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.