that. So was she tied there because she was being left alone and the guardian didn’t want her to hurt herself? Two questions: why not take her with you and/or couldn’t you have found any better place to leave her than tied to the hot radiator? Like with a neighbor? And I’m not meaning to be patronizing here or anything, but to do this to a child who is blind and deaf? I’m thinking she probably has enough to worry about without this kind of abuse. This is horrible to do to any child. This is a horrible thing to do to an adult. But a child who can’t really look out for herself? Maybe can’t yell for help? It makes me sick. Physically sick. And even if she recovers physically, this is going to stay with her for the rest of her life.
I can't believe that there are human beings out there capable of things like this sometimes, I really can't. It embarrasses me to be of the same species.
First of all, who ties their child to a radiator? A radiator that is radiating, too.
Second, why do you tie a blind and deaf child to a radiator that is radiating?
Third, how did she go about falling out a third story window? Weren’t there screens? Or why was the window even open if it is cold enough outside to warrant the radiator to be radiating? Wouldn’t this imply that perhaps she had “assistance” in falling out the window?
This is why I could never be a cop. When I found the person responsible for this, I wouldn’t even be able to talk to him or her. I would sit there staring blankly with my mouth hanging open like a fish in awe of the sheer and utter stupidity of the person responsible for this. I might have to smack him or her upside the head, but that would probably be the extent of it.
I can understand getting annoyed or upset with your children. I occasionally put my cat in his kitty carrier for a few minutes as a “time out” kind of punishment when he does something really wrong. His kitty carrier is not physically harmful to him. There are toys in there and a towel for him to lie on. And I never leave him in there for extended periods of time – just long enough for him to calm down, you know? But what would your child have to have done to deserve being tied to a hot radiator? I can’t really think of anything that a nine-year-old could do that would warrant that. So was she tied there because she was being left alone and the guardian didn’t want her to hurt herself? Two questions: why not take her with you and/or couldn’t you have found any better place to leave her than tied to the hot radiator? Like with a neighbor? And I’m not meaning to be patronizing here or anything, but to do this to a child who is blind and deaf? I’m thinking she probably has enough to worry about without this kind of abuse. This is horrible to do to any child. This is a horrible thing to do to an adult. But a child who can’t really look out for herself? Maybe can’t yell for help? It makes me sick. Physically sick. And even if she recovers physically, this is going to stay with her for the rest of her life.
I can't believe that there are human beings out there capable of things like this sometimes, I really can't. It embarrasses me to be of the same species.
Friday, May 10, 2002
I had one really good thought and one really bad thought as I was walking to the theater last night.
The really good thought: I was walking along and I noted that this one guy only had eleven minutes left on his parking meter. I thought to myself, “If I had money to throw away, I would pick some random street and feed the meters, giving each of those people parked there an extra hour of parking time for free.” Jerry Seinfeld did that in an American Express card commercial a couple of years back and I think it is actually illegal, though I don’t know exactly why. Which lead me to my...
Really bad thought: a couple of meters down, I saw an SUV parked at an expired meter. It just so happened that there was a discarded parking ticket lying on the other side of the sidewalk near this SUV. I thought to myself, “I should put that ticket on that SUV just to mess with the driver.” But then I began to imagine the driver coming out of wherever he or she was (could be the beauty parlor, could be a funeral, I don’t know) and finding a ticket on his or her car and going through that whole, “It only expired a minute ago. Why does this shit always happen to me? Wait a second, this ticket isn’t even from today. It’s not even for my car! I’m gonna find the rat bastard who put this on my car and they’re gonna pay the ticket!” thing and I just kept walking.
And the moral of the story is: Kitty should not act on her impulses.
The really good thought: I was walking along and I noted that this one guy only had eleven minutes left on his parking meter. I thought to myself, “If I had money to throw away, I would pick some random street and feed the meters, giving each of those people parked there an extra hour of parking time for free.” Jerry Seinfeld did that in an American Express card commercial a couple of years back and I think it is actually illegal, though I don’t know exactly why. Which lead me to my...
Really bad thought: a couple of meters down, I saw an SUV parked at an expired meter. It just so happened that there was a discarded parking ticket lying on the other side of the sidewalk near this SUV. I thought to myself, “I should put that ticket on that SUV just to mess with the driver.” But then I began to imagine the driver coming out of wherever he or she was (could be the beauty parlor, could be a funeral, I don’t know) and finding a ticket on his or her car and going through that whole, “It only expired a minute ago. Why does this shit always happen to me? Wait a second, this ticket isn’t even from today. It’s not even for my car! I’m gonna find the rat bastard who put this on my car and they’re gonna pay the ticket!” thing and I just kept walking.
And the moral of the story is: Kitty should not act on her impulses.
I saw The Tempest at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater last night. That was a fun show. Very spectacular, as in full of spectacle. I’m used to these storefront theaters where you’re lucky if you have costumes or heat and this had people flying and nifty gobos on the lights and all kinds of stuff. And the theater itself is supposed to look like the Globe Theater and in my opinion, they did a fantastic job of it. Except it is a ¾ stage instead of a round, but hey, this works just lovely. Was the Globe in the round? I thought it was. I could be wrong.
But it did make me think about my acting right now. There are things that stage actors in general do that drive me nuts. Fidgeting, for one. I understand that characters sometimes have nervous ticks, but there are actors who fidget, too, and I want to yell at them to make their choices clear. It’s like a muddy lead in lindy hop. If you keep your physical actions clear and meaningful, it will translate to the audience. If you are in constant motion, you will make your audience sick. Leaning is another one that drives me nuts. If you want to get closer to another character on stage, take a step closer. Don’t bend at the waist and point. That is the most unnatural position I can think of for a person to spend a large amount of time in. While standing, anyway. And I know actors are supposed to project so that the people in the back row can hear them, but that often just makes them sound like they are yelling, particularly when the theater itself isn’t very big and has wonderful acoustics. In summation, stage acting feels fake to me a lot of the time. You get that “Look at me, I’m ACTING!“ vibe. It doesn’t feel natural to me as an audience member. Which may be why I haven’t done a play in a long time.
So then I go to my film shoots and I “act.” My gestures may get bigger, but not significantly so, I don’t think. I talk at an appropriate volume. And I feel like an absolute ass for preferring to do film over theater right now. Yes, they both have their good points and their bad points. In theater, you have to maintain your character for two straight hours but you have the assistance of the audience’s energy. In theater, there are no re-dos, but this helps keep things fresh and makes you stay on your toes as an actor. Theater is more highly regarded than film as being a cultural art form. In film, you have to know exactly what your character is thinking and feeling at any given moment and you have to be able to call that up with little to no warning – you can’t really build up to an emotion. In film, you can re-do something if it goes wrong. But you don’t get to see it until two years later. I dunno. They both have their good points and their bad points, but right now film feels a bit more real to me. A bit more “me.” I kinda hope that changes ‘cuz I really do miss doing live theater. And I remember meeting an actress in LA who said she preferred film to theater and I thought she was nuts. I don’t want to be that kind of nuts. I am my own brand of nuts. Kittynuts. Made with real kitties. Ew.
But it did make me think about my acting right now. There are things that stage actors in general do that drive me nuts. Fidgeting, for one. I understand that characters sometimes have nervous ticks, but there are actors who fidget, too, and I want to yell at them to make their choices clear. It’s like a muddy lead in lindy hop. If you keep your physical actions clear and meaningful, it will translate to the audience. If you are in constant motion, you will make your audience sick. Leaning is another one that drives me nuts. If you want to get closer to another character on stage, take a step closer. Don’t bend at the waist and point. That is the most unnatural position I can think of for a person to spend a large amount of time in. While standing, anyway. And I know actors are supposed to project so that the people in the back row can hear them, but that often just makes them sound like they are yelling, particularly when the theater itself isn’t very big and has wonderful acoustics. In summation, stage acting feels fake to me a lot of the time. You get that “Look at me, I’m ACTING!“ vibe. It doesn’t feel natural to me as an audience member. Which may be why I haven’t done a play in a long time.
So then I go to my film shoots and I “act.” My gestures may get bigger, but not significantly so, I don’t think. I talk at an appropriate volume. And I feel like an absolute ass for preferring to do film over theater right now. Yes, they both have their good points and their bad points. In theater, you have to maintain your character for two straight hours but you have the assistance of the audience’s energy. In theater, there are no re-dos, but this helps keep things fresh and makes you stay on your toes as an actor. Theater is more highly regarded than film as being a cultural art form. In film, you have to know exactly what your character is thinking and feeling at any given moment and you have to be able to call that up with little to no warning – you can’t really build up to an emotion. In film, you can re-do something if it goes wrong. But you don’t get to see it until two years later. I dunno. They both have their good points and their bad points, but right now film feels a bit more real to me. A bit more “me.” I kinda hope that changes ‘cuz I really do miss doing live theater. And I remember meeting an actress in LA who said she preferred film to theater and I thought she was nuts. I don’t want to be that kind of nuts. I am my own brand of nuts. Kittynuts. Made with real kitties. Ew.
So I was talking with some women at work over lunch yesterday and when one of them asked why I was eating edamame and Veggie Booty instead of the leftover catered lunch like everybody else, I told her it was because I had put myself on a vegan diet. At the word “diet,” everyone in the room immediately assumed that the purpose behind this experiment was to lose weight. Which it isn’t. I don’t even know that this experiment has an end result that I am hoping to get beyond gaining a better appreciation for vegans. I don’t want to enter into this whole thing with expectations because I don’t want any of the results to be psychosomatic. I was talking to a friend of mine last night about some study someone did on dieters and their success rates and my friend pointed out one very important rule of experimentation that one must always keep in mind – If you set out to prove something, you will. You will look for the data that supports your thesis and use that in issuing your reports. You will not pay so much attention to the data that does not support your thesis because it doesn’t support your thesis.
Perfect example of this phenomenon: several years ago, I saw on the health segment of the news that somebody did a study proving that beer causes beer bellies. In addition to wanting to know who put up the cash for this study and what exactly it was they were being blackmailed for, I wanted to know who didn’t already know this? Isn't that where the name "beer belly" came from in the first place? Aside from the fact that beer is pure carbohydrates which your body stores as fat if you can’t use them, if you eat or drink too much of anything, you will gain weight. Simple as that. But a couple of years after this study, I remember seeing something on the health segment of the news saying that if everyone substituted beer for diet soda, they would lose weight. Something about the difference between the sugars in beer and aspartame, or something like that.
This is why one week it is okay to eat eggs and the next week its not. This is why one week its okay to have a glass of wine every day and the next week its not. Researchers go into experiments trying to prove something and if they don’t, they lose their funding, so of course they are going to prove their thesis. I would like to see a researcher go into a situation without expectations on the outcome and then report what they find. My guess is that it would be rather chaotic.
So no, my experiment with a vegan diet is not in an attempt to lose weight. I am in the process of getting comfortable with myself as I am now and I want to continue on that path, not try to change myself into something I am learning I will never be. Some things that I have noticed since I’ve been on this diet are that I feel lighter, my skin is getting drier, and I am much more in tune with what my body needs than I was before. Which are all pretty cool things, I think. But that doesn’t change the fact that the seitan I tried the other night was just plain gross.
Perfect example of this phenomenon: several years ago, I saw on the health segment of the news that somebody did a study proving that beer causes beer bellies. In addition to wanting to know who put up the cash for this study and what exactly it was they were being blackmailed for, I wanted to know who didn’t already know this? Isn't that where the name "beer belly" came from in the first place? Aside from the fact that beer is pure carbohydrates which your body stores as fat if you can’t use them, if you eat or drink too much of anything, you will gain weight. Simple as that. But a couple of years after this study, I remember seeing something on the health segment of the news saying that if everyone substituted beer for diet soda, they would lose weight. Something about the difference between the sugars in beer and aspartame, or something like that.
This is why one week it is okay to eat eggs and the next week its not. This is why one week its okay to have a glass of wine every day and the next week its not. Researchers go into experiments trying to prove something and if they don’t, they lose their funding, so of course they are going to prove their thesis. I would like to see a researcher go into a situation without expectations on the outcome and then report what they find. My guess is that it would be rather chaotic.
So no, my experiment with a vegan diet is not in an attempt to lose weight. I am in the process of getting comfortable with myself as I am now and I want to continue on that path, not try to change myself into something I am learning I will never be. Some things that I have noticed since I’ve been on this diet are that I feel lighter, my skin is getting drier, and I am much more in tune with what my body needs than I was before. Which are all pretty cool things, I think. But that doesn’t change the fact that the seitan I tried the other night was just plain gross.
Thursday, May 09, 2002
It always amuses me when someone at work finds out for the first time that I am an actor. They are so surprised by it. Like they expected my entire life to be sitting behind a desk shuffling bits of paper back and forth.
Though there are people out there whose entire lives are spent sitting behind desks shuffling bits of paper back and forth. I feel for them. I really do. I feel for people whose lives don’t have some driving passion behind them and for people who have that driving passion but lack the courage to do anything about it. How depressing that must be.
Your life should not be your job. Unless you truly truly truly truly love your job. But even then, you should like something other than your job, too. When I’m a rich and famous actress (tee hee), I’ll still play guitar in my trailer by myself. I’ll still practice my juggling. I’ll still go out dancing when I can. I will still read. You know?
And it makes me remember how lucky I am, that I have these other interests. That I have this other life out there waiting for me. Yeah, it hasn’t happened yet, but at the very least, I have the belief that it will someday. And I get to shock people at work from time to time which is always fun. ‘Cuz that reminds me that this isn’t really my life and that makes me happy.
And incoherent, apparently.
Though there are people out there whose entire lives are spent sitting behind desks shuffling bits of paper back and forth. I feel for them. I really do. I feel for people whose lives don’t have some driving passion behind them and for people who have that driving passion but lack the courage to do anything about it. How depressing that must be.
Your life should not be your job. Unless you truly truly truly truly love your job. But even then, you should like something other than your job, too. When I’m a rich and famous actress (tee hee), I’ll still play guitar in my trailer by myself. I’ll still practice my juggling. I’ll still go out dancing when I can. I will still read. You know?
And it makes me remember how lucky I am, that I have these other interests. That I have this other life out there waiting for me. Yeah, it hasn’t happened yet, but at the very least, I have the belief that it will someday. And I get to shock people at work from time to time which is always fun. ‘Cuz that reminds me that this isn’t really my life and that makes me happy.
And incoherent, apparently.
Is it cool to call a man beautiful?
I was thinking about this on my way in to work this morning because I was having one of those imaginary conversations with someone in my head where suddenly your head voice becomes your out loud voice and then that one sentence that you said out loud just kind of hangs in the air until something else is said but since you’re by yourself nothing else is said and you just feel silly sitting there under the weight of that one thing you just said out loud. And the thing I said out loud this morning was “I think you’re beautiful." And of course, the conversation in my head was with a man. So it occurred to me, is it kosher to call a man beautiful?
To me, yes, it is. Because beauty isn’t really about physical appearance. If someone is physically attractive, I will call them cute or gorgeous or pretty or handsome or attractive or something like that, but not beautiful. In order for a person to be beautiful, in my opinion, he or she must be an amazing person. Beautiful on the inside might be a good way to describe it. You can usually see this in a person’s eyes, but you get it mostly from their mannerisms and attitudes and such. My mom is a beautiful person. Claudia Schiffer may be a beautiful person, but since I don’t know her, I will call her gorgeous. And I have very good reason to believe that the man I was talking to in my head this morning is a beautiful person and I hope he knows that. And I hope that if I ever said that to him he wouldn’t get freaked out.
I was thinking about this on my way in to work this morning because I was having one of those imaginary conversations with someone in my head where suddenly your head voice becomes your out loud voice and then that one sentence that you said out loud just kind of hangs in the air until something else is said but since you’re by yourself nothing else is said and you just feel silly sitting there under the weight of that one thing you just said out loud. And the thing I said out loud this morning was “I think you’re beautiful." And of course, the conversation in my head was with a man. So it occurred to me, is it kosher to call a man beautiful?
To me, yes, it is. Because beauty isn’t really about physical appearance. If someone is physically attractive, I will call them cute or gorgeous or pretty or handsome or attractive or something like that, but not beautiful. In order for a person to be beautiful, in my opinion, he or she must be an amazing person. Beautiful on the inside might be a good way to describe it. You can usually see this in a person’s eyes, but you get it mostly from their mannerisms and attitudes and such. My mom is a beautiful person. Claudia Schiffer may be a beautiful person, but since I don’t know her, I will call her gorgeous. And I have very good reason to believe that the man I was talking to in my head this morning is a beautiful person and I hope he knows that. And I hope that if I ever said that to him he wouldn’t get freaked out.
Wednesday, May 08, 2002
I’m getting tired of this whole “being cold” thing. I’m not a cold type of person. I’m a 75 degrees and sunny kind of person. With a 54% chance of rain.
Its May, for Pete’s sake. It should be warm outside. Of course, there are those who would say, “If you want better weather, leave Chicago.” And there are those who would ask who Pete is and why so many people care about him. Is it supposed to be St. Peter? As in we should all be doing these things so we can get into heaven? Or was it just some poor random guy a long time ago who had terrible luck and enough people started trying to help him out that “for Pete’s sake” just became a part of our language? Like “going postal.” Or “D’oh!” I actually looked up “D’oh” in the online Oxford English Dictionary today. Yes, I am that bored. Actually, I was looking things up in the Oxford English Dictionary because I’m not sure where else to go to find out what some of these things are that I am eating. Like riboflavin and niacin. I know they are B vitamins, but when they are synthetically produced, where do they come from? Liver or green leafy vegetables? ‘Cuz if I’m going to walk around saying I’m on a vegan diet, is somebody going to lambast me for eating something with riboflavin in it? Datem isn’t even in the OED.
What I need is a vegan cheat sheet. I’m turning into one of those annoying people that takes eight hours to go grocery shopping ‘cuz I have to read the list of ingredients on everything. “I’m not eating that. It’s full of ingredients.” Though I am really enjoying this vegan diet. For the most part. I would say I am about 95% vegan, with that 5% residing mostly in some bread products and M&M’s. Though I would not recommend soy ice cream. It’s not so hot. But, it prevents me from eating the whole container in one sitting which is a good thing.
Wow, I went from freezing my ass off to soy ice cream in about three minutes flat. That’s called talent.
Its May, for Pete’s sake. It should be warm outside. Of course, there are those who would say, “If you want better weather, leave Chicago.” And there are those who would ask who Pete is and why so many people care about him. Is it supposed to be St. Peter? As in we should all be doing these things so we can get into heaven? Or was it just some poor random guy a long time ago who had terrible luck and enough people started trying to help him out that “for Pete’s sake” just became a part of our language? Like “going postal.” Or “D’oh!” I actually looked up “D’oh” in the online Oxford English Dictionary today. Yes, I am that bored. Actually, I was looking things up in the Oxford English Dictionary because I’m not sure where else to go to find out what some of these things are that I am eating. Like riboflavin and niacin. I know they are B vitamins, but when they are synthetically produced, where do they come from? Liver or green leafy vegetables? ‘Cuz if I’m going to walk around saying I’m on a vegan diet, is somebody going to lambast me for eating something with riboflavin in it? Datem isn’t even in the OED.
What I need is a vegan cheat sheet. I’m turning into one of those annoying people that takes eight hours to go grocery shopping ‘cuz I have to read the list of ingredients on everything. “I’m not eating that. It’s full of ingredients.” Though I am really enjoying this vegan diet. For the most part. I would say I am about 95% vegan, with that 5% residing mostly in some bread products and M&M’s. Though I would not recommend soy ice cream. It’s not so hot. But, it prevents me from eating the whole container in one sitting which is a good thing.
Wow, I went from freezing my ass off to soy ice cream in about three minutes flat. That’s called talent.
Once again, not a whole lot to say today. I need to get out more. I didn’t do anything last night. Watched some TV. Did a little dance. Made a little love. Got down last night. Tee hee. Not really. I did watch TV and played my guitar. I sounded really good last night. You know, I have those days when I think I sound awesome and then two days later I can’t stand to hear myself sing and I can’t get the chords right and all that crap. But last night I sounded really good. I think it would be fun to make another album. I could probably write one or two more before I record it, though. Make the album longer than half an hour. But it would be fun. I have no idea what I would do with the album when it was finished, but it would be fun. I could just put up mp3s on my site and call it a day.
I’m having fun putting together my site. It’s almost at a point where I want to just go ahead and publish it and call it a day. I want other people to see it. Its not a fancy site with baubles and bangles and stuff, but there are a couple fun pictures and of course, my blog entries (except over there it is called my journal). Nothing too exciting that the world would really be missing out on if it didn’t know about, but hopefully something people might want to look at. I dunno. I dig it. I think its fun. I’m not going to put a counter on it, though, because I think it would be depressing to see that nobody was looking at it.
I’m having fun putting together my site. It’s almost at a point where I want to just go ahead and publish it and call it a day. I want other people to see it. Its not a fancy site with baubles and bangles and stuff, but there are a couple fun pictures and of course, my blog entries (except over there it is called my journal). Nothing too exciting that the world would really be missing out on if it didn’t know about, but hopefully something people might want to look at. I dunno. I dig it. I think its fun. I’m not going to put a counter on it, though, because I think it would be depressing to see that nobody was looking at it.
Tuesday, May 07, 2002
I don’t really have much interesting to say today. Which then, of course, begs the question, "do I ever," but that’s another issue. None of y’all have to be reading this if you don’t want to be. Though I love it that I have about five faithful readers now. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Hi, my five faithful readers! *smooch*
I did go home last night to a mailbox full of Moby – two different magazines with two different rather large articles about Moby in them. Sigh. I dig Moby. I know I’m a dork with a snowball’s chance in hell of ever meeting the man, but I dig him anyway. I can’t help it. In one of his interviews, he said that it would take a pretty unusual woman to consider him a “catch.” I think we’re all quite aware of the fact that I am a pretty unusual woman.
Though, here’s something funny that I was thinking about. The instructor who was in Chicago a while ago knows where my blog is. I mean, I think I sent him the site address. So he could be reading this. I doubt he is, but he could be. And is he made uncomfortable by some of the things I said about him in earlier entries? Because if so, I hope he knows that I think I have a better chance with Moby. Meaning I should hang on to my cat because you can’t be crazy single lady with a cat if you don’t have a cat. Then you’re just crazy single lady. And what fun is that?
I did go home last night to a mailbox full of Moby – two different magazines with two different rather large articles about Moby in them. Sigh. I dig Moby. I know I’m a dork with a snowball’s chance in hell of ever meeting the man, but I dig him anyway. I can’t help it. In one of his interviews, he said that it would take a pretty unusual woman to consider him a “catch.” I think we’re all quite aware of the fact that I am a pretty unusual woman.
Though, here’s something funny that I was thinking about. The instructor who was in Chicago a while ago knows where my blog is. I mean, I think I sent him the site address. So he could be reading this. I doubt he is, but he could be. And is he made uncomfortable by some of the things I said about him in earlier entries? Because if so, I hope he knows that I think I have a better chance with Moby. Meaning I should hang on to my cat because you can’t be crazy single lady with a cat if you don’t have a cat. Then you’re just crazy single lady. And what fun is that?
Monday, May 06, 2002
I want to clarify one thing real quick. When I said “we just let an entire culture disappear,” I did not intend that to mean that the United States government should step in and lay down the law in Africa or anything like that. It is not the business of the United States to govern the entire world. Or it shouldn’t be, in my opinion. I just find it disturbing that humans feel the need to assimilate everyone who isn’t like themselves. I think that as a species, we should just allow bushmen to be bushmen, CEOs to be CEOs, famous people to be famous people, hookers to be hookers, you know? Why must we all subscribe to the fantasy that the more technology and stuff you have, the more you are worth? What is so abhorrent about alternative lifestyles?
Okay, I won’t rant anymore, but I just wanted to make it clear that I am not advocating some big governmental take-over or anything by the United States. That would only make things worse. I just wish there had been somebody on the side of the bushmen to stand up for them if they couldn’t stand up for themselves.
Okay, I won’t rant anymore, but I just wanted to make it clear that I am not advocating some big governmental take-over or anything by the United States. That would only make things worse. I just wish there had been somebody on the side of the bushmen to stand up for them if they couldn’t stand up for themselves.
Spiderman is the kind of movie that makes me want to make movies. If you haven't seen it yet (I know there are about two people out there who haven't, judging by the box office numbers), go see it. Very soon. If not right now. Its really fun.
But yeah, and then I got to make a movie this weekend. Well, part of one. We started filming and it went a lot better than I thought it was going to. I'm excited to be back on set next weekend and I'm anxious to see the footage. Though I don't know if I want to see everything that has been shot every day or if I want to see it first as a complete, edited, sweet-smelling package. Part of me is leaning towards the latter, but I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of the stuff as outtakes on the DVD or something, you know?
Okay, I'm stopping now.
But yeah, and then I got to make a movie this weekend. Well, part of one. We started filming and it went a lot better than I thought it was going to. I'm excited to be back on set next weekend and I'm anxious to see the footage. Though I don't know if I want to see everything that has been shot every day or if I want to see it first as a complete, edited, sweet-smelling package. Part of me is leaning towards the latter, but I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of the stuff as outtakes on the DVD or something, you know?
Okay, I'm stopping now.
I heard from my mom’s boyfriend/significant other-type person that the last of the bushmen in Africa have been displaced from their homes in the bush and put in cities. Thus ending their time on this planet as one of the only truly primitive tribes left. Had there not been so many other people in the room at the time I heard this news, I probably would have cried.
How can you take an entire culture of people out of its habitat and say it is for their own good? Those people have been living and surviving just fine in the bush for thousands of years. What the fuck could a big city have to offer them that they so desperately need? Pollution? Crowded living conditions? Diseases their tribe has not yet been exposed to? Yay, they now get to experience Western Medicine. You know what? They have been doing just fine out in the bush with their own remedies. Western Medicine is not the be-all-end-all of human evolution. Western Medicine is a business that depends on people getting sick and people living in fear of the fact that they might someday get sick. You know what? The human body is a pretty remarkable thing. It can heal itself in so many ways in such a short amount of time. Every time I get a paper cut and the blood clots, I am amazed at how fantastic my body is. The bushmen know these things. They know what plants to use to aid in healing. They know where to find water. They know how to hunt food. They build their own shelters and have their own language and culture. And the African governments feel they need to be relocated into cities “for their own good.” Bullshit. That’s all I can say. Bullshit. Those governments probably want that land for mining or oil or something. Financial gain. The bushmen were not causing anyone harm by being there, living the way they had lived for thousands of years. You know what those governments just did? They put an entire human culture on the extinction list.
I’m sorry, but it just pisses me off. We have human rights groups to make sure that people are being treated fairly. We have animal rights groups to make sure that animals are being treated fairly. We have animal rights groups helping to ensure that many endangered species don’t become extinct. And we just let an entire culture disappear. “For their own good.”
How can you take an entire culture of people out of its habitat and say it is for their own good? Those people have been living and surviving just fine in the bush for thousands of years. What the fuck could a big city have to offer them that they so desperately need? Pollution? Crowded living conditions? Diseases their tribe has not yet been exposed to? Yay, they now get to experience Western Medicine. You know what? They have been doing just fine out in the bush with their own remedies. Western Medicine is not the be-all-end-all of human evolution. Western Medicine is a business that depends on people getting sick and people living in fear of the fact that they might someday get sick. You know what? The human body is a pretty remarkable thing. It can heal itself in so many ways in such a short amount of time. Every time I get a paper cut and the blood clots, I am amazed at how fantastic my body is. The bushmen know these things. They know what plants to use to aid in healing. They know where to find water. They know how to hunt food. They build their own shelters and have their own language and culture. And the African governments feel they need to be relocated into cities “for their own good.” Bullshit. That’s all I can say. Bullshit. Those governments probably want that land for mining or oil or something. Financial gain. The bushmen were not causing anyone harm by being there, living the way they had lived for thousands of years. You know what those governments just did? They put an entire human culture on the extinction list.
I’m sorry, but it just pisses me off. We have human rights groups to make sure that people are being treated fairly. We have animal rights groups to make sure that animals are being treated fairly. We have animal rights groups helping to ensure that many endangered species don’t become extinct. And we just let an entire culture disappear. “For their own good.”
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Rabbit, rabbit.
Wow, May Day already. Where does the time go?
Happy birthday to my best friend’s boyfriend. Who is also a friend of mine. I hope he is having a good day today.
May starts birthday season in my family. Even in my extended family – we are almost all born between May and August. *shrug* Go fig.
Peanut butter and jelly on pita bread is actually pretty good. Better than sammiches involving mustard, anyway.
I’m sorry, I’m really out of it. Today is pay day which is usually a good thing, but I already have no money for the rest of the month. It is all claimed. Partially because I put a thing or two on my credit card last month and I need to pay that off and partially because I got tickets to Area:Two today. Yay Area:Two! I will be in the same “room” as Moby and David Bowie. How cool is that? Granted, they are not the world’s greatest seats because I still believe that Ticketmaster is run by Satan’s minions, but I will be there. Which is a good thing. But I can’t eat much this month because of it. Which is a bad thing.
I wish I didn’t have to worry about money. I wish I could live my simple little life and not have to scrimp and save and worry about it all of the time. I do not lead an extravagant life, but it is very rich in a lot of ways. And I hate to say it, but it takes money to keep up that richness. For example, going out to dinner with a wonderful friend. Going dancing. Paying my rent. All of these things would seem to be fundamental, or at the very least fall into that category of “not living in excessiveness,” yet I always seem to be worried about money. I hope that goes away one day.
Wow, May Day already. Where does the time go?
Happy birthday to my best friend’s boyfriend. Who is also a friend of mine. I hope he is having a good day today.
May starts birthday season in my family. Even in my extended family – we are almost all born between May and August. *shrug* Go fig.
Peanut butter and jelly on pita bread is actually pretty good. Better than sammiches involving mustard, anyway.
I’m sorry, I’m really out of it. Today is pay day which is usually a good thing, but I already have no money for the rest of the month. It is all claimed. Partially because I put a thing or two on my credit card last month and I need to pay that off and partially because I got tickets to Area:Two today. Yay Area:Two! I will be in the same “room” as Moby and David Bowie. How cool is that? Granted, they are not the world’s greatest seats because I still believe that Ticketmaster is run by Satan’s minions, but I will be there. Which is a good thing. But I can’t eat much this month because of it. Which is a bad thing.
I wish I didn’t have to worry about money. I wish I could live my simple little life and not have to scrimp and save and worry about it all of the time. I do not lead an extravagant life, but it is very rich in a lot of ways. And I hate to say it, but it takes money to keep up that richness. For example, going out to dinner with a wonderful friend. Going dancing. Paying my rent. All of these things would seem to be fundamental, or at the very least fall into that category of “not living in excessiveness,” yet I always seem to be worried about money. I hope that goes away one day.
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