award show thought

I would really like to win one of those, like, right before a big Nei-Play reunion or something. A Tony. Yeah. I said it. I would like two other people I know to win some also. And I'd like 'em all to be for the same show.

I would file this under "do-able."

Come on. Don't act like you don't want one too.
You know you spend tonight planning your speech.
You wouldn't be a normal performing artist if you didn't.


We did a wicked-fun photo shoot this morning for the PG project (Boy, Man, Aussie, PJ, Babydoll, and Boy's boy all took part)....for which it was difficult to wake up on time, as I spent last night watching the Nei-Play Shetacular 2008 and drinking altogether too much. Last night actually marked my first time ever leaving Blackstone's in a good mood. As I reflected to Man when we arrived home, it was much due to the fact that I {well, we} were able to do 'the fun part' of acting like single people, but still wind up at home with each other. I will be the first to admit, I flirted SHAMELESSLY with a couple of people (cough...cough...Kiwi...cough), then ran around with Man actually unhooking girls' bra straps...yeah. And I managed to exit the bar in this jovial mood! Most nights I've spent in a shameless flirt at Blackstone's end up with me, or one of my girlfriends, crying or almost-crying, and storming home drunk and unhappy. So score for changing history!

Um...over n out.

when you cut the lights out, think of me

SCISSOR SISTERS.

Swank shows up at five thirty. I have a corset on, and my pajama shorts, and I'm running around whining that I have nothing to wear, even though my closet is like a costume shop. By 6:22, the lunar eclipse has occured without my watching, I'm doing Swank's eyeliner, and we have finished one bottle of champagne and half a bottle of Hypnosis, which looks like liquid Smurf.

We hop the train to MSG. I don't know how we make it into the venue, because all of New York is blurry to me. Swank tries to convince a clerk in Duane Reade to let us use the bathroom, but I say no...no...we're almost there...and whirl us around Pennsylvania Station to the Garden Theater entrance. We ticket, we escalate, and every ten seconds, I am sure that I'm going to lose him, so I become all catlike, and sharp within my fuzziness - I can spot a dirty blond in eyeliner from a mile away. We stand in line for more drinks - not my idea - pop a half a pill, and make friends with everyone around us. Mitch in a red hat. Jim, from Boston, who saw the Sisters at the Siren festival, like Swank and I had planned to do last summer.

We try to find seats. At one point, I am crawling along the floor, attempting to find our seat number. The people around me start mumbling to each other - "Did she fall?" Swank turns and picks me up.

"Did you fall?"
"I'm just trying to find our seats!"

This is folly, because even though I read the ticket four times, I can't figure out which number is our seat number. And it's dark, and I'm surrounded by grown-ups. Swank sits us down, someplace, the wrong place. We make more friends. HE makes friends, rather, and introduces me to them. He vanishes several times. People come by and say that I am sitting in their seats. By way of further crawling about, I find the real seats. Swank finds me. The Sisters come on with "Paul McCartney."

Throughout the night, they play "Laura," "Tits on the Radio," "She's My Man," "Kiss You Off," "Filthy/Gorgeous," (complete with monologue!) "I Can't Decide," "The Other Side," "Lights," some other stuff, and as encores, "Take Your Mama" and "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'." I'm in singalong heaven. I drunk dial Man, and probably a lot of other people.

Later, after convincing Swank that he is not a drunken idiot (although we probably both are), a slice of pizza, random Irish pub with random concert people, we finally cab to Jon's. Italiana is walking to get cigarettes, and cries out when she sees us. Inside is a room full of friends! Stormy, Daisy, Sessoms, Hugh, Spunky & Sprightly, Kiwi, Swedish Steel (what he was doing there, I'm not entirely sure...), a whole bunch of others...

It was grand.

I'm tired.

I have work I gotta do.

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.

--------------------------

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.

---------------------------

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."

---------------------------

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

christmas party

Can you have an emotional hangover from a party?

Aren't parties supposed to be...I don't know...fun? Sometimes they're fun. Sometimes they're just not. I keep counting my uh, chickens, or something, on last night, and something ain't adding up. Which could have something to do with why I've been randomly sobbing today, in between Christmas shopping, calling everyone I know, and taking a shower at Sessoms house. Because when I awoke this morning, the situation was:

Item - One (1) Kiwi, in his chic black boxers, asleep on my living room futon.
Item - Two (2) useless showers, because of complete lack of hot water in the building.
Item - Two (2) cupcakes, baked and iced last night, that I proceeded to consume as I surveyed the scene.
Item - One (1) Boss asleep with
Item - One (1) Metro in her room.
Item - Twelve (12) items of clothing, discarded in angry, exhausted huff.

What the hell, dude? I keep coming home from these functions in angry exhausted huffs. Or I come home face-meltingly drunk, and make with the drunk dials.

Okay, so it wasn't all a waste. In fact, there were some fine moments. Swank & Sweetheart's Queens apartment was the locale for this fundraiser, and it was decorated excellently. Daisy D. and I showed up with mass amounts of baked goods I had spent the day creating. By the end of the night, Daisy D. and Hugh were going at it like there was no tomorrow in every darkened corner - I had more than one "EEK!" moment, where I opened the wrong door and discovered Hugh atop my friend. We applaud this union, be it a one time or no, because it is a nice finger in the face of Vegas, who treated our dear Daisy like shite.

Sessoms and the Professor had their usual brush with the dramatic before she somehow, three drinks in, stumbled into sickness, and spent the rest of the soiree yakking on the roof. Oof. The Professor, on his way down the stairs with Girlfriend, grabbed my arm and said to me, most seriously:

"She's really sick. Please go up there."

Ay-ay Captain. Jon & I are due for a cigarette and a chat at this point (I've already had angry, dramatic run-in with Swank, who is being a dickface to me for reasons I can't even begin to understand, other than occasionally, the man seems to have a period), and we find Sessoms on her rooftop corner, covered in Nelly's jacket.

Nelly is actually the adorable first-year boy who hooks up with Jeff, one of our two uncloseted Second Years, both of whom I adore.

The cast of characters gets crazy at these functions. It's like fucking War and Peace.

Why would that jacket matter? Why at all?

Because at 4 in the morning, I am standing there with a mop in hand, a smattering of the strong around me, cleaning the party off the floor. I've spent ten minutes helping locate Nelly's jacket, then sent he and Jeff off to Brooklyn to get down. Swank has vanished into the Astoria night with a small man who would give Nelly a run for his money in a Fae contest, and Sweetheart turns to me.

"Okay, be honest with me, Maggie, because I'm so confused. Have you ever hooked up with Swank?"

I proceed to burst into tears.

I wish Beaux had been with me the whole night, like was once maybe, kinda sorta, vaguely planned. Hell, I might not have gotten to have my fun "Let's Get It On" dance moment with Numbers, but I definitely would have avoided the Foyer of Ultimate Doom conversation with Kiwi, and I definitely, DEFINITELY would not have been there, crying, with a mop, at 4 in the morning. No. I would've been the one getting some in closets. I would've awoken the next morning perhaps still with cold water, but one of those cupcakes would've been for Beaux, and my Christmas tights, tube dress, and pretty underwear wouldn't have been such a complete waste of time.

call on me/call on me

This afternoon, I woke up and stumbled towards my bathroom mirror. After a good three minute stare, I turned around, fetched my camera, and took the best re-creation photo I could manage.

It's been a weekend, let me tell ya. And it ain't over til it's over.

About my last post: I found out that Argentino is actually from Venezuela. Oops. Nevertheless, he remains out of school, in hospital care, but I hear he's doing well.


I began said weekend with a glass of water at Local, our first-year watering hole. Then Fubar came. Then Jon's apartment, with Swank leading the way. Then we journey down to the West Village, as suddenly the earth-melting weather turned back to normal December-style and my flimsy white faux-leather jacket was not helping out with the 60 mph wind gusts...oh no. But we journey to...somewhere...into a pub that existed during Prohibition, and is thus concealed - no sign, no markings, no nothing, just a black door and the number 86. But it's groovy, and even though I'm not wild for beer, I drink it cuz they make it there.

The evening winds up with the reasonable return-home time of 1:15 AM, a few phone calls, and lights out.

The next day, I've given up my work post, so I spend it relaxedly, practicing my dance, hanging with the bro, and when it gets to evening time, I'm still pretty tired. I'm thinking of flaking on Ms. Nasty. But she is turning 21, but I've gotten us on this list...for Anna Rexia is hosting Rated X downtown...and the Boss is getting the dance party started...and everyone's comin up to the el barrio pad...

Oh, and before I know it, it's 5 AM, and I've gotten nothing but free drinks, and a free shot of JD, and Metro won a hundred dollars in the hot body contest, and I've danced onstage with people I ran into from FORDHAM of all places, and I'm stumbling over myself at Fat Cat as we go to drop off Ms. Nasty with Dee, his boyfriend Mee (I'm serious, those are REAL names), Martha & her first-year boy, Jive, and then Kiwi and I go and crash out on this couch where there's jazz being played...

And I am spilling into my bed with a brownie I baked days ago for a bake sale that never happened.



Now, the laundry, and the homework, and the realization that I have to perform tonight.