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.