Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time, in a land not far from here, there was a noble and brave Prince.

Who traveled to a land a little up the hill, because he had heard tales of a beautiful princess trapped in a world of heteronormativity.

So he and his brave knights,

and histrusty servant-boy

Traveled to a land a little up the hill...

And met a wise and powerful Wizard.

The Wizard told them to seek out the princess in the land in front of a liquor store, deep in the dangerous jungle of Noe Valley, and the Prince was very grateful.

"We shall find the Princess! Page boy, bring me a fourty, for sustinence!" The dashing Prince said, and it was so.

The Prince voyaged over the steep hills and puke-encrusted terrain of Noe Valley, and was met by an angry and somewhat nerdy gate-keeper.

"Page boy!" The Prince cried, "distract him!"

So the Prince escaped the gate-keeper, and freed the Princess. And she was grateful.

Very grateful.

It was kind of excessive.

I mean, he's a Prince, right? It's kind of his job to rescue Princesses. I mean, what else has he got to do all day, you know? But still, she was really grateful.

To tell you the truth, the Princess was kinda just giving it away.

I mean, really.


So the Prince, and the Princess, and the loveable but slightly queer page boy lived happily ever after.

The End.

All it Does is Rain

These days, I'm feeling both underwhelmed and overwhelmed at the same time. It's quite the sensation. It's a very short calm before the shitstorm that my life is soon to become, which is nice. I get to catch up on the first season of Huff and organize bowling tournaments with everyone I've ever met, but still. Having nothing else to do but my Original Recipe Job-Job makes me feel listless and prone to drink. Both of which I am known to do well; lord knows I don't need to practice. Yet I seem to always be in an Elliot Smith "Between the Bars" kind of mood.

Which is not to say it's all bad news; actually, it's good. I'm soon to be empolyed for far more money than I'm actually worth teaching drama to children. Nothing wrong with that. It's good for my resume, it's good for my credit card debt (grumble), I already bought a cute new pair of Danskos to congradulate myself (and a dinner out, and a few trips to the Old Slavey [hee], and... some more shoes.... everything Sarah Vowell has written in the last five years... grumble). And it's a good opportunity to jump into something that I have no idea how to do, which I don't get very often, since I have an apartment and credit card debt... did I mention the debt yet? Good.

But it's also... teaching... children.... drama. How the fuck does a techie with zero acting skills and a penchant for whiskey get a job not only supervising children, who are our FUTURE (or so I have been told), but teaching them a skill? A useless skill, sure, but it's something. I don't even know if I like kids. I hardly remember being one myself, and from what I do remember they don't like me very much. Now that I'm six feet tall and presumably the adult, they might take more of a shine to me, but I was an only child. I was never socialized to deal with other children. Now that I'm my cynical and sarcastic young woman self, what the fuck am I going to do with a gaggle of five year olds?

Not to mention every other word out of my mouth is "fuck", and has been since 1995.

I'm so grateful for the opportunity, again, and I have a feeling I'll be fine, it's only 10 weeks, and, dude. I'm totally getting rich off those little fuckers. But did I mention it's at 8am? I don't even know what 8am looks like. Is the sun out yet?

Add to that moving at the end of the summer, which just breaks my heart on so many levels. I hate house hunting, and so far my luck has been on-off: one house bad, one good, one bad, so on so on. I'm living in a good house now. If Scrunchyface and I move into a shithole in the Sunset, will our relationship just... implode? I have heard tell. And I have so much fucking shit in my life, it's funny, how, in 23 years you can accumulate a museam of crap that you just can't get rid of, because as soon as I throw my old futon away, my bed will spontainously combust and I will have to sleep on THE FLOOR, in THE DIRT, like AN ANIMAL. And don't even get me started on the serious waterworks that are going to transpire when I move out on my lovely roommate. No, don't ask. It's just something in my eye. Anybody else want a shot of whiskey?

Just today I got offered yet another stage managing job for September, which I hopefully won't have to turn down, and one of my favorite directors is asking about using me next semester for her show. Sigh. It's all great. Why do I feel so bad about it?

My Human Interactions

...is the tittle of this b-side Harvey Danger song that I downloaded and listened to obesessively when I first started working on Angels, and I really had no idea how applicable it would be.

...Pray to the God that you don't quite believe in to bless this fleeting moment...

Angels was... a mess, and thrilling, like any good relationship. I could go on ad nauseam about how it was a learning experience, etc, and how it was like a real-time professional show and how long has it been since I did something like that? And explain my faults, and my triumphs, and how the TD and the director couldn't agree on the last few cues and that caught me in the crossfires but I held my own, and amaze you with stories about how my lighting guy showed up a half hour before showtime and I nearly killed him... but if you spent any time hanging out with me for any length of time you've heard it. Over, done.

What's not done are my anxiety dreams about the whole thing. Throughout tech I had dreams every night--- doing the show and the lights fail (actually happened), I show up and the show is cancelled (actually happened), endless faceless people screaming at me (actually happened), being unable to read and therefore unable to read my cues (not this one, thank God)--- and to be fair, 95% of my dreams are anxiety dreams anyway, but... the show ended two weeks ago. You would think my brain would get a hold of this. No, my brain still is carrying that torch, trotting my subconcious out onstage to deal with some calamity or other.

But really I loved it. It was so brief, and such a compacted experience-- boom, it's over. I miss it, in a way, even though I'm happy to have a life back. At the same time it was hard, it was anxiety inducing, and more than once I thought, "I can't do this." I felt like a fraud, like a failure, like a scared little girl. I felt like the only one with her shit not together, and I am not used to that.

And then I think: this is a job. It is work. Just because I love it, just because I'm good at it, doesn't mean it won't kick my ass. Doesn't mean it won't kill me. This has been so easy up until now, and now... it's real. It's not high school anymore, it's not 'lets just do the show and go to Denny's'. This is hard, and sometimes not fun, just like any good relationship. I just have to... you know, Knuckledown. I have to keep going back, keep getting it to kick my ass, and find new and exciting ways to kick back. That will keep me alive, keep me sane.

If I thought that you could see me, I'd be too anxious to perform. But tonight I am not working on my human interact6ions anymore.

Greetings from Inside One Girl's Insanity!

Oh, jay-sus I am tired. And I don't really know why, except that this is tech... 'cept it's basically the only thing I'm doing right now, besides freaking the fuck out and drinking waaaaaay too much Box Wine. I get the eight hours, surprisingly enough I've been going to bed when I should instead of watching infomercials and Olympic coverage until dark-thirty.

So there will be a lenghty post about Angels at some point, I promise, but. Not now. However, in case y'all are interested, here's the show info...

Angels in America @ the Diego Rivera Theatre
City College of San Francisco
50 Phelan, SF

Feb. 24 and 25, March 3 and 4 @ 8pm (the theater is always at eight)
Feb. 26 and March 5 @ 2pm

$10

Come see me... not do anything, really. But when a light goes on imagine me freaking out about the timing. And then you can buy me a beer and I will tell you boring stories!

I Loved You, So What?

This is going to be scattered, and aimless, and I'm going to get some business out of the way first before I get to any point... if I ever get to a point, which is unlikely... for I am a very exhausted girl, and I have about 45 minutes to kill. Disclaimer over.

Angels is going really well, and there will be posts on that, mostly because I think it's the most interesting thing I do (that is rated PG-13, mind you), but I kind of like the frenzied tech week additions rather than posting little things, "Today I taped the stage, today I was on-book," etc. etc. But I will say that I'm learning a lot, which is new for me, I think the shows I've worked on since I started at NVSF 7,000 years ago have been so Laisez-Faire that I haven't really had a chance to get through the real, semi-professional process of stage management yet. The cast is super good, very nice, and very very attractive--- and ladies, there is a significant amount of man-on-man action in a two and a half hour period, which I encourage you to experience for yourself. Actaully, alla y'all are invited, if you'd like, it's going to be a great show, if I don't fuck it up.

In other news, and really coming out of nowhere, Bosslady was kind enough to will me her bed, which is now dominating 75% of my room--- I had been sleeping for the last 3 years on a prayer mat, actually, and before that the boyfriend had a futon, so I had forgotten what it was like to actually sleep on a matress. I highly reccommend it.

So that's out of the way, I thought I would do the obligitory V-Day post, because it's topical, and I've been feeling guilty about neglecting y'all, not to mention jealous of those of you *cough cough Jeff* who have the time and capacity to write so frequently on a number of interesting things.

The first thing that strikes me about this quote unquote holiday is the backlash for people with partners. Of course, of course, there's the rampant consumerism, the decorations that go up on January 2nd, the constant chocolate price spikes--- this is all relavent and yet, I choose to ignore it. I think there is a definate culture of cynicism among us, what, Gen Y or Gen Q or Gen Purple folk, to be edgy and snarky about love and hearts and flowers etc... and that's fine, that's totally where I'm at, by the way, but when Feb. 14th rolls around, there's this obligation to get together and have a bottle of wine and be all dovey. I have found, in the past, that my single friends are absolutely livid about this, even angry about the fact that those of us in relationships get to, I guess, have a holiday all our own, while they feel excluded. I have gotten to the point where I won't even mention any plans to people because of the angry backlash. I realize, of course, that this is a defense mechanism against feeling lonely and alone, culminating on a day when our society declares, loudly, that TO BE WITH SOMEONE IS TO BE WHOLE, YOU ARE HALF A PERSON... especially to women.

But the thing is, especially after being with someone for a while, these coupley obligations make me... tired. They're not based in actual love or affection--- Scrunchyface and I didn't say, Okay, Mark Your Calander, Because Today We Agree That We're In Love. We do that... daily. Whenever he gets up to fix the antenne on my teevee, or brings me a glass of water in the morning, or goes out to get me smokes, that is an expression of love. When I encourage him to go back to college or take him to dinner, that is an expression of love, and all of these little things mean more to me, and to him, than doing something special reflexively because we are a couple and this is what couples do.

My point being that the entire thing is overrated, especially when you are with someone, to the point that I cannot remember a single Valentines Day that I have ever spent with anyone, ever.

But I remember the time that James the First made me my first mix ceedee, and I remember kissing Drummer-Boy in the theatre parking lot. I remember when King James II took me on a date to a poetry reading in a cafe that had been boarded shut for the last five years, so we had cake and tea in the Castro instead, and I remember when Scrunchyface first told me he loved me, and I refused to believe it.

We all have love, have been loved, will love, can love, are loved and will forever be loved by everyone we've ever met. We don't need no stinkin' holiday.

End of lecture.

Between the First and Fourtieth Drink

Too busy to eat, people! What with the holidays (or as I like to call them: Holidaze), and my birthday (thank you very much) and all of the sudden I'm in classes and rehearsal and various assorted extra-curricluars, I'm beat.

I have, however, made time for Beer Club. I really want to make a joke about the first rule of Beer Club, but I won't. Because I care.

The actual first rule of Beer Club is it is not Beer Club without Car Bombs, or whiskey. That's more of a personal rule. Just to keep my fighting weight up.

We always go to Pilsner, because it's friendly, and gay, so there's not a lot of trouble with univited males pawing around my women-folk. Within the last few weeks, every time I'm in there, the bartends give me this kinda squinty look and say, "Ieeeeeyye remember you." It's not exactly warming, but I think it's okay. I'm a good tipper. So we get our 'bombs, or our Heffewisen-n-a-shot-a-Jack, and head to the back, for dimly lit smoking under the ivy outside. Our table, mysteriously, is always free, although I think they've begun roping it off for me before I get there. At least, I asked them to do that. Bosslady sits as far away from me as possible, to aviod the sweet sweet smell of all the chain-smoking, Soph sits next to me, to easily access my cigarettes and Dee sits next to Bosslady, because they are married. Pints are drained and reflooded, the ashtray is filled, everyone talks over each other about work, for Christ's Sake, why do we always gotta talk about work, you guys, etcetera.

Eventually someone mentions Sparky's. That's usually the end of Beer Club, and the beginning of Onion Ring Club.

Or it's two am, and we're veinly trying to choke down three quarters of a beer, because I have an internal clock that bings at last call, and also, I'm an enabler, so I usually convince someone else to get a pint. Only by the time we get back and get seated and distribute and light up a smoke, some unfriendly bar maid is shooing us out.

I love Beer Club. And Beer Club loves me.

Auld-lang-something... Where's My Beer?

Hey there. Missed me? I missed you. I swear, I swear, I swear I am NOT falling into that old pattern of not-Blogging for months and months and then posting about shopping, ah-gain. I've been busy, as you have, and I blame... finals? Uhh... yeah. Sure. Fi-nals. Not my fault!

Anyway, how you been? That's excellent! I'm so glad to hear that you finally got that fish/hooked up with a new beau/bought a car/got your Rhodes scholarship. Might I suggest naming him Mr. Gil? No? Because that's kind of a funny fish name... Still no? Okay, your loss dude. I was only trying to help.

Me? Oh, I'm cool. Yeah, buried Dr. Gill last week. He was a good fish. He just couldn't handle that cleaning solvent. I know, I know. Rinse. Yeah, Dee tells me that all the time. It's not my fault. Doing dishes is hard, yo.

Yeah, finals were fine. Not too hard. Really looking forward to not being stressed or hating myself for the next two weeks. The director for Angels already tried to get me to come in and work, or something. Luckily, I didn't get his e-mail in time and could avoid it. Unfortunately, now he hates me and is going to make my life crap for a semester. Yeah. Well, I know I signed up for it, but I was hoping you would be supportive. Why do you always get like this? Okay, okay. I don't want to fight either. Sorry, dude.

Hey, I got an iPod! Yeah, I am really excited. No. No, I am not downloading while I am talking to you. What do you accuse me of, sir? For your information, I am just tinkering around a bit, trying to figure out the Julinne feature. Apparently, I have 10 MB of Potato storage available. Also, it has a car-wash attachment, which would be great, if I in fact, had a car.

What are you doing for New Years? Uh-huh. Yeah. No, staying in with a bottle of Cooks does seem like a good plan. What? What tone? No, it's just... well. You say that every year. I say that every year. And we just wind up doing something anyway. No, I believe you, it's just that the conflict is so great. I've been there, girl. You're not going to make it. By 11:53 you're going to end up in something shiny and threadbare, in uncomfortable shoes, shivering and wondering how you got yourself into this mess, AGAIN. Okay, okay, we'll see. Hey. I'll bet you a dollar. No? Don't care to put a little moolah into this wager? Chicken, eh? Bahk-bahk-bahk-ba--- okay. I'll stop. Sorry.

Anyway. No, I've got to go too. Need potatoes. Yeah, I'll talk to you again next week. Have a good holiday!