i believe

nightmare before Xmas in 3D, complete with glasses.
terrific experience.
leaving, saw elijah wood with his girlfriend.
sat on six train, thought long and hard about exercises for class, have determined that i must do the scary thing.
time to buy gallons of paint.
halloween fundraiser shindig on saturday.
hell to be raised.
jazzing it up in the morning.
gonna put 3D glasses in locker, as commemorative, or in case of emergency activity.
everyone skipped out on acting for camera tonight which means friday's class will be jammin, and none of us will get airtime.
such is life.
sometimes, you play hooky and you gotta go see the fuckin' 3D cartoon.

typical tuesday

It's ten-fifteen, and although I could be memorizing Shakespeare, I instead bask in my time to slack. There've been a total of maybe three or four slacking hours in the last week, and man, are they glorious. The feel of my ass planted on the couch...my bare feet on the wooden floor...my pajama pants...iTunes shuffling...full stomach. Sweet relief.

Film classes keep us 2nd Years at the Nei-Play til 10:30 or later, twice weekly. But we are finding out what faces to make and not make on film, and improvising off of small movie scenes. Gooding and I went up as Thelma and Louise, and I found out that my old Chicago City Limits skills are more than a little rusty. Note to self: do not riff on silver dollar pancakes ever again.

The Boss has hooked up for serious with Metro. Although I psuedo told the story before: last year, I hijacked him in the hall, where he stood, looking confused and holding a broshure. I invited him to one of Gooding's famous apartment gatherings, and he was initiated as we all did what we do best: got smashed, talked about acting, sang songs, and talked about how much we love each other and the school.

What a bunch of...theater kids!

Metro was the talk of the town on orientation day, and somehow, the Boss and he wound up hitting it off better than ever at the bar that first night...

So Boss is out most of the time, and during the days, I barely see her face - completely peculiar! Most days are spent chatting away with Sessoms and Daisy D. - especially as we assemble our Halloween gear. Tonight, I stood in a pair of the tightest red Beetlejuice pants I had somehow shimmied into (hoorah for stress-induced diets), lacing Sessoms into a mother of a red corset, discussing the purchase of shimmer makeup to make me entirely...shimmery. The same man who's been in Trash and Vaudeville forever told Sessoms to "have a nice weekend" as she paid...

Jimmy Webb: Oh. It's not the weekend. Christ, look where my head is at.
Sessoms: Well this stuff (indicates corset and mini-skirt) is for the weekend.
Jimmy Webb: That explains it.

We giggle out of the store with pink bags in tow, and have a few more laughs about Professor, Numbers, and the others in the ever-expanding cast of characters that make up our day.


Other Typical Tuesday Moments:

Boys Locker Room Basement.
I'm sitting with Swank & Hugh, and a first-year named Jessy comes by with his bookbag. He's a C-Grouper, so he's something like extended family. He makes some reference throughout conversation, about reaching out and touching me. He also makes some reference to his girlfriend.

Swank: Go ahead, touch her.
Me: Yeah.
I present my chest.
Swank: Go ahead.
Me: It's really okay.
Jessy: Naahh...I can't do...that.
Hugh: You better get used to this stuff. That's what Pinter's all about, so that's what next year is all about.
Jessy: I know! I've had Pinter! Six weeks this summer!
Me: So go ahead. Swank, go ahead, show him it's okay.
Swank plants a hand on my right breast.
Hugh: See?
Jessy: You guys are boyfriend and girlfriend, right?
Me & Swank: Nope.
Hugh: They're really not.

Jessy stood for another moment, stuttered, and left the room.

weekends

Some days, you just can't do much other than meet Robert DeNiro, write monologues about the wonders of boys from New Jersey, and do your laundry. When you come home from a starstrikey day at the old office, your music nicely Xeroxed for tomorrow's recording with Shetler, you babble with Boss, who's spent most of the weekend with a first-year, Metro. Metro was your adopted first-year before he even got in: you brought him to the end of the year parties when he was at the school for his interview, and made him pre-cool.

Now that he's snagged a second year, he's ultra-cool.

His best friend, Vegas, snagged Daisy D. for a split-second, but lost it in his lovey-dovey grip of death. Don't you just hate that? One minute, you're swooning, and the next, you're insane. On the recieving end, it's like, anything to get me away from that maniac! On the maniac end, it's nothing but torture and pain, wondering why it is that your affection so outdoes the object of it.


Friday was spent getting to know these cats, for real, by being That Creepy Second Year. I headed up the "Let's Go Second Years!" cheer to get our homebody butts off the barstools at Our Bar and into bumfuck Brooklyn. Bumfuck Brooklyn was the locale of the first-years first Par-TAaAAAY, and I had Saturday in the clear. I was fucking going. I was fucking going, and I was fucking dragging the whole brigade along.

An hour and many deep-actor-type conversations later, first-year Kiwi, Ms. Boss, Swank, Vegas, first-year Miranda and I are all gathered round a pile of cards, and cups full of potent jungle juice. Swank is speaking Spanish to the next door neighbors who've arrived with a vat of tequila. I'm still in my school day clothes, I have a blemish growing under the hat covering my dirty hair, and later in the evening, I'm on the rooftop spouting Shakespeare to the city. Kiwi turns to me, under that incredible sky, and finishes his speech with a mouth full of New Zealand:

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.



And I decided it was pretty much an awesome night.

outrageous

This is me not addressing the two immediate issues:

1. Sordelet Homework &
2. Lunch for Tomorrow

But sometimes, shirking the pressing matters in favor of a half-naked veg-out on your bed, with a little NIN vs. Nintendo is the only way to get your head together.

Especially because today blew my brain to bits, just excellently. It began with some sobbing, done by our entire singing class, as we sat encircled around the singer and their 'partner.' Picture this...

You are a young, twentysomething. You've gotten up at god knows what hour to put your bag and your face together, and you've gotten your bum to singing class. Suddenly, you're knee to knee with everyone, and every song sung, from "Send in the Clowns" to "I Really Like Him" is ten times more poignant than it was ever intended to be. A bit before your song ("Feeling Good") and through "You Must Love Me," everyone's losin' it. A roll of paper towels is brought into the auditorium to sop up the snot and tears.

We were deeply in need of this. I suppose the reason I've been neglectful of the blog was schedule, but inspiration as well...because the start of the second year was tumultuous in a bad way. No one was connecting. There was a skewed feeling to it all, and fighting from the getgo. I came home each night exhausted and just...yucky. Tonight, it's late, and I'm fuckin tired, and I wanna eat a ton of ice cream, but...I still feel fantastic. And in touch with my classmates. Finally!

Continuing.

After the tears, there was acting class, which is always marvelous, and I got up there and rocked it out with the redhead. Our teacher, Mr. Pintaaa, cuts us off fairly quickly, so I wasn't expecting to go for terribly long, but it went long enough for me to feel reasonably accomplished...so I could listen to the critique without doing that stupid sour lemon, I-hate-myself shit.

Then there was the Outrageous exercise.
And then "The Treatment," with a Dylan McDermott talk-back.

Between all of my classmates (and ah...me too) in the most redonkulous outfits, belting out our serious songs in baby voices, Brooklyn accents and surfer dude drawls, while trying to open pickle jars, perform stripteases, wash our dogs...!! The fucking Neighborhood Playhouse. My heart doth explode....well, between that, and getting to ask the last question of Mr. Dylan "I Still Rock at Acting 20 Years After Graduating" McDermott, I'm not in the mood for homework.

I'm in the mood for a dance party.

go to sleep, maniac

Sunday, Oct. 8

I am giving up my little euphemism/name-game, because the cast of characters is growing far too quickly, now that NP is back in session.

Every night, as of late, I pass out to the soothing sounds of Hugo Weaving's voice in the opening scenes of "V for Vendetta." Even on evenings when there are three first year girls in my living room, finishing up our dance/wine/Clue/slumber party with Jon, on his last night sleeping on our couch. Where he has been sleeping for three weeks.

It's sad, now, to have him gone. I was getting used to seeing that boy sprawled out (like only boys can sprawl) on the futon every morning as I first tiptoed...then walked...then (fuck all formality) thumped my way to the kitchen to put coffee on, take vitamins, and pry my bleary eyes open to face the day.

The NP schedule for the Second Year is, as I have mentioned, damn near brutal. Especially for those that work on the weekends - and I've got it pretty easy. Among my classmates are the ever-suave, somewhat assholic Hugh, who works on Sundays until midnight, bartending in Little Italy, and my redheaded class partner, Adam, who's on the Best Buy Geek Squad for the full weekend...he even gets to drive the car. Their hours, combined with the full time school, are plum ugly.

But what of the school?

What of the first-years? A fascinating new crop, that I bound up to like I've got some kind of internal pogo stick, and screech out "HOW D'YA LIKE IT HERE!!?"

And they scatter like bats exposed to light.

It's a fun trick.

What of Mr. Shetler, our singing teacher, demonstrating his Outrageous exercise for us? Coming out in naught but a pair of flag boxers and a "World's Best Dad" t-shirt?

What of Mr. Pintaaa, telling us of his French conversations with his plants and appliances?

What of getting to know and re-know a class of 27 fighting spirits, trying to fundraise and showcase and agree on one thing to...moderate success?

What indeed.

I have jazzing to do first thing in the AM, followed by some singing, some script and styling, then acting, then vocalizing...so I'd best vibe out with V and Evey until I'm unconscious. I need rest in order to endure a whole day without my newfound partner in thought, trashtalk and crime - Ms. Laura Sessoms - who is at home dealing with (what else) death.