kissy kissy

"This is what I'm not thinking about over break," I say to Daisy, Sessoms, and first-year Spot. We're eating pizza at 1:37 AM, and I am about to make my journey homeward, after they return to Gooding's house party.
I hold up one finger. "Fairy princesses!"
Second finger. "The land down under!"
Third. "New Jersey."

The last week before break has been fascinating both years at Nei-Play. The first year, I concluded my scene with D with a crying fit and a broken window. The next day, I sat cuddled up with D & Beaux (who, at the time, was the unattainable object of my affections) in a flight suit. This year, as an homage to myself, I wore it on the same day. Only, last year, I can't remember that I did anything after the morning classes other than drink some of Mrs. Sugarman's punch, say goodbye, and go home to my apartment.

This year, I honored my budding alcoholic tendencies by hitting up the liquor store on the corner of 54th with a good portion of the Second Year class. Jersey, our class champagne-freak, ventured into the cooler and emerged with a sleek black bottle. My eyes widened. The night before had featured champagne as well, and it seemed like as good idea as any. Swank, already drunk off of two bottles of wine he & Jon ganked from the school's alumni party (and consumed during the afternoon video presentation in the theater), saw me hovering by the cooler and he and I dove in for the remaining two bottles. Then Jon, crowing to the crowd, led the way to his apartment.

Jon is one of my few male friends that I can honestly say I have never had any sexual tension with. We've never made out. We've never gone on any awkward psuedo-dates, or exchanged weird looks. Occasionally we joke around that we should just get married and call it a day. But the woman who marries Jon is gonna have her work cut out for her. He's a five foot powerhouse, uber-talented, for sure...but in that short, muscley frame (and underneath his newly shaved mohawk) there lies a bottomless well of pure Southern-bred male chauvinism, disrespect for all emotions that don't coincide with his own, and the staying-power of a sandcastle. I've heard him speak of a girl like he was reading me the gospel, and two days later, he won't even remember her name. This is all exceptionally bad news for Stormy, who is head over heels for every inch of our Mississippi boy, and every other weekend, is in his good graces. Then there are days like yesterday...

At Jon's {expensive as hell, but completely trashed} apartment, we get to drinking quick. By 2:00, everyone present is smashed. A second wave of visitors arrive to find me with my flightsuit around my waist, standing on Jon's coffee table, screeching for the Van Halen to be turned down so I can make a speech. I raise my champagne bottle and toast the class of 2007. Everyone cheers. Swank, Jersey, and Jon all make their own speeches. Sessoms and Boss are gawking.

"What in the world have we walked into?," Boss asks me, smiling. Out steps Kiwi, from behind her, with no other first-years in sight.

Oh no.

For the next five or six hours, at least once an hour, I will be informed "Man, that boy adores you." "Gosh, Kiwi really likes you." "Oh, it's amazing how much that Kiwi is into you."

I guess I'm coming to realize that.

But I'm not unhappy to see him, and I'm celebrating, so I slap him five, hand him a beer, and return to the fray. The fray starts peeling clothing off. Suddenly, there's a half-clothed orgy occuring on Jon's bed, and Swank, Jon & Sweetheart are running around imitating monkeys. Sessoms turns to me at a crucial moment, and says she needs to go home and shower. I take the opportunity to not get into further trouble - I've lost my champagne bottle at this point anyhow - and head out into the early evening, drunk as fuck.


I am coming to understand why so many people in our profession have terrible drug and alcohol habits. It seems like every single day, there's a gathering, and the liquor is a-flowin, and in certain rooms, so's the ganja & coke. Now of course, it is perfectly possible and acceptable to attend and not partake. However, you will then get to be witness to everyone else's blitzed-out behaviour, which, on certain nights, is amusing, but on others, not so much. The other option is to stay home. Which, on this final week, just didn't seem like an option at all.

Later, I will hear from Stormy that she is not in Jon's affections at the moment, and it's driving her insane. Later I will hear that Swank bit Sessoms on the back. Later, I will curse at myself for being so wobbly-headed, I left my scarf on the bus. I will comfort myself with a burrito.

The title of this post does not pertain to any feature of my own evening. Come second round of party, at Gooding's, I sat quietly and DJ'd, my eyes at slightly-hungover half-mast. It refers to the actions of my girlfriends. Sessoms and Spot. Daisy and Hugh. Martha and Jive. They are all beautiful, and deserving of their get it get it huggy kissy lovey lovey. I also just wanted to post that picture from long ago, because I think it's cute.

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Now I'm up in the serene hills of my hometown, rather freezing. I have two sweaters on. It's actually winter here, unlike the Pretend December happening in NYC. I blew way too much money on Scissor Sisters tickets - a stupid thing to do during the holiday season, but how could I help it! - and I have mass Christmas shopping to do. I keep querying the old Tarot Cards: what's to come of this career I'm trying to found? Looking back on recent posts, I seem only to document my party life, though most of my waking hours are spent working my tail off to make some theatrical headway.

Which means, some class headway? Some what? The work I've been doing at the Playhouse is solid, and I'm reasonably proud of it. But all semester, I've still been lacking in that "KA-POW" moment of fantastic, which certain people have been blessed with. Jersey turned to me at Jon's, after she'd been through her bottle, and said:

"Maggie, I just wanted to say, no bullshit, I think you're brilliant in this way that you just don't give a fuck. You get up and you take a risk, and whether or not it works, you just do it, and it's fantastic. I mean really."

High compliment yes. But strange nonetheless. Can I build a career based on risk-taking, with moderate success? No one can be a genius every day, but I'm not asking for that. I'm asking for a real day in the zone.

Then again, I think about the flow of life at Nei-Play and remember that those who hit their high notes in first semester collapse in the second. And since I've been doing steady and solid, maybe I'll peak just perfectly - and pull out all the stops in our shows for the public.

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Me and my ego aside, my class is brilliant. We've had a rather bad run-in with our more connected (industry wise) teacher, which makes me very sad because...goddamn. Everyone is so talented. So hard working. SO fun to watch. And when we shut up and act, holy hell. It's a force to be reckoned with. As Sessoms said, as she took in the crowd at Jon's, swigging back their drinks and singing the praises of one another:

"God. It's actually scary. Everyone in this room is going to be a star."

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This break is gonna be worth it. I have a feeling we're in for a tilt-o-whirl season, come January 3rd.