shmooze

"Those other corsets you have are like...much harder...you know - much more 'fuck me, I'm a...'"
"Dominatrix?"
"Yes! And this one - it's not exactly innocent, it just says 'Fuck me, I'm a ballerina.'"

I am giggling as Cali gushes, and flirting in this utterly bizarre way that one can only flirt with a Playhouse classmate - it's platonic, non-platonic, semi-incestuous, but still fun. It's a kind of flirt you can only do with someone who's seen you scream obscenities, sob hysterically while making a floral arrangement, get naked and scrub marker off your legs, and sing "Lullaby of Broadway" at the top of your lungs - and you've seen him shouting til he's blue in the face whilst he stands alone, wearing naught but a tiny red Speedo and a pair of shades.

Ah, The Neighborhood Playhouse.

We're at the Pig n' Whistle tonight, at an impromptu gathering arranged by Cali & Boss last night. Swank walks in with a pretty blond boy in tow. They are both dressed and styled as if they are mannequins that wiggled out of the shop windows of Dolce & Gabbana. Swank keeps an eye deliberately trained on me as he hugs everyone he hasn't seen in awhile, then he shimmies down to my end of the table, lightly fingering his shiny striped tie.

I lean over towards Boss, who is grinning widely at me, and emphatically mouth the word QUEEN!

After a few minutes of chatter over how he stole the lovely tie (having hung out at my place last night, Swank and I have already covered how he desired this sixty dollar accessory, on the rack at Banana Republic, where he used to work), I am introduced.

"This is Joe," says Swank, "My buddy from the Japanese TV shoot."

Joe, I discover, is an Austin native - a place I'm considering going to direct when school's out next summer - and knows of the Zachary Scott Theater where my ex-type-thing is the assistant technical director.

"Oh," he coos, "I miss it so much. It's so much easier there."

I understand completely. I've lived in New York long enough that I can survive just peachy. The city can't eat me anymore. I've leaped the hurdles. But there is something - not as glorious or glamorous as success in New York - but straight up nice about doing theater out of the rat race.

Later, I call the ex-type-thing, and have a catch-up chat. We talk about tattoos we want (one of which I intend to get with Beaux - our affair is not done, merely on a trial relax time) and he delivers the only line funnier than Cali's 'ballerina' comment. In reference to a tattoo he {theoretically} would get of a little cartoon man with a mower aimed towards his pubes, he says:

"Unlike most tattoos people get down there, it would be less sexual and more yard work."




P.S. The legendary Sidney Lumet is hanging out here today, on my last day of work.

fact

Breakups make for good plays.


Bye-bye, Beaux. I will miss you more than you will ever know.

it'll be you and me up in the trees

Long time no post. Especially for me, the little internet Queen Bee that I be.

This long, difficult summer is finally coming to a close. The first inklings of fresh cold have blown in on New York. I no longer drip like a faucet of sweat on the way to work, and freeze when I get in the building. I have moved to El Barrio - aka Spanish Harlem - with Boss from the show (instead of Daisy D). She was set up there already, with exposed brick walls and two bathrooms (!!), very close to Mama and Bro. I think the pairing, as roommates, is going to be mighty fruitful - especially once Verizon stops being a phone company and starts being helpful (i.e. gets our internet working). We'll be working as a pair this year, both in theatre school and in 'netland, with Retroscena as the mouth and The Photo Album as the eyes of our cliquey little drama world.

Our cliquey little drama world is slowly reassembling, as people return from their vacations and bread jobs to find new places and kick out their subletters. Last night, Boss and I had our fellow classmate who is just the sweetest, toothiest, clean-scrubbed Cali boy, over to the new place (which is jammed full of my unpacked boxes). Boss and Cali cooked dinner (God bless them) as I attempted organization. We filled each other in on the summer thus far, and then the conversation took a turn into last year. Cali grinned and giggled as Boss and I bitched. At one point, I stumbled into territory I thought was a bit on the Too Much Information side.

Me: Oh, I'm so sorry. TMI.
Cali: No way, man. We've all been in those classrooms together. There is no such thing as too much information anymore.

This is the scary scary truth.



Before I came to NP, before I really began directing, before my independence as an artist was really declared, I used to go to Fordham at Lincoln Center. My freshman first-semester acting teacher, and gateway to the world of theatrical higher education was Larry Sacharow, head of the department, and an all-around fascinating character. The more out-there you were in his class, the more he loved you. I was only absent once towards the very end of term (and it was an early bugger of a class) and when I returned, he said to me: "How strange of you not to come to class. Don't do that ever again." Other people missed out, but I never did...I was surprised that he minded so much. Excepting major illnesses, I haven't missed any acting classes again, ever.

I am sorry that I left Fordham in such a hurry, and I'm sorry that I was too much of a fraidy cat to go back and say goodbye to the faculty. Larry was diagnosed with leukemia this summer and passed away very suddenly. The lesson I have learned here is that I must have the courage to stand behind my choices without burning the bridge away. Now I will never have the opportunity to tell Larry how wonderful it was to be his student, and how terrifically funny and brilliant I found him.

His achievements, of which there are many, are listed here. RIP Mr. Sacharow.



I'm so looking forward to September, where hopefully, there will be beginnings instead of so many endings.

arse in gear

Taking a ballet class to attempt to get back in shape before I'm back in required ballet at Neighborhood Playhouse.

Went down to Peridance and took a class with Giada Ferrone. It was an open advanced-beginner class, which I figured would be sheer perfection - I've had several years of classes, so I don't need baby ballet...right?...Right?

SO WRONG.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

The combination of being out of shape, taught another technique and apparently still a beginner was astoundingly...embarassing! But no one cared, so I just tried to keep up, giggled at myself a lot, and got through the class. I thought about leaving several times but then thought fuck it...I've already paid my seventeen bucks...I may as well sweat 17 buckets worth of liquid onto the marley before I leave here today.

And I'll tell ya, there is nothing to improve a negative mindset quite like a seriously, kick-yer-ass workout. I am not just ass-kicked. I am shin kicked and back kicked and stomach kicked and shoulder kicked! I'm completely broken to bits, and I feel AWESOME.

Does this make me
a) masochistic
b) dedicated or
c) crazy?

Hmm.

i want a den of slack

But it seems life just won't allow me one of those anytime soon.

In the midst of signing papers on my dream home (cough) in Queens, packing the Roosevelt Island apartment, working full time, visiting Mama in new Spanish Harlem digs, and whining endlessly to very tolerant Beaux, I am working on a new project. Actually, my role in this embryonic piece is that of Playwright, not director. Mama herself will likely be directing, if not my mentor/hero, Mr. Robert Lepage (pronounced Roe-bear Lu-pahj).

If I can get it together - mostly within my own head - this play is the opportunity of a lifetime. One of Tom Brumberger's unrealized brainchildren, its' intended focus is the legendary Georgia O'Keeffe and the last few years of her life, which she spent in the care and company of sculptor Juan Hamilton. Although I have never shown extraordinary flair for writing dramatic pieces - my last one was a 10-minute play called "Spoons", most recently performed at Theatre Studio Inc. in 2003 - my mother has requested that I pen this one, as per Tom's wishes. And with an incredible Academy-Award winning actress attached to the project, there's definitely a raging fire beneath the seat of my pants to get this one out of the stratosphere and into Microsoft Word.

The question is...the angle.

One elderly artist alone in the wilderness is a very specific kind of entertainment that, to be perfectly frank, does not entertain me. However, Ms. O'Keeffe is fiercely fascinating, so I'm researching, awaiting the bite that'll tell me how to start this sucker.


In the meantime, I leave you with one of her pieces, which she swore was just a flower:

moving in new york

I've done a lot of moving. Boxes and tape and vans - all of these items and I have a fair understanding of one another. And yet, I am about to do the traditional StudentSquish, which I have somehow managed to avoid for years by employing the following methods:

A. Leech Off Older Boyfriend
Advisability Level: Low
Snags: Inevitable Break-up; leverage for him in couples-arguments; no personal space
Features: Co-dependency; cozy evenings together; sex whenever; FREE

B. Living with Younger Sibling
Advisability Level: High
Snags: Traditional sibling spats; parents coming over whenever
Features: Parents contributing to rent, food budget; automatic forgiveness for messes, over-use of shower, etc.; general sibling fun & games; someone to complain to

C. Mother's Ex Boyfriend's Apartment
Advisability Level: Medium
Snags: Shady; Apartment-owner dropping in for random weekends; limited stay
Features: Mostly empty apartment; FREE

But for whatever reason, it's all fallen through, and I'm left with option D. Living with Mother as of next week, until my first non-romantic, non-family roommates and I find a place. If you live in New York and you've had to do the StudentSquish, you know why I'm not psyched. For those of you that don't...

Imagine your bed. Is it queen size? Good, that's nice! I have one too. Now I want you to picture it inside of your bathroom. No, no, don't remove the tub. Just don't count that as space for your bed. You can remove the toilet, maybe. But the sink, keep. That's your closet area now. But make sure that the closet door can't be opened unless you shut the regular door. Now that you've got the bed in there (by some miracle), try and fit the rest of your earthly belongings at the foot of the bed. Whatever doesn't fit gets to go under the bed. If you're a musician, forget about having a career - throw your amp, your guitar, and the case away and become something that requires no supplies, like a philosopher.

Done?

Okay, now please cough up 2000 dollars to cover your portion of the deposit. That broom closet down the hall? That's where your roommate lives. And yeah, forget about spilling out into the hall, because that can just barely fit your body. Also, try not to come home past dark, because you're probably going to get repeatedly gangraped or shot. Either that, or you can trek the length of the Sahara in Queens to reach it, should you choose to live somewhere safer, which I know will be really fun for you in the winter.




But at the end of the day, at least I'll be living with cool people - two fellow Neighborhoodies that rock. One of them, Daisy, has been my companion on all of the Sahara journeys so far - all of which have left us dripping gallons of sweat across Ditmars, 48th street, Queens Boulevard, 118th street. And when she pulls open the tiniest closet known to mankind and her eyes open in shock at the size of a growing mold blotch across the back of it...she gives me the biggest conspiratorial smiles. I know that despite whatever microhole we find to hang our hats (and copies of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, and Sanford Meisner's On Acting), we'll find a way to make it great.

In the meantime, I've come to despise craigslist and all flights of stairs.

i drink banana daquiris til i'm blind

The title is a Prince lyric from, of all things, a song entitled "Another Lonely Christmas." Next to "7," it is my all-time favorite Prince tune, if only for its' sheer ridiculousness and drama. The premise of the tune is: my lover died on the 25th day of December (ahh, baby!), the Doctor said it was pneumonia, but Mama thought it was stress, and now on Christmas, I drink banana daquiris and lament the loss of love.

Yes, well, naturally, Mr. WhenItComestoFunkIAmaJunkie.

But speaking of sheer ridiculousness and drama, there are now photos of the cast and myself sometimes (definitely not at the height of attractiveness, given that in most of them, I'm in my pajamas), drinking post-rehearsal, rehearsing, and er...posing, pre-show. The makeup looks particularly astounding in these shots.

Our White Rabbit, as you can see, is a musician. He and I have known each other for some time now - since the start of my attempt at traditional college, where he was a sophomore. The drunken antics Boss photographed at my apartment were his idea. He very subtly suggested an early cast party by way of showing up to rehearse with two cases of beer in tow, along with his standard companion bottle of Johnny Walker. Of all the problems I had with people smelling, having attitude, or pitching fits throughout the show, Rabbit's problem was the least disruptive but the most disturbing. He is so talented, in so many ways - a great singer, a songwriter, an actor to put the most trained actors to shame - but he has become increasingly destructive to himself as time has gone by. I can only hope that his situation goes the way of Karen's, and he circles back around, clean and clear, in a year or two.

Alas. I'm doubtful.

So many situations arise like this with me and whomever my clan of actors/artists happens to be at the time. I'm not the most straightedged gal in the universe - my low tolerance to two glasses of wine is damn near notorious - but I'm certainly not an every day, or sometimes even every week drinker/smoker. When I directed "Nightmare Before Christmas," my biggest fear of all occured - the leading man (well, I suppose he's really a boy - the redhead, if you click the link) approached me, all done up as Jack the Pumpkin King. Earlier in the week, I had come down on him pretty hard for presumably smoking pot in the parking lot, but I couldn't prove it, so I let it slide. This was a childrens show, mind you, and everyone in the cast was 16 or under.

Jessy: Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. I have to talk to you.
Me: What? What's wrong?
Jessy: I'm too high to do the show.
Me: (long beat) Fine.

I storm away, trying not to scream. It's 20 of curtain time. We have an understudy, but I don't know where he is, or if he can get ready. Smoke might as well be pouring out of my ears. I collide with the choreographer and whisper-shriek what's happened, then blow past her. As I'm cursing about irresponsibility and stomping down the corridor where he pulled me aside and delivered the worst news ever, he shows up again, snickering.

Jessy: Maggie. I was just fucking with your head.

Teenagers.

But at least with them, it turned out to be a joke, and, if it weren't, they can be punished for their actions, and maybe stop, at least for the duration of the play. Adults - or young adults, I suppose - are a little trickier. And if the drinking isn't getting in the way of a person's talent, or ability to show up on time, what can I complain of, other than I just straight-up don't approve?


We got picked up for another gig at Cheng's. I wonder if I'll broach the subject with my liquor-soaked company member.

Every day forces me to grow a bigger set of balls. Pretty soon they're gonna be the size of Texas, and made of steel.