10 Greats for 2006

Birthday and Christmas are over and the new year is about to begin. wow. This is the time of year where lots of people start making lists of their top 10 moments/music/movies, etc. of the year. I hadn't really thought about it. Do they have to be albums or movies that were released this year, or can they just be ones that I discovered? Well, it's my list so I suppose it can be whatever I bloody well want to put on it, huh? Also read little blurbs of regrets from local musicians, etc. in Seattle. Hmmmm...I'm sure I have some of those.

Well, if I had to choose, off the top of my head without much forethought, I think I can come up with a top 10 list of entertainment moments. These are in no particular order, just as they come to me. So number one doesn't necessarily mean #1.

1. Band of Horses at the Showbox. That was a great show and made me fall in love with the band even more, besides making me a bit nostalgic for Carissa's Weird and regretting that I never took the opportunity to see them play when I had the chance.

2. Bowling at Cedar Lanes in Filer, Idaho, with my mom, baby sister, her husband and their baby. (ok, he didn't bowl. He was the cheering section, even if he didn't know it.) My mom hadn't been bowling except for one other time, when she was in high school. Though I spent many hours at Cedar Lanes as a wee child, waiting for my oldest sister to finish whatever she was doing with one school group, or another, drinking root beer at the counter watching other people bowl, I never actually did, myself, until this past summer. (And how's THAT for a run on sentence?)

3. Maui, Hawaii!!! The whole trip. Definitely in the top ten entertainment moments of 2006. Holy crap. I only regret that I won't be able to get back there this winter. sigh...

4. The Walkmen at the Showbox. Another great show. And this time, they had even MORE songs to choose from in the lineup. I can add to that, going by the box office earlier in the day to check on whether or not I needed to pick up my tickets at that moment, or when the doors opened that night, and seeing 1/2 the band sitting on the counter just hanging out. "Hey". "Hey". My only regret would be not taking a second more to tell them how excited I was to see the show that night. I'm sure they would have appreciated a gushing fan. Oh, well, I'm a chicken. I barely got out my "Hey" in reply to their round of monosyllabic greetings.

5. Debating, rather vociferously, over a lovely dinner at Flying Fish, the merits of an MFA vs. an MA or any other degree that might be "practical" with my dear friend Ali. I'm sure we frightened poor Shawn, as Ali and I are both very stubborn and can mightily disagree on something with out giving an inch. So, not only was Ali visiting me and we hadn't seen one another since my last trip to NYC for Deron's wedding, but we were in true Ali and Linnet form. It was delicious and I love her and our friendship all the more for it. Yeah. That was fun.

6. Driving around Southern Idaho with Paige, my Mom and little Collin looking for these ginormous kiln ruins. It took us longer than we'd anticipated. We got a bit lost. We were starving and it was gorgeous. Seeing so much open, beautiful, wild land. Completely worth it.

7. Finally getting around to seeing Wings of Desire. (This was a couple of days ago.) We actually had it sitting around the apartment for almost the entire month of December; we just weren't able to find the time to watch it. Sure was beautiful. Maybe the best film I saw in 2006. I watched a lot of movies, this year, too, so that's a pretty bold statement. (Thank you destroyer of mom n' pop video stores--no, really, thank you. I love Netflix. I know it's killing Broadway Video. I can't help it.)

8. Watching (almost) every season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Shawn. I had no idea he would get into it, though I knew he'd liked the few rerun episodes that he'd watched with me. We've only the final season to watch and then it's done. I love sharing.

9. Discovering that I can actually live my life without caffeine. Not that I don't want it back in my life, I'd get back on the stuff in a heart beat if I could. How is this entertainment, you might ask? Well, if you had to see me the first week of coffee withdrawal, you would probably have been laughing at me. Highly entertaining. It's true, I did have a split shot americano on christmas day. It was heaven.

10. Spending Christmas day with Shawn. It happens every year (well, for the past 6-ish, anyway) and it is always such a great day. I look forward to it and am never disappointed.


That's the list off the top...it was, basically, a good year. I do regret that I didn't see any life changing/soul inspiring/on the boards itching theatre, though. Yeah. That would be a big regret. I realize it's a tall order, still, it's fantastic when it happens.

Snow Days

We've had, as I'm sure you know if you live in Seattle, or watch the news, a couple of snow storms, lately. Depending on which neighborhood you live in depends, greatly, on the amount of actual snow. Those folks north of the city and even south, definitely got some snow. My 'hood, not so much. Ice on the sidewalks and little side streets, though. Not much of a snow day, in my mind. When I was a little tyke, snow days meant big drifts on the roads making them unsafe for school buses. Frozen pipes were just a matter of course--did not merit a snow day. At my little elementary school, we'd have to save our milk cartons from lunch, rinse them out, and the cafeteria cooks would boil water for us to drink. It had to be boiled. Safer. Must have had some nasty toxins in those old pipes.



This is from last September, in the hallway of the afore mentioned Hollister Elementary. Amazing how buildings shrink as you age...especially this one. I mean, it was small to begin with. My grandmother went there for high school, back in the day. I think that everyone in my family went to this little school for at least a brief period. Oh. Not Dana. When my mom, Paige and Dana moved back out to Idaho, she was starting jr. high. Well, almost all of us spent some time in those little classrooms. It's not like they needed to be big. We were a teeny tiny community.

Snow days were every day, just about, when we lived in Utah. And school was not canceled for them. We had flood days in Phoenix. One year, the start of school was delayed about two days because of all the rain. No snow, though. Well, maybe once or twice, for a minute. And here, in Seattle, I'm too old to benefit from a snow day. I live within walking distance to work, so when it does snow, Linnet can go in. Lucky me.

I love the idea of a real snow day, though. The kind with so much snow that no one is driving around. It's all footprints and animal prints making tracks. You go to a cozy bar and have a bloody mary, or a vodka tonic. Sit in the glow of dim lights and the excitement of something out of the ordinary. Most folks loving the excuse to goof off and tromp around. And how about that crunch of untouched snow, huh? ooooo...gotta love that!

Lost

I lost an entry. I think this is the second time it's happened and I feel like I'm back at the ASU computing commons watching my entire paper disappear--more than once, ahhhh... those midnight to 7am rewriting frenzies--in front of my eyes because I didn't know the golden rule of writing on a computer: Save as you go. They didn't teach that when I was in high school. We only used a computer once in a blue while. (Did I just mix a metephor?)

Only, I TRIED to save this last lost entry, and the blogger site ignored me. Probably wasn't worth reading, anyway. Just about how I'm in this play that has always held a soft spot in my heart and then relating how seeing a reading of it, many years ago, and meeting the playwright started me on a journey that lead me here, to Seattle. This production was precast save for the role of the psychiatrist. The callback consisted of me and a man in his 50's. Could have gone either way and by the end I was convinced that it would go the other way. Still, there was a small part of me that suspected I might actually get the part. And I did. A small part, and fun and challenging in its way.

The irritation at losing the previous incarnation of the above paragraph, however, has not subsided and I continue to live in the past. To hold onto it and the grrrrrrrrrr feeling that causes my shoulders to creep up to my ears, my jaw to tighten and my teeth to clamp together at a slight angle, contorting my face into an off center scowl.

Highland Flings and Matt Walding

My mom asked me if I still knew how to do the highland fling. What? She says that I took a highland dancing class when I was in high school. And then she thought it might have been when we were living in Bountiful, which would have put me in grade school. I have no memory of that. I know there was a street named Highland, and even a high school, I think. But the dancing? Ballet. Check. Tap. Check. Jazz. Check. No flinging. There was a girl in my ballet class, I have a fuzzy recollection that maybe she took highland dance and maybe once I went with her?

I've always felt like my memory was pretty sharp. This has really thrown me. And here I was, thinking about some more trips down music memory lane....

Cowboy Junkies: Margot Timmons' voice, in general, makes me think of my friend Matt Walding. We went to see them at the Celebrity Theatre, they opened for John Prine. We did not know John Prine. We parked in some guy's parking lot and paid $10 because we saw Margot, et al, sitting outside the theatre and we wanted to say hello, so we pulled into the first available parking spot. If we'd driven into the theatre's it would have been free. Worth it to talk about peanut butter sandwiches and mortgage payments. (She'd just aquired one, Matt and I were mortgage free.) She was very kind. She even told us she'd be singing a couple of songs with Mr. Prine, which was our cue to stick around for his set, though we laughed through a lot of it. Matt shared with me his trick of pretending to know the words to songs and grinning while he faux mouthed lyrics that neither of us had ever heard before. (He cracked me up. I laugh over it to this day.) All to see Ms. Timmons come back out and sing.

I guess that's all I really wanted to say. I'd been thinking a lot about Matt, lately, and wondering what he was up to. We seem to keep in spotty contact with one another. A couple of months ago, I thought I'd found out where he was again and e-mailed the person I hoped was he. No answer. Oops, someone is wondering why I called him fat. (Matt and I have this silly little joke. While in high school, we'd read this title of a play on the back of one of those Samuel French publications, "My Fat Friend". We thought that was hi-lar-ee-us. Thus my fat friend Matt and my fat friend Linnet were christened.) Anyway, he e-mailed me back a few days ago! Eureeka! I found him! And then I was listening to a little Cowboy Junkies and on my way to the coffe shop to use fast internet to write him back, my mom calls with the highland dance thing.

And that's the way Linnet's brain often functions.

May I Take Your Pledge?

Fun times. I volunteered for phone answering duty during the GREATEST RADIO STATION IN THE WORLD's--90.3 KEXP-- fall pledge drive. Only two days, though. It was a good time. Sat next to a guy who is in a local band called Water Kill the Sun, they've recently released an album. (See? It's easy to date yourself when you say things like "album", "new album" or "which record was that on?") He was a nice guy and actually had a connection to a friend of mine, now known as the "fake Verizon guy." (Sorry, Deron, but that is the way I described you when I asked if he knew you. He knows Paul Willis. His name is Gavin.) The internet seems to be the main means of pledging, now a days, at least during the mid day show, so the phones were not ringing off the hook. And we were still needed. Our presence appreciated and, like I said, it was fun. I've been wanting to volunteer to do this for as many years as I've been listening to the station. FINALLY, I figured out that you have to sign up to be a volunteer and then you get e-mails requesting your services for various tasks throughout the year. Ah ha! Hope I get to do it again, those slots fill up fast.

I am procrastinating working on my personal statement. I've received very helpful feedback from almost everyone I sent it to. And I am rewriting it, a little. Fresh start and incorporating much of the main body. I keep seeing all of these news stories that talk about how difficult it is to get into college, these days. Well, I realize that they are focusing on undergraduate admissions, and mostly big name schools. Still, even that doesn't put my mind at ease. This essay is really going to tell them a lot more about me than just whether or not I can turn assignments in on time.

I Guess I DO Care

I just sent the draft of my grad school personal statement to some folks. As soon as I hit "send", I was gripped with the fear that it is really a terrible essay and that I'll have to scrap the whole thing and start all over. It only took me a month to write this one. Of course, that is not to say that I worked on it every day. No, probably a week, all told. Whatever, it was hard to do. I realize that I've never written that kind of essay. Undergrad was, MAYBE, a paragraph of why they should accept me, and it was a state school anyway. So I think they would have taken me even if I'd written nothing besides my name. I didn't want to write the essay to get into the honors college, so...here I am. Extolling my virtues, the ones I assume I possess, and hoping that I'm as clever as I think I am. Wish me luck.

This whole grad school thing is suddenly feeling more and more real and important. I've gotten two of the three letters in my possession. (I'll have the third, I just have to make a phone call.) My essay is in a finished draft form and sent to others to critique. I need $400 extra in my bank account for the application fees, which I'll be getting this week. And then, I'll finish up those on line applications before mailing the letters, etc. Oh, and my transcripts. Gotta get those. (Welcome to my checklist. Sorry to bore you...) What if I don't get in? I think, how sad. I think, how embarrassing. I think, crap.

Let me not think on it, until I have to.

Neighborhood Destruction, Capitol Hill Style

I've been noticing that my lovely little street has started to turn into a not so lovely, garbage cluttered, shattered glass strewn, graffiti sprayed street. Soon, this same street will be home to inidviduals and couples who can afford to live in newly built condos (starting in the low 200,000's for a 400 sq. ft. room), and between the two extremes, I'm a bit nervous. I fear that my rent will go up AND that I won't feel as safe walking home in the dark after yoga. What is going on, I wonder. I get that people don't have money and that the poor are just getting poorer--this is a world destruction, your life ain't nothing, the human race is becoming a disgrace. The rich get richer, the poor are getting poorer--and when one neighborhood gets gentrified then those forced to move out have to move somewhere else, only to have it happen all over again. Is my little section of Capitol Hill the next to experience this cycle? I didn't realize that we weren't gentrified. All the hipsters that live around here, and all. Though, there are some buildings that I am sure have managed to keep their rents reasonable--including mine, I pray it continues--up 'til now, which makes it affordable. Maybe notices are being slipped under doors explaining the rent increases and causing stress and anger in those who don't make enough to cover it.

Yesterday, when I was walking to work, I passed an apartment building that is constantly in a state of flotsam and jetsam. It's as if everyone who moves out is so angry that they throw everything they own away, AROUND, not in, the dumpster--which, by the way, is on the sidewalk, therefore all of the garbage is also on the sidewalk. I think about the people that live in that building, who are probably perfectly nice human beings, and what they must think when they go to take out their own trash. "Why us?". It's not really every day, just that end of the month move out period. Kinda sad. I can't help but think that it's not as simple as a lazy ex-tennant who doesn't feel like packing. There is a violence to the mess punctuated with a "screw you" exclamaition point of glass shards all over the sidewalk.

Same street, different building, there is a window, curtains always drawn. On the sill are two plastic Virgin Mary figures, what looks like a music box (the actual mechanism that produces the sound) and a bookmark size sign that reads, "TIME IS RUNNING OUT". Next to the sign, the music box is more like a bomb than anything that might produce a tinny, sweet, tinkling melody. I believe that to be the intention of the messenger. This window dressing is honestly the most enticing reason for me to want a digital camera. I want a picture of this window. When I see that message on the same walk as the new condos and the exploding garbage, it really speaks to me. I get a little scared. Time does feel like it's running out, though I'm not sure how quickly. Though the owner of the display might be refering to the end of the world, I'm thinking in terms of the end of comfortable, affordable living quarters. This city is headed for the fate of San Francisco, building on every bit of free space, demolishing buildings to make room for more high rises and squeezing out the rest of us. Soon, there will be nowhere else to build and rents and housing prices will be out of this city's cost of living range.

The first apartment buidling I lived in is being converted to condos. What a shock that was. The weird, confused motifs of the Fireside Manor are now being whitewashed, literally, into bland bland bland. Chinnoiserie meets 60's Renainssance Revival is gone, daddy gone. The day they take down the Lord and Lady of the manor fake stained glass doors is a day to weep. I'll bet the flocked wall paper inside is gone, already. They've probably replaced the robin's egg blue stoves with plain 'ole white Kenmore knock offs, too.

Let us all send lovely messages to the powers that be to keep my dear home affordable, for all who live in my building. Thank you.

TSFY Class of '87 & '88!

Surfing around on the web, the other night, I discovered that the University of Utah's Theatre School for Youth is a program that still exists. And is still run by Dr. Xan Johnson! Looks like it is a bigger program, now, and runs throughout the year as opposed to just summers. I was tickled to see that. My life was truly transformed over the two summers that I spent as a student in that program. I met great people, learned about some fantastic music, had my young heart broken at least twice, felt as though I was in a world that my non arts friends just wouldn't understand and realized that I could be an actor and not relegated to dancing in Cats on Broadway. Though, at the time, Cats seemed like a great gig and it was still new enough to thrill us all at the mere mention of "Memories". I don't even think that the SNL skit had happened, yet. I've actually never seen the musical, though I do have the music. I had the album, and bought the cd a few years ago. A soft place for musicals is ever present in my heart, which I'm pretty sure I've copped to already.


Do you think they would hire an acting teacher who doesn't seem to get much work? Or do they just want working actors who need a summer gig? I remember one of my acting teachers, his name was Jeff, and he was 24. I thought he was so old and mature and cute. (Yes, my 12 year old school girl self had a little crush on him. A harmless crush.) I remember once asking him about what it was like to get to buy a beer, since he was clearly over 21. His reply stuck with me, as it seemed so odd. He said that by the time he'd turned 21, he'd already done so much drinking and partying that the thrill was gone. It wasn't a big deal and now he didn't drink all that much. Random memories, 101. I don't recall whether or not he was a grad student at the U. or a professional actor, or what he did outside of the school. I wonder if he is working now, or if he wound up going to grad school for some other type of career? Hmmmm...What fun it might be to go back there for a month and teach. Which is kind of funny for me to consider, since I have not had a desire to teach acting. I fear I wouldn't have the patience and I'd resent students who didn't seem talented for taking up the time of those who do. What I used to observe with annoyance in some of my college professors was their ability to devote as much attention and good faith in students who were only there because they needed an arts credit so they could graduate. Now I see it more clearly. That's why those people made good teachers. I believe you have to possess such qualities in order to be an effective teacher. Like the lesson I've learned reading New Yorker film reviews. Sometimes a movie is reviewed that I might consider a complete waste of time. And yet the reviewer can take it for what it is--fluff, pure entertainment, low brow humour, action only--and find what works in that film. Admirable qualities.

No Show

She didn't show. The suit is back on the rack and I wonder if she will come in again, or if she'll be another every few months kind of gal who blows through and then disappears. I wish her the best.

In other news...I've been working on my letter of recommendation for my grad school applications. 500 words sure isn't a lot, despite what some online chat rooms say. Hello, I'm Linnet and I'm intelligent, dedicated, able to comprehend multiple concepts as well as being light hearted with a sense of humour. Oh, and you want me in your program. I'm an asset. One might think it would be simple to get all of that squeezed in to a couple of pages, double spaced. Any advice from my grad school reading friends would be helpful. (hmmm...I think there are two of you...no, three, if Ali reads this. Do you read this Ali?) Part bragging, part humility, part fun. That's what the samples I have read seem to possess. It all seems like a game. Do I admit that I haven't been able to make my living as an actor so I've decided to go back to school for a "useful" degree? I mean, that's partly the truth. Of course, they don't need to know that I'm not giving up the acting thing. I mean, if I have to earn a living outside of acting, to support my acting, why not make it something that actually earns some kind of living? I am all for some kind of retirement fund, something to keep me from working at McDonald's when I'm 75. Maybe some of my sweet nieces and nephews will want to take care of me? Like that cute little Colin McLaughlin. (Paige's, my youngest sister, son.) He sure seemed like he took a shinin' to me when I visited a couple of weeks ago...

Is She or Isn't She?

Once in a while, where I work, we get a customer who goes through the store picking out items that they are going to buy "tomorrow".

"Please put this on hold for me, I'll be back tomorrow."
"Of course. What's your name?"

There is one woman who does this about every six months. I know she isn't going to be back tomorrow, or for another six months probably. It's no bother to say yes and put the suit, or dress, or hat, or shoes in the closet and take them out the next day.

Today, a woman came in at 6pm--we close at 6. A few stragglers were just leaving and she was walking in and, well, what are you going to do? If the door had been locked and she stood outside it, I wouldn't have let her in. But, well, the door was open. She had a very hyper energy, and if I knew what people on speed or coke or whatever were like, I might have compared her to one of those drugs. However, I am naive in that department, so I'm stuck with hyper. Like a squirrel gathering nuts. First thing she said was "I love this hat. How much is it?" "$975". "That's cheap! I love hats. I'll pay anything for a hat. My husband's going to buy that Halston for me, tomorrow, but I might get the hat." And then she's on to a designer skirt and a 60's suit. (A suit that I covet and was hoping to borrow for a wedding, next month.) It was the way she said "tomorrow", however, that pricked my ears. She was talking so fast and kept dropping names of designer collections that she had bought this fall season. The whole line of YSL suits, "you know, with the pencil skirts" and then she went into this mile a minute explanation about how she'd just spent $35,000 in shoes, boots primarily. "You know Hermes boots, this year? Well, they can't import kangaroo leather into the United States anymore, so I had to fly overseas to buy the boots I wanted. They'll go perfectly with that suit." She then squealed, no kidding, and HUGGED me. I'm suspicious of too much information in the name dropping realm. And I'm REALLY put on my guard when total strangers hug me. Even if they are in my shop and excited about a 1960's grey pinstrip Jacques Heim suit with large grey and pink swirly buttons. It's just plain weird. So, yes, I put the suit on hold for her. She'll be back Sunday, she just lives around the corner by Etta's, blah, blah, blah. Alright. See you tomorrow.

The question is this: Is this woman manic? Crazy? A pathological liar? Or is she for real? Well, obviously she is for real. She can be really crazy, really manic, a real big liar or really legit in her intention to come back and purchase the Halston, the suit, the hat and any number of other items. I am looking forward to seeing whether or not she comes back tomorrow, or any day. It's not that I doubt the money. I work in a place where we can't possibly judge whether or not a person has the means to buy the items in our shop. I don't want to get into that kind of sizing up, anyway. It's not fun and it's un kind. We don't even care if people can afford the store, or not. None of us that work there can. The point is not whether or not she can afford the clothes, it is whether or not she is cuckoo for cocoa puffs, or what. I just wanna know. She was wearing a wedding ring, which also made me wonder. If she is a bit screwy, what must that be like in the marriage? Does he know? Is this like one of those stories where the husband is slowly watching the mental demise of his beloved wife and is powerless to stop it. She won't take her meds, or forgot them, or hasn't been prescribed them yet? Not exactly like "A Beautiful Mind", but that idea. Very curious...

Not Party Potential

It never ends. This jaunt down memory lane. My pal, Adam, and I have been e-mailing back and forth impressions of our impressions. But what, dear reader, are the impressions of those that you thought you knew, or didn't know at all and yet they knew you? Hmmmm...it is probably better not to know, that is what I think. I am afraid that I'd be told I was some kind of snooty snob. In college, friends told me that when they first met me, they thought I was aloof. Ouch. I wasn't aloof. I was quiet and shy. Once I get to know someone, I am easygoing--I think--and silly and friendly. I don't strke that person as a shy gal, but I am. In social settings, if I don't know you, I feel too awkward to extend the hand and say, "Hello. I'm Linnet. What's your name?" And then the flow of what do you do, are you from Seattle questions. I'd prefer to stand at the food table and munch on chips and dip, if they're available. Otherwise, you might find me standing in front a the bookshelf reading all the titles and making mental notes of the ones I've read, or that I haven't read and want to. Or the ones I wouldn't read, unless they were the last books on earth. Who am I kidding? I don't even go to parties. What does this have to do with the start of this entry? I don't know. I don't care.

Well, I did go to one, recently. Shawn was in Oregon, surfing, and I'd already told the hostess that I was planning on going. I wanted to go. Really. Only, when it came time to get out of the house and into the cab, I was having my doubts. Would I know anyone there? Would I have a good time if I didn't? Could I bust out of my shell and make some new friends? Ugh. It's times like these that I suddenly feel so small and exposed. The party was quite the happening spot. All kinds of hipsters and yogsters and a mixture of both. (Housewarming for my favorite yoga teacher, and it was very sweet of her to invite me.) A band was getting ready to play just as I arrived, phew!, no need to make conversation now. Said my hello to Jenny and then looked at a bunch of faces that I did not know. Unfortunately, the band only played for about 20 minutes. It was time to mingle. Looked at the books. Hmmm...some good reads there. O. Always wanted to read that one. Self guided tour of the living room, kitchen and hallway. Goody. Pictures. Huge back yard. A table with some food that I couldn't eat (I was in the midst of that liver cleanse. Still a few weeks away from coffee, in case you were wondering.), a badmitton game being played, fire pit and vegetable garden. HUGE back yard! Back into the house. Okay...outside for some sparkling water. Another turn around the garden and I have cell phone in hand to call a cab. "Hi, I'm Alvin. You look like you need some people to talk to." A hand extends, I shake it, give a nervous laugh and am introduced to the other guys standing around in a little circle of welcome. Now, that wasn't that hard, was it? We are soon joined by the girlfriend of one of the guys and having a merry conversation. I stay for another 45 minutes, and then leave, thanking them for including me. Mental note to try that whole "Hi, I'm Linnet" thing on someone next time I'm at a party and I see others, like me, who don't seem to know anyone.

I suppose that the other party goers could have seen me wandering around, hands in pockets, not talking to anyone and view me as some kind of unapproachable. My fear of introducing myself--heck, of saying my name and playing the pronunciation game--might look like something completely different to an onlooker. I don't know.

Correction

Thanks to my good friend, Adam Brooks, for pointing out that Ken Ober was the host of Remote Control, not Colin Quinn. Yes. Very true. Quin was the announcer. Memory slipping with age...

Music Memory Lane

Still thinking about music that brings me back to a certain place, person and other memories. I've got a list in my head, right now, and I'm ready to share. It's not in any particular order. Why not start off with the song that prompted it all...

"All I Want", Toad the Wet Sprocket: Wade Myers, Moon Valley High School, class of 1992. Boo hoo hoo, and all that jazz.

The Smiths: John Moreau, Mike Lynch, Tom Walsh (was that his last name?), Ben Brittain....but mostly John, who was my first "serious" boyfriend. And in particular, "Still Ill", as he sang that sort of to himself while we walked around a park on our first date. "Under the iron bridge we kissed..." is the line I think he was specifically hoping I'd hear. No go. Too nervous to kiss anyone on the first date. I was but an itty bitty freshman at MVHS.

"Shout", Tears for Fears: 5th grade, Bountiful, Utah. My oldest sister was on the swim team at Bountiful High, and the boy swimmers listened to the modern music station, (underground, college-type radio, new wave, whatever you happened to call it before it became "alternative" or "indie). She wanted to impress them, though she didn't actually like the music. But me, wowza, it opened up a whole new world of music for me. This was several months before the song was played on what I liked to call mainstream radio. Such a trend setter, har, har, har.

"With or Without You", U2: Awkward pre-teen yearning for, I knew not what...something more...While still living in Bountiful, I was suffering from insomnia at the ripe old age of 12. The modern music station had gone off the air, due to unpopularity and was relegated to broadcasting late nights from 10pm until 1am, or something. Thank god for insomnia, huh? I have such a clear memory of sitting on the floor of my bedroom, holding onto this crappy radio/tape deck that played tapes at a super fast speed and often ate said tapes, hearing that song come on. So haunting, so late at night, so restless. So wishing to know if any boy would ever like me, if I would ever be pretty, or have nice things. So not knowing.

Oingo Boingo, Depeche Mode (pre 1987): University of Utah's Theatre School For Youth program. Salt Lake City, Utah. Finally, a group of people that not only understood and appreciated my music tastes, but many of them had tapes or records by these groups and made me copies!!! The first music that I owned. 1984 was probably my favorite Boingo album, still is, if I had to choose. Hmmm...another iTunes foray? You can throw some Dead Milkman (not Punk Rock Girl, before that song) into the mix along with some Thompson Twins and Erasure.

"Killing an Arab", The Cure: Courtney--holy crap, batman, I forgot her last name. How strange...Anyway, 8th grade at Palo Verde Jr. High in Phoenix, AZ. Courtney loved The Cure and supplied me with copies of many albums. (You see a trend, I never had any money to buy my own music.) We used to go to her house after school and watch 120 minutes, recorded the night before, and that MTV game show "Remote Control", when Colin Quinn hosted it. Loved it. We'd eat tomato and miracle whip sandwiches on wheat bread. Yum. We lost touch during high school, lived in different zones. Randomly met up with her again, though. She was friends with a girl who was pursuing my boyfriend, John--yes, The Smiths guy--and Courtney gave me all the dirty details. Gotta love loyalty. By then she was known as Coco, which I was never able to call her. She was ditzy as Coco. She knew a lot about the people I hung out with during my first two years of high school. Told me all kinds of horrible truths that had been kept from me.

"One Voice", Barry Manilow: Ahhh....the album of the same name was my first record, EVER. Got it for Christmas when I was 6. We lived in southern Idaho, in case anyone is keeping track. I loved Barry Manilow. Would sing his songs at the top of my lungs, so my mom says. And I believe her. He still holds a soft spot in my heart, Barry does. "We're just two ships that pass in the night, we both smile, when we say it's alright..." Sigh.

"Red Headed Stranger", Willie Nelson: Young Idaho years...As a family, we did not listen to a lot of music together, but my mom or dad had bought this Willie Nelson tape and we all loved to hear it. That song was really fascinating to me, it told a complete story. I loved the sad ending and the gunslinger aspects of it. Marty Robbins, too. We had the album, "Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs" with that picture of him dressed all in black, ready to draw his pistol and shoot the other guy. Very powerful image for me. Heck, let's add "Rhinestone Cowboy" to this family nostalgia mix. I wanted to be a cowboy, when I was little. NOT a cowgirl. They didn't look like they had as much fun. I wanted to be a girl who was as tough and cool and slick as a cowboy. Like the one on the cover of that Marty Robbin's album.

"Two Princes", Spin Doctors: Michael Cruz (formerly Sullivan). His sr. year of college at ASU and my freshman. I was doing makeup for "The Doctor in Spite of Himself" and he was Sganarelle. In the dressing room we would listen to that song and Michael really liked it. It's not one of my favorite, but whenever I hear it I think of him and how much I love him. What a great, long friendship we have had. My oldest friend, I tell people. I truly have known him longer than any of my friends (excluding family, of course).

"Perfect From Now On", Built to Spill: 2000, Seattle. Leaving my last relationship. Desperately unhappy and wanting to get back on track with myself. I listened to the live album and this song felt so good to blast in my car. (I used to have a car, can you believe it? That was another life time ago.) Even when I hear it, now, I have a sense of freedom and breaking out of something that was truly stifling my soul.

Canon in D Major, Johann Pachabel: Dana Marie Blumenthal. When she was in grade school, my parents gave her some Pachabel for Christmas. She was crazy about that piece. Played it all the time. Of course, it is a timeless classic and now it's completely over used in wedding ceremonies and commercials and movies. But Dana loved it. We played it at her funeral and it took me a very long time to be able to listen to it.

Adagio for Strings, Samuel Barber: Sneaking into "Platoon" at the dollar theatre--it really was $1 back then--when we lived in Bountiful. My sister Gina took Holly and me to see it, though we had to lie to my mom. She didn't want us going, but we just had to go, we just had to. I don't even know why, except maybe because Charlie Sheen was in it and I had a little leftover crush on him from his sympathetic jock portrayal in "Lukas". Well, my mother found out that we'd gone to see that and she was very displeased. It was worth it, whatever kind of punishment happened. I don't even remember. Because I fell in love with Willem Dafoe (his acting more than anything) and that music. Very moving. Big impression.

"Then He Kissed Me", The Crystals: 8th grade and the bad radio in my life. Despite having some tapes made by friends, it wasn't enough to get me through every morning of getting ready for school. I hated the top 40 stations and refused to listen to them. Instead, I listened to golden oldies radio. I had recently seen "Adventures in Babysitting", which opens with this song, and I loved it. Fortunately, it was often on the rotation. For some reason, it was always so dark when I got up to get ready for school. I think it had something to do with wanting to make sure I got some hot water for my shower and having to be at the bus stop by 7-ish.

I could go on and on. Who couldn't? Every time I write about one song, a dozen more pop into my head. I can't write about each one fast enough. Perhaps I'll just have to revisit this topic from time to time. Make it a feature, of sorts. This weeks stroll down music memory lane....and the like.

Googlosity #2

Why is curiosity sometimes so disatisfying? No need to answer. Curiosity killed the cat, I know. It's like a disease, in some ways. Here I am, minding my own business and I hear the tail end of a song that I remember liking when I was in high school. A song, mind you, that I wouldn't have necessarily admitted to liking, since it wasn't in my canon of cool. "All I Want" reminds me of liking a boy who liked me for awhile, and then gave up when a friend explained that I'd mentioned I wasn't interested in seeing anyone. Very nice, wasn't she? So, I hear this song and...ahhhh...the days of high school heartache. I download the song from iTunes. It's as pop-ee and sentimental as I remembered it to be and I still dig it! What happens next? O, the cursed google. Do I find information on this old crush who I only got to make out with once, to learn, a few days later, that he had already moved beyond his crush on me and was in process of pursuing another girl? (Did this stop him from the kissy kissy tongue gymnastics? No. Typical.) Wade Myers, for that is the boy, is mentioned in someone else's blog. A list of friends' (belonging to that blogger) picks for flawless albums. Wade lists this band's album as one of his. Zowie! Now I'm in google obsession mode. It's so easy to fall into that. I go from Wade (for whom I find nothing on except the aforementioned blog) to general curiosity about peeps from my past. I'm back to my Sarah Combs monomania, only now it's not her. It's a category, rather than a person. And I am as likely to satisfy my curiosity regarding the latter as I am to learn about her. What is this? My version of the annual late summer cold? What is important to note is that I don't necessarily want to contact these folks, I just want to know what they're doing. Where they are. What they look like. Basically, I'm a coward. I'm secretly searching, afraid to admit that I'm curious. Do they wonder about me? The "I was just a dork in high school" side of me is certain that no one gives a rat's ass about my current doings. But maybe there is a song that plays and they, too, start to google. How would I ever know?

I'd like to read this book, based on the review. I heard that durn song, and suddenly, just as the reviewer says, the movie in my mind of that particular moment of my life is playing. In fact, I might even blame that review for sparking this whole new found goofiness--googleness. Because reading that article is what reminded me that I wanted to buy that song from iTunes. Yeah. That's how it all started! And I wax nostalgic and even have dreams starring these people, looking exactly as they did 14 years ago. Though I, lucky me, look like I do now. Phew.

And I'd like to say, just in case Wade happens to stumble upon this, that I hope you're doing well. I wonder, do you still have that copy of Leaves of Grass I gave you?

Paigerella is Cool

My littlest sister, Paige, sent me an e-mail a few weeks ago asking me if I'd ever heard of a site called pandora.com? No. It's a radio station, of sorts. You enter a song or an artist and the internet elves line up your own personal play list based on that one band or song. For half an hour. THEN they tell you that to continue listening, you must create an account. Create an account. Those internet elves sure are clever. They hook you and then they gotcha. It's not really a big deal. All it wanted was the basics and not any of that pleaselistyourinterestsandhobbies crap. But then. I am listening to a song that I like. I don't know who it is and I it is behind the web page that I am reading, so I click on it but accidentally close it. I don't get to find out who or what it was. boo hoo hoo me.

All of that is to say that Paige is cool. I mean, REALLY cool. Paige spent most of her school life in Southern Idaho. Went to Jr. and High School in a rural area called Filer. Close to the big city of Twin Falls. Population 25,000-ish. Perhaps more, by now. But not by much. Lots of corporate chain fast food joints. Big excitement when the Olive Garden opened. Love it, though. Twin, not the Olive Garden. It's just a small town, really. And I love to visit my mom and Paige and have a truly relaxing time with them. Anyhoo. This is all leading to Paige's musical tastes. Being in a small community with not much in the way of choice when it came to music, she had what I would describe as fairly bad taste in music. According to me and my o-so-vast knowledge in the music world. heh heh heh. Really, though. She went through a phase where she listened to what is called country music but sounds like so-so rock and roll with a twang and more lyrics about crying into a bottle a' Bud. Not the Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Whalen' Jennings kind. I thought she was lost, for sure.

From no where, a couple of years ago, I get an e-mail from my baby sis asking me if I like a band called Bright Eyes? And how about The Decemberists? Have I ever heard of Death Cab for Cutie?

Truth. Tim McGraw to Death Cab. Just like that. Suddenly, she's making mix cd's for me with all of these great bands. Many that I've never heard of. SHE'S the one introducing ME to music. She's laughing at the mainstream radio stations playing Modest Mouse. Paige is cool.

Read the Directions

Remember that day in grade school when your teacher handed you a pop quiz and says, very explicitly, to read and follow the directions? So you sit at your desk, see that there are directions, but proceed to write your name, the date and then speed through the quiz because it's kind of easy. And you are a little surprised, but, what the hey? Easy A. You notice a couple of kids get up right away and hand in the quiz, which is a bit disconcerting. Are they so fast? Or, are was it--and how could it be--too hard? Never mind. Finish in record time, proudly walk the test up to the teacher's desk where she gives you an "F" and asks you to take it back to your seat and go over the directions again. She didn't even LOOK at the answers. Back at your seat, you take the time to actually read the directions. They say, "Write your name in the space provided and return to Mrs. Soandsos desk."

DUH!!!!

Last night, I came home from work and, after a little snack of brown rice styrofoam cakes with almond butter, I began to prepare my dinner. So glad that I didn't have to go to the store. I was even being creative. Chicken breast that I'd taken out of the freezer to thaw, fennel, yellow pepper, shalots and a nectarine. Yum. Beautiful red rice on the stove to boil (it's this gorgeous brick red color and really nutty. I believe it comes from Thailand. Love it.) and soon, I have a pretty nice dinner all ready to eat. Yum. Even remembered to drink my mediclear apperitif. Still better, leftovers for lunch, tomorrow.

This morning I am looking over my mediclear instructions, because I like to refresh my memory now and again. CRAP!!! Yesterday was the start of the week where I eliminate ALL meat. I'd had it in my head, for some reason that it was just fish that I wasn't allowed to eat. NO MEAT. crap. Then, ready to eat my gluten free, wheat free waffle with almond butter, I take a gander at the list of ingredients. Double crap. Made with soy flour, though it is last on the list of ingredients...as if that makes it alright. I ate them all last week. This cleanse is a no soy in your diet kinda cleanse. Well, I think, at least it was only a few days during the first week. Four days of it, to be exact.

I'm not starting over or calling myself a failure with it. But here I am, back in grade school thinking I've done so well, and really, I didn't get it at all. Didn't read the directions closely. Assumed I knew what was going on and what ingredients were in my food.

I have been told, by some people I know who have done a detox or this mediclear cleanse, that they'd experienced some heightened emotional breakdowns during the process. Was it something that I found happening to me? Well, not in a strict sense. And I have had a couple of instances of what I like to call "Mediclear Meltdown" when faced with no prospects in the food world. Sandwich counter episode, eating there with a friend, where they only had a spoonful of the lentil soup and charged $4 for a couple of slices of turkey--since that was all I could have after the lentil soup was nonexistent. The stuffed grape leaf that was supposed to have ONLY rice and herbs and really had rice, herbs and bulgar wheat. This morning, when I realized I'll be eating styrofoam cakes for lunch. Yeah. I've wanted to cry. I've felt emotionally vulnerable and forlorn. Is that what they mean?

11 Days and I'm Still Alive

Yup. This would be day number eleven. No caffeine. No wheat. No dairy. No sugar (of the refined type. Natural fruit sugar is okay. Thank goodness the peaches and nectarines are in season!). It was tough, I didn't know if I could do it, and then, suddenly I was. I am. Even getting used to the taste of green tea and, dare I say, LIKING it. Crazy, no? But enough about that.

Also getting everything in place to begin applying to graduate schools. I have found 5 programs that seem like a good match. (And not just because I won't have to take the GRE.) They all cost about the same--too much, and I'm not going to worry about that--have 100% online programs and have been highly regarded by the ALA. (That's the American Library Association, kiddies.) Can you believe it? Me, a librarian. Who, hopefully, can continue to work as an actor, even if it is for fringe productions of HIGH quality--please, please, please--from time to time. Not quite ready to give that up. Though, definitely ready to do something with me brains and school.

Having announced to just about everyone I know that these are my plans, I sure hope I don't have to announce to same everyones that I was not accepted into any of the schools. I know it's lame to care, but I care. About getting into a school, yes. AND about having to admit that I failed. That I wasn't distance learning grad school material. (Yes, it is true. I am putting restricitions on how I will go to school. But I don't want to move. I like it here.) There is a part of me that wishes I hadn't said anything to most people and then I could surprise them with the news of "I'm going to grad school!". However, I find that I feel more motivated to get my ducks in a row in a timely manner BECAUSE I have been so free with the sharing of my plans. See? Goods and Bads.

Day One

For the next few weeks, I am to go off of caffeine, dairy and wheat. I am trying to ease the angry skin on my face. Rosacea, it is called. Somedays you'd hardly notice it, and others my cheeks are so red and enflamed that I can't believe people don't turn away in horror. Well, according to those around me, it is not as bad as I think it is. Still, it is that bad, and worse, in my head. So, I have started acupuncture. Never done it before. Along with the needles, I get some Chinese herbs. While taking these herbs, I am to refrain from endulging in the three types of food that I like best. Coffee is a type of food, yes?

Today is day one. Let's just say that I am having trouble typing. I look like someone punched me in the eyes--though, to be fair, that could be attributed to my late night movie watching and early morning rising. Regardless, I am experiencing the painful withdrawls of caffeine and it ain't purty. Plus, someone's LOUD cell phone ring just went off and I am at the LIBRARY! She is at the table behind me. And she is TALKING on her phone! Excuse me, where are the librarians with the big "SHHHHHH", glowering above her with finger to lips? I want some coffee.

Does decaf count? Part of loving coffee is the taste, the smell, the feel of the warm cup in my hands. It is comfort. It is relaxation.

I am dull. Heavy. Green tea does not cut it.

Parades & Lint Traps

What could they possibly have in common, parades and lint traps? Well, let me tell 'ya. They both remind me of why I sometimes find people SO irritating and selfish! Inconsiderate? Yes. That is probably a better word choice. In general, I believe that I like general hoi poli that run around this planet. This city. But once in a while...o boy do I want to punch somebody. I want to shove out of the fold out canvas chair the rotund man wearing a bandana around his head, a black harley t-shirt, shorts, white socks and black reebok sneakers was sitting in, on the edge of the sidewalk in anticipation of the Sea Fair parade that was 2 1/2 hours from crossing 4th and Pine. Him and all the other curb hogging, parade gawking out of towners making a wall out of their bodies and chairs and coolers of soda pop and subway sandwiches making it next to impossible for us simple folks who are just trying to cross the street to get HOME!

Me: Could I please squeeze by you, sir?

Seated Gawker with leg swung up on 2nd chair: No. Sorry. I been doin' that for an hour and i'm not gonna anymore.

Me: Well, what do you expect? You're BLOCKING the sidewalk! (harumph! stomp, stomp, stomp.)

He didn't move. I thought of a dozen other things to yell at him as I walked along the curb in the OPPOSITE direction I wanted to go, looking for an opening. Trying to catch the eye of these people, who would not acknowledge any of us poor stranded pedestrians, for fear that eye contact would mean they'd have to get up off of their lazy parade watching asses to let some of us through!

Is this what all parade audiences are like? I don't think so. This was the first year that the Gay Pride parade was held downtown. It followed the route that I assume the Sea Fair parade does. I had to walk to work through the actual parade and it was a breeze to get through. No one stubbornly stood their ground, afraid of claim jumpers. People respectfully, POLITELY let passers by PASS BY. Now, I don't want to make any generalizations, I will let the reader draw his/her own conclusions. And, if you had to pick teams and you had to choose between the Gay Pride Parade audience versus Sea Fair Parade audience...who would YOU want going to bat for you? Huh? Bring on the divas!

Which brings me to the lint traps. I know, you've been reading this entry in giddy anticipation at the possible parallel. Rest assured, they are connected. Connected in my day, which was yesterday, which is why I will ask this next question. How many of you, as second nature, clean the lint trap after you've taken your clothes out of the dryer? I'm talking to you who live in apartment buildings where the laundry room is a shared space. You do this with out thinking about it. It's habit? How many of you do it with the small hope that it will start a revolution and EVERYONE in the building will begin to do the same? How many of you don't even consider that someone else is going to be responsible for cleaning out YOUR lint? Perhaps you feel justified because you had to clean out someone else's?

I did laundry last night. I cleaned out someone else's lint. Later. I took my clothes out of the dryer. I cleaned out my lint. I thought a quick prayer, "maybe this will start a revolution." I know it won't. I know that I will have to continue to deal with imoveable parade stumps and clean out lint traps and it will annoy me because I want people to be thoughtlessly considerate of others. And that I will be annoyed with myself for being annoyed, because what good does that do me or anyone else? Because I have a hint of the idealist chromosome. (Not infallible, by any means. I hope these things for myself, too; I don't count me out.) I have hope for humankind and believe that even the seemingly innocuous task of scooching over when asked can be a start.

Tree Death

I passed the first Seattle apartment building that I lived in, on my way to the library, today. It is, in fact, right next to the library. Terribly convenient those many years ago when I lived at the Fireside Manor. Well, where several birch looking trees once stood, there are now several stumps and leaf and branch detritus instead. And a big green industrial dumpster. No trees. I can't see why it was necessary to cut them down, they weren't in the way, insinuating themselves onto the sidewalk and impeding pedestrians. Kept that side of the buidling shaded, which, from my memory would have been a good thing. Huge windows with a western exposure can make for a very warm summer afternoon, especially when we have our mini heat waves. It was just an odd sight and I hope there is a reasonable explanation. Though, the cynic in me suspects that some tenant got their panties in a wad about leaves and branches blocking their view of the houses across the street. The year I moved out of the good ole' Fireside, a new apartment complex was being built to block the once coveted views of downtown Seattle, including the Space Needle. Very little view is left, unless you live on the 5th floor, south east corner unit. Not within sight of the now sawed off stumps.

Future Distress

As mentioned, once or twice, I have been toying with the idea of grad school. Library and information science. Accredited distance learning programs exist, many do, in fact, and SOME of them do not require the GRE if your undergrad gpa was not below a particular number. That's me, baby!!! An essay, some official transcripts, application and a three letters of recommendation. But from whom? I graduated from college 10 years ago. I haven't had an academic encounter in ten years. Well, two years ago I took an online creative writing class through the community college. Does that count? I wasn't worried about my non-academic life until I spoke to my sister, this morning. She has several degrees. She had no problem with letters from professors. This is the first full year that she hasn't been in school since she was six. (She's a year older than I am.) I asked her advice. She gave it. Best to have letters from teachers or others who have some experience with your learning/work abilities. I cried. She told me that maybe it didn't matter. What about someone who directed a show I was in? They can talk about my work ethic. I cried some more. Thank goodness it was sunny on my walk to work, because crying in public, while talking on a cell phone is not a good look. She meant well, dear Holly.

WHY was I so easily deflated? I need to talk to someone who has been out of school for a length of time and has recently gone back, in a graduate kind of way...I think I want to cry again.

I don't want to live in a studio apartment for the rest of my life! I don't want to become the kind of girl who hopes that her boyfriend will decide to support me by living together or getting married. Hoping that our finances become one. Maybe I don't want to live with anyone or get married. When I think about planning for my future, reliance on another isn't what I mean. I want to know that I can support myself no matter where I am in life. In a relationship or not. A mother or not. I don't want to be forty years old, worrying whether or not I can afford to buy groceries.

And, I am petrified that this MLIS degree isn't going to work out. Haven't even begun to compile the application needs, and I've already imagined my failure. Have I imagined my success? Pshaw! That would be rather new age of me, no?

So, if you are reading this blog, and you have any experience with people with a similar tale to tell--30-something applying to graduate school after being out of school for a LONG ASS TIME--then, please, share. Encourage me. Pep talk to me. (or write, as the case may be.)

Graduation Day is Far Away...

I love popsicles. Ice cream. Ice cream bars. Your basic frozen treat. Love 'em. I love them in summer. I love them in winter. Especially after a yoga class. Wow. How good a popsicle, tastes. I tend to bite mine, not suck on them until they are little slivered points, working my way down. No. I chomp. Bat the frozen chunk around in my mouth as I chew, trying not to upset the little cavities that I now know I posses after my recent trip to the sliding scale community dentist. The cool, sugary liquid sliding down my esophagus. I can feel it all the way down to my chest. Yum. What a disappointment, then, to know that I live in a constant state of crappy freezer-hood. Anyone who has lived in an apartment with a tiny refrigerator that has one of those built in freezers, the kind that have the plastic door and the freezer tray and the door doesn't shut all the way, not really. And you have to defrost at LEAST twice a year, but might only manage it once a year. And then, only because the milk in the 'fridge is lukewarm due to the ice field in the freezer blocking any cold from happening throughout the rest of the appliance. At the same time it isn't actually FREEZING anything, either. Except that bag of chicken stock you made 6 months ago and haven't used because you'd need to excavate it from the frozen walls that engulf it.

Well, popsicles and ice cream and ice cream bars don't freeze in that kind of freezer. I should say "freezer", since I don't know that it really classifies as the same thing as the appliance that actually is a separate unit, in its own way, from the refrigerator south of it, (or north, if you have one of those fancy sub zero doohickies.) Oh sure, they're attached. It's as though it were one machine. But the doors. That's key. Grown up freezers have their very own door. A completely independent section that is free to freeze. Might even have their own temperature setting. Fake freezers, the "freezer" type that I am forever saddled with, those contraptions--well, I don't even know what to rightly call 'em. I used to think that owning my own car would be the true show of my entry into responsible adulthood. More so than having my own apartment and paying my bills and working and all that. That kind of responsibility is, at some point, for most people, just necessary. But a car. Now that was special. Above and beyond the normal adult markers. Well, I had a car for awhile. And between the car payment, the gas and the insurance, it wasn't worth it. There are places in this world where cars are just a peripheral in people's lives. Some places, one does not even NEED a car to get through life. Besides, it is easy enough to rent one, if I truly need one. Pshaw to the car.

No. I realize, now, what it is that I lack. The true entry into this adult world that I am excluded from. A proper freezer. The day I graduate from the "freezer" that doesn't freeze (it has something to do with the sugar content of the frozen treats, I've been told) to the refrigerator equipped with two outside doors, one for the cold stuff and one for the frozen...Well, my friends, that is the day I'll know that I've arrived.

Summer Time Blues

Summer gives me a slight case of melancholia. (Yes, I believe that to be a word. And if it's not, it should be.) I think of having a "summer read", of "summer activities" and even "summer vacation". Are these things really applicable? When I was a student, o so many years ago, summer reading meant something! It meant, I don't have to read anything that is required. I get to read what I want to read. I get to read Agatha Christie mysteries for three months straight, if I feel like it, dammit! But how is summer any different from winter or fall, other than temperature and the amount of daylight? I still have to get up and go to work at the same time everyday. Still have to clean my apartment and do laundry and think about what I'm making for dinner. I did take a vacation, but it is only a coincidence that it happened to be during the "summer" months.

Yet, every year, I feel it. That tingle of excitement and expectation of SUMMER BREAK!! Somewhere in the back of my sense memory I think I'm supposed to be doing something ELSE, because it is summer, and that I'm not supposed to stick to my regular routine. I have a summer reading list. Heck. My local library has a summer reading program for adults. Read three books by August 15, write a little blurb about each one and recieve a free $4 Starbucks coffee card. It's not just me, EVERYONE thinks there is supposed to be a difference to our routines because of the season. But the work thing! It just kills me. How do I find time to devote hours of unhurried ease to reading or laying around in the sun or napping when I have to keep to my daily obligations? Ridiculous.

Melancholia. That's what I have, baby.

I know you through your blog

Since I got back from Maui on Saturday, I've been catching up on two of my friends' lives via their blogs and just itching to write something on mine. Composing lovely stories of our time in Hawaii, books I've read. Music I've heard. And today, I got nothin'. I do think it's wacky that I know more about Deron and Michael because they publish these blogs than from actually talking with them face to face--e-mail to e-mail, what have you. Is this the next step in keeping in touch? I admit that I really enjoy knowing I can read their online musings to hear about daily life...it's not as good as getting to see them, but it is better than nothing. And then, when I say to another friend "Oh yes, my friend Michael's daughter is 10 1/2 pounds now!" I sound like I am in close contact with him. Gosh. That sort of sounds sad, now that I think of it. Because I'm not. And since I live in the lazy correspondence age, I wouldn't necessarily have know that about Vivien if I hadn't read the blog. Not to say that I don't on occasion e-mail Michael. I do. We do. ON OCCASION.

Feels like every few months I have an attack of lack of pen pal blues. Looks like I'm into that, right now. In fact, I bet if I read back on these here blog entries, I'd even see another entry that mentions this very thing. Poor Heidi has a letter started way back in May that is still in the notebook it was composed in. How is she to know that I have very good intentions, unless I follow through with them?

How does anyone know that thousands, or hundreds, or even twenty miles away that they are in your thoughts? I claim to dislike talking on the phone, and I do, to some extent. A lot of it is that I have crappy phone reception at home and I can't seem to hear half of what is being said to me. Then there is my I'm on the west coast and lots of my friends are on the east coast excuse. So, when my "free" minutes are activated, it is already midnight out there. I work on weekends, so talking during those days (also known as "free") are spent talking to LOTS of people which makes the thought of talking to more people, (people I actually know and love) not very enticing. Sorry kids.

Long ago, the last time I visited New York, Micheal and I talked about how we used to write letters to one another when he was living in Seattle and I was still in Phoenix. (Gosh. Another life time ago...) Why not start up again? And I think we tried. But it feels so much easier to do nothing and to check in on his blog.

A long time ago, when I would write in a journal, I wrote about a man that Shawn and I met on a sidewalk in Fremont, across from Lladro. He called himself Benny, and made balanced rock sculptures on the sidewalk. Talked philosophy. Talked a blue streak--does that mean he swears a lot, or just talks a lot?--, as they say. This was a couple of years ago. He talked about his art and how, for the most part, people seemed to respect it. Sometimes those drunks from the bars would knock them over, but not often. I'd have to go back to the journal entry to rememer, specifically what else we talked about with him. (I have self-shame surrounding my journal, so I don't like to look at it. Don't like to be reminded that I haven't written in it since last June; an entry that I vividly recall and viscerally dislike. Afraid of my own ghosts, so human am I.)

Benny. So, he's got this accent that sounds rather continentally, generically European. Obviously educated--talks a mile a minute, half of which I don't understand it is so much smarter than I am--probably homeless. At some point, we have to end our talk of rocks and we part ways. I was very struck by him, though, since I wrote about him and I don't write about most of the people that I meet. Once in awhile Shawn and I would see him out there, on the sidewalk with his rock towers--they got bigger and bigger and more sidewalk invasive over the past two-ish years.

This week's Stranger has a one page story about him. I guess Benny's rock sculpture days are over. At least on that particular sidewalk. Something about a permit, which he can't pay for. Some sadness expressed by local patrons of his art/coffee drinkers. Some relief by business owners who have had to call the police on more than one occasion due to his sometimes inebriated rants and possible violent tendencies. As in much of life's stories, it's a mixed emotional quagmire.

I can tell I'm getting old. Older. My initial thought was "well, that's probably for the best. Those sculptures were making it difficult to navigate the sidewalk." At the same time, I sure do love expressions of public, non-sanctioned art. Most of the time. I admit to wanting it to fit in with my own artistic sensibilities; though, in my defense, I'd say that's a pretty loose criteria. Often, it's just as much the spirit of the thing as the value it may carry as art. I see the corner qwik-ee mart across from my apartment tagged as fast as the owner can paint over the last one. He gets fined if the graffiti stays on his property.
I also see the cartoonish line spraying of a nude girl, long stringy hair, her arm outstretched in the universal sign for "stop" and the words "I just don't feel it" sprayed above her head. I LOVE that picture. It's graffiti, too. But it's GOOD graffiti. Sprayed on an abandoned building. (Only, I think that it's gone now.) So the old lady in me says, "No tagging. That's vandalism." And the not quite so old lady in me says "But if you spray a smart, funny social comment and it's on an abandoned building, then it's ok with me!".

I'm old.

wowie zowie maui!

Acknowledgements to Pavement for their kicky album title that lent itself so seamlessly to the title of this post.

So. Shawn and I are going to Maui. I've never been to Hawaii. Didn't even know I would want to go until I'd lived in Seattle for a few years. I get it. Or at least, I think I get it. As I mentioned, never been. What with it all rainy, cool and your typical June here, Hawaii is looking real good right about now. We'll be staying at a friend's beachfront condo. Her family has owned it for a very long time. I think she is the sole owner, now, but it's a primo spot and I am so touched at her generosity.

In other news...Michael and Calvin are DADS!!!! Their daughter was born this morning, Vivien Stella Cruz. Her due date was May 24. Pretty durn close, huh? Congratulations to them. Of all the people in this world that I know, I truly believe them to be two of the best candidates for parenthood. Which is not to say that others I know are not...they are just in the top percentile. O geez...am I going to get angry fan mail? (Ha. As if to imply that I already get some? Ha.) Really, many of my friends are now parents. Or are trying to become parents. Or do not have any desire to be parents. We're all loving, capable, good people who can/would/will make great moms and dads. I don't know what I'm trying to say. I'm happy for them. I know that Vivien is going to be raised in a wonderful environment where she will not doubt that she is loved and supported. (Allowances for teenage angst, hormones and the occasional "You never let me do what I want to do!" "You don't understand me!" episodes.) She's a lucky lady....

Watched "The Fog of War", this morning. Ummmm...watch it, if you haven't. Mesmerizing.

I just thought it would be better

I saw "Pippin", earlier this week. A musical that I have always held dear, having something to do with performing a selection from it when I was a wee tyke at the University of Utah's Theatre School For Youth, program. We sang "Magic for You" for our final showing. And then, there is the quintessential Ben Vereen and William Kat (Yes, the Greatest American Hero") slightlly truncated version. Believing that I was destined to be a dancer on broadway--in "Cats", no less--I loved musicals that featured LOTS and LOTS of jazzy choreography. As I got older and no longer took dance classes with the hopes of Chita Rivera fame, I found musicals to be fun to listen to, too expensive to see, and most had a significant lack of any real dancing, beyond asking the chorus to move across the stage one way, in time to the music, before heading back the other direction. Much like the chorus does in historical greek theatre--didn't they sing one argument on one side and then dance over to the other side to sing the next argument? My interest in musical theatre has waned, somewhat, though not completely, in the ensuing years. Once, I even signed up for a season audition for a company that does mostly musicals. I cancelled it, as the time drew nearer. What was I thinking? Still, I'm fairly nostalgic and love those old Rogers and Hammerstein musicals, as well as just about anything Sondheim. Lately, there have even been some shows that I do want to hear, "Urinetown", "Avenue Q" among them. I think I'll pass on "Lestat", though. Even though I went through my phase of loving those books when I was 14. Gave those up by the third one. Ugh.

So, "Pippin". Produced locally, by a company that appears to have a lot of money to spend. Some shows are cast in town, with a few parts cast out of town. They also have a few shows that are brought here completely made up of out of towners. I'd never been to a show at this theatre, the ticket is just too much. But when I saw that they were doing "PIPPIN", I really wanted to go. A friend who also wanted to see the show, found a twofer deal, which made it a bit more palatable. Still expensive, though.

We go. The theatre itself was GORGEOUS! Art Deco Chinoise motif and compeltely restored. Best part of the show. Truth. Not that it was bad. No. There were some enjoyable elements. I just expected more. When the nosebleed seats still cost $60, I sort of imagined that the production would really knock my socks off. Lots of money obviously spent on costumes (which, though sparkly and pretty, looked like the various Las Vegas shows exploded and threw out one performer each, to make a new show.) The woman playing Festrada was eh. She wasn't particularly a great singer or dancer (though I bet she used to be a very good dancer...) and she lacked presence. Supposed to be so sexy and vivacious. Like I said, eh. Pippin was good. As was Catherine--an import from Broadway. She was the original Belle in "Beauty and the Beast". She really was in a league of her own in the singing department. The leading player, though not a dancer had great presence and singing ability. The dancers/chorus were fun, despite the schizophrenia of the costuming, and did an admirable job. Now, I know that many productions of this show do have the carnival like costume theme. I don't care for it. I prefered the one available on video. Flesh colored base costumes that are added to with various clown face paint and more subtle carnival type elements. Who am I, though? What do I know? My companion noted that she was thinking that her high school production was better than this, and then she thought, "Wait. It's more like I'm watching a high school production than a professional one."

A couple nights later, another friend asked how I'd liked the show. "Eh". "Yeah, he said. They have so much money, you'd think their shows would be outstanding."

Precisely.

My Library Rocks

Taking advantage of the my friendly neighborhood library and the free wireless. I'm much too caffeinated to sit at a coffee shop and drink more coffee (or tea or chai or sugary Italian soda) so what the heck? And, yes, it is a beautiful day and I'm sitting inside. But at this library, one whole wall is made up of windows so it's almost like being outside, except that I can easily see the computer screen and, well, I'm not. There is simply too much pressure to be outside on a day like today. The kind where it's sunny and warm, and you have the opportunity to NOT be at work. Sometimes, I don't want to be anywhere but indoors. Maybe even spending untold hours trying to get past the pesky Spiderman II challenge that has nothing to do with saving mugees, armored cars, or heist victims. Nonetheless, the challenge must be won or my game doesn't advance and I'm stuck crawling on an ever shifting obstacle course, trying to avoid being hit by some wacko's laser beam. Or, I'd rather spend the day holed up at the library, checking e-mail, writing this here entry and catching up on silly internet related activities. The sort that are much more pleasant when done on a fast connection, as opposed to that archaic one I refuse to give up.

A pack of munchkins recently arrived to take over an entire corner of the library. (So, what do you call a group of kiddies? Is there one of those pride of, flock of, school of, murder of classifications? i'm sticking with pack, until I can think of something else.) The Capitol Hill Branch--formerly known as the Henry--is one floor of books, not very many by a library standard, and enough for the 'hood. It is so easy to request whatever book, cd, dvd, etc. that you want and have it transferred here to pick up. It just takes a little longer. Which leaves this lovely space so cozy; perfect on any day. REAL climbing plants live inside, creeping across the metal grating that was made for that express purpose, it's sort of like a solarium, only it's full of books. A solarium of books. Dig it.

But in one corner, probably 700 sq. feet, is the youth section. Kids books, you know. Very inviting. All of the shelves are short, easily accessible. Picture books line the tops, covers vibrant and enticing. All of these kids are wearing their library cards on cords around their necks. Cute. I watched one boy negotiate with his teacher over the selection of a collection of comic books. Looked like Lulu (isn't that the girl with black hair and the red dress?), or something. The best part wasn't the earnestness with which he explained how this was, indeed, acceptable reading material, but that he's wearing this backwards newsboy cap that is just enough too big for his 4ft. frame to look adorable, AND he has a purple wildflower tucked behind one ear. Be still my heart.

Boo-hoo-hoo

My favorite comic book store closed on April 29th. Yesterday, walking to work I reminisced with myself about the different Believer magazines I'd bought, the Optic Nerves, and the birthday present I have yet to send to my little brother. I will miss the wave hello relationship I'd established with Brad, the owner, over the couple years that he was open on Pine. It started as a simple nod. You know the nod...subtle, yet universally acknowledged as a form of cool greeting. (hee hee hee, cool. me. hee hee hee.) From the nod came a wave. I was nervous the first time I did that one. What if he doesn't wave back? And then, one night, walking home from work and hearing my name called as I pass by the shop. A woman I'd met through a reading calls me in and introduces me, officially, to Brad. Sings his artistic praises. Suddenly, passing by the shop, Brad sitting behind his commerce counter, feet propped up, generally reading something, the wave is accompanied with a big grin and a mouthed "hello". Sometimes he would be standing outside, smoking, and the niceties of "how are you", etc. are exchanged. I finally get the courage to go into the shop. Silly, I know. But I felt like such a poseur. I wanted to learn more about this graphic novel, modern comic book world, but didn't want to go in all goofy and ask "well, what's good?" So that's when I started buying The Believer from him, and not the record store.

Ultimately, I didn't buy enough. When I went in to wish him well in his new adventures, and to buy my last Confounded Books book, I apologized for not being a more frequent customer. Laughing a little, so as not to appear too serious. Really, though, comic books look like a dangerous habit forming expense. One I do not need to begin indulging in. I did get to buy a new portable Dorothy Parker, published by Viking, for my farewell purchase. Cover illustrations by Seth. My eyes went to it immediately upon surveying the leftovers of the week's sale. Brad had put it in the front window, a couple of weeks ago, and I would gaze, wistfully, at it, as I passed the shop. He complimented my choice and then said that Viking was coming out with a whole series of portables with great comic illustrations. He was so glad that Seth had done the Parker, because he really liked her, and Seth is his favorite. Then he said if I liked Seth, I'd like _____, and _______, and ________, and_______....I just nodded and smiled and said, yeah. Oh, yes. Him. Of course, I had no clue.

Yesterday, I could see the yellow "BOOKS" on the window, from the crosswalk corner. The light changes, I cross, I take a right, I get closer and see the yellow flakes that were "CONFOUNDED" on the window seat where the display shelf used to sit, proudly advertising the yummies within. I stand for a moment and Brad walks out from the back of the shop. I wave. I make a sad face. He makes a sad face and uses his finger to illustrate tears streaming. I mouth, "good luck", wave, and go on down the hill to work.

Waiting for my Phoenix friends to arrive. It's a gorgeous day in Seattle, sunny, warm and o-so-cheery. We all get so perky when the sun shows up. It's funny to observe in others, and I can only imagine what I must look like. Some kind of giddy geek, I'm sure. When the weather is like this, in the early days of spring--a month old, maybe, but this is Seattle, and sometimes it doesn't feel very spring-like until well into May--yes, well, anyway. It's days like these that remind me of my first spring in Seattle. I had moved from Phoenix, where spring weather is warmer than most summers in this city. Probably sitting outside on a day, much like today, and trying so hard to not stick out by wearing warm clothing. No, I had to be tough and just lounge about in my short sleeve t-shirt and jeans. Ha! And now, here I sit, perfectly comfortable in virtually the same outfit--it's a different t-shirt. I'm sure the other is well worn out and gone the way of the dust cloth--thinking about my girlfriends who might really be cold, poor things. Scintillating, isn't it?

These Phoenicians have come to visit to see the play that I'm in. I'll have to buy them a really nice breakfast to make up for the lack of substance in the script. I wish it were better. It isn't.

No, I haven't, and I've moved on...

In case you were wondering about the previous entry. I lost interest in exploring whether or not to call; and, quite frankly, I find it easier to do nothing. eeeewwww...that's icky. I recognize that this may point to the need for me to spend some more time addressing this with myself. I should just call her. As my uncle says, she's an old lady. How many more years can she possibly have? Ugh. It is so hard to make a first step, when it's been so much easier to ignore it. Courage. That's what it takes and that's what I feel I lack. Don't worry, I recognize the previous statement as another ploy to take the smooth path I've been a-travelin' already. I'll get back with y'all, in a while, about this. (But not too long a while, since...see a few sentences back regarding longevity of the afore mentioned grandma.)

Well, my dearies, what else has been keeping me away for so long? Important acting challenges. That's what! Yes indeedy, I actually went to an audition, waaaaaaaaaay back in January, and was cast in a show. It's true. I kid you not. We began rehearsals in March and we open this coming Friday. Yowza! I get to play a 33 year old woman who is having an affair with a 15 year old girl and BELIEVES with all her might that there is nothing wrong with their relationship. Does Linnet think there is? Perhaps. And therein lies the challenge. Throw out my own judgements and find where this woman's story connects to me. We're in LOVE, baby. We can't help that there's almost a 20 year gap in our ages. Sex. Scandal. Cute girls making out. This show should be a sell out. I know at least two people who will be coming, and all the way from Phoenix, Arizona, too! Three cheers to Joanna and Elisabeth for making the trip out, next week. Though, I told my mom to save her money and visit when I'm in a show that...well...I shouldn't say anything. When it closes. Ah, who am I kidding. The story is interesting. The directing and acting are worth seeing, but the script? sigh. What are ya' gonna do? Take what you get and hopefully do the work necessary to bring the audience on the journey with you. And did I mention cute girls making out?

To Call or Not to Call...

I've rekindled a correspondence with my Uncle Paul. Sort of. I think. Now that I look at this opening sentence, written so matter of factly, I begin to wonder. Is this going to work out? We haven't spoken--via e-mail--for at least six years, and I doubt we've spoken on the phone since I was in high school. Our infrequent cyber letters came to an abrupt halt when he asked why I didn't speak with my grandparents and I replied, "Why don't they speak to me?". He said he didn't know what I meant and I proceeded to explain my version of events, which was that I had tried to keep some kind of relationship with them after my parents separated for good, calling from time to time, cards, etc. They had no replies for any of them. Nada. Zip. Silence. I took that to mean they weren't interested. He was perplexed that I would take their silence to mean they didn't want to speak with me.

Fast forward to three weeks ago. Out of the blue I wondered about this Uncle of mine. Brother to the father who isn't a part of our lives, any more (hence the incommudicado from the grandparents.) The seemingly rational, more open-minded product of a conservative, tight-lipped, the-father-is-god-in-the-house-regardless-of-his-actions, East Coast, Jewish upbringing. He was the artist. The rebel. The one who went to Canada and then emigrated to Germany in the early 70's. He's lived there almost my whole life, except for a brief stint in Portland, Maine, while I was in high school. He's a writer for a German magazine. He's married with two teenage boys, wee babes last time I saw them. I googled him. I found him. I contacted the magazine that he writes for and sent an e-mail, asking to be put in touch with him. I half expected to hear nothing, but the very next day I opened up the gmail, and there was an e-mail from Paul. All excitement and glad tidings. He, too, had wondered about me and what I'd been doing with myself, had also googled me. Pleased to see my name pop up in association with theatre. Well isn't this swell, I respond. So nice to hear from you, etc., etc. A reply to my reply. And that's where it comes out. The same old song. Why have you never spoken with, or written to your grandparents? Now, just grandma, as grandpa died a few years ago. Was he kidding? Hadn't we gone over this before?

I am not one to air the dirty laundry of my family and spend hours talking about what a jerk this person is, or how destroyed I was by actions of my father or what a rotten childhood I had. I had some good times and some bad and I certainly don't feel like my past life has had negative consequences on the choices I make now. I haven't chosen to wallow in the distresses of those years gone by, and I don't expect to start. However, it is clear to me that I can obviously hold a grudge. When my parents split--for reasons that are no one's business but ours--my grandparents appeared to have CHOSEN not to interact with those children who, in their mind, had taken the side of my mom. My two little sisters, Dana and Paige, were in grade school when this upheaval occurred; and they all moved back to Southern Idaho to have a bit of a new start. Others of us were already out of the house, and my other two younger siblings (Jess and Jaime) chose to live with my dad, though they claimed to hate it. Better that than move to a ho-dunk town. My grandparents NEVER, not ONE TIME talked to Paige and Dana again. No birthday cards, no phone calls, nothing. Those two girls were LITTLE KIDS! I admit, I took offense to their actions by inaction. And once they made it clear, to my mind, that they weren't interested in me, either, then I stopped bothering. Making the choice not to try to contact them. Apparently, their version of events is not the same as mine, as expressed by my uncle. Grandma cannot understand why I never called when grandpa died, or before he died, or even now that he's been gone.

Paul's argument sounds a lot like something my grandpa, or even my dad, would have lectured us on as kids. It is my duty, as the grandchild to make the effort. Not theirs, or hers as it stands now. If grandma never picked up the phone to call me or even answered when I called, it is still my obligation to try to get her on the phone or send her letters. I am the young generation. Her age affords her status as some kind of matriarch who is to be waited upon and showered with adulation. Ok. He didn't actually say that last part. But the first part, about me being the one obligated to make the effort. He did say that.

I can see his point. She comes from a different generation. Sure. But how does he explain their treatment of two young girls who don't understand why their grandparents suddenly aren't a part of their lives? Not that it was such a huge loss. They weren't exactly the most exciting people. Lots of rules surrounding behavior when you were with them. Don't forget to show proper respect and gratitude--to the point that the meaning of both is lost since it is artificially forced upon you, rather than occurring spontaneously, out of true gratitude.

He hasn't written me back, since I wrote that I have been and will continue to think about his views. I told him I wasn't ready to just pick up the phone but one never knew...I wanted to mull it over some more. Thank you for your thoughts. Well. I meant it. I DON'T know what I want to do. If I call her, I don't want to tell Paul, because I don't want him to think I'm doing it because he was so wise in his advice. I had been thinking about making that step long before Paul told me I had to; and his opinion has actually sparked that very stubborn streak in me that makes me want to do nothing out of defiance. Dammit. This is all sounding very childish. I'm almost embarrassed to publish this entry, and I think it would be good for me. Ah, crap. I'll probably call her. I'm nervous. What the heck do I say? And what good is it going to do? Who am I doing this for?

Crap.

I know that I am pretty slow when it comes to pop culture current events and I have only recently begun reading all of the hullabaloo concerning a couple of outed (I'm not talking sexual orientation) writers that have made the big news over the past few months. As I haven't ever read anything by JT LeRoy or James Frey, I didn't realize that a controversy had been brewing. Now that I'm caught up, I don't know how I COULD read their books. Fiction or no, I've been severely put off by the notion that it's ok to out and out LIE about yourself in order to sell books. No wonder we elected a liar to a second term and seemly have no problem when confronted with his lies. We love to be lied to.

Now, don't get your panties in a bunch. I know that most of the people that are in my smaller and radiated circles of acquaintance don't actually like to be lied to. I'm talking middle America, here. At election time, back in November, around 50% of the voting public (which certainly does not encompass 50% of the qualified voting public) were happy to elect a liar. And we continue to put liars in office in every state, on all levels. We ignore the liars that run big companies and give 'em a slap on the wrist when they run amok with our 401k's, stocks, electric bills, whatever they can ruin for personal financial gain. We have created an environment where this is simply "OK". If it wasn't alright, wouldn't we scream louder and more forcefully until those wrongs were righted? Ahhhh...Utopia.....

No wonder I read comments that actually shrug off Frey's lies as being the folly of writer's license. Huh. Interesting. It's still a powerful story of triumph over addiction. Well, is it? Like I said, I didn't read the book. I've only read excerpts and plot summaries. Maybe it isn't that big of a deal. No, that doesn't sit well with me; it IS a big deal. Would we be reading that book if he told the truth about his struggles? And would anyone have been as interested in the stories of a child hustler with HIV written by a then 30-something now 40 year old woman? Apparently the publishing companies didn't think so, and they think they know what people will read.

"There is some question as to the identity of this mysterious writer. She has been referred to as "America's best known, unknown playwright". The name Jane Martin is widely believed to be a pseudonym. She has never made any public appearances or spoken" (from the website www.doollee.com).

Is writing under a pseudonym lying? JT LeRoy was a persona, complete with a tragic upbringing and beating the odds to become a successful writer pedigree. That's a story Americans love. If JT LeRoy was simply a name, with no story attached, would it have mattered? Jane Martin is a playwright. She's successful. But we don't really know who she is. Only a name. No back story was created to make us sympathetic to her plight which, in turn, made us want to read, publish and produce her plays. The mystery is kind of fun. Theories abound. Is she really a man? Perhaps the director, Jon Jory? Not knowing who she is bares, I've always felt--though I could be mistaken--little on whether or not her work is produced. Our heart strings and compassionate natures weren't played in order to sell books.


I asked a girlfriend of mine if she'd heard about the whole Frey controversy, thinking we might enter into a discussion on writing ethics. She shrugged it off saying it's a book. You don't have to tell the truth when you write a book. But it's supposed to be a memoir, not fiction. She didn't seem to think the delineation mattered, much. Taking liberties is part of writing. I might have agreed with her, at some point in my life, but today? No. I don't want to be lied to anymore. We all lie, even when we think we don't, or when we think it'll lessen some hurt or get someone off our back. Little white lies are pretty much accepted by one and all. Take a look around and see what that's done to our world. I'm reminded of that anti-drug message where they say one day it's marijuana and the next it's heroin and then an overdose. (Whether that's true or not, I couldn't tell you.) But with the lies, well, maybe it's not so far off. If we live in a culture that accepts the little lie now and again, what's to stop those lies from getting bigger and bigger? Pinocchio's nose looks like a cute little button next to many of our "respected" leaders and those controversial authors.

I'm a part of a fledgling theatre company that has managed to stay together for...wellllll...if you count our previous incarnation, for about 5 years. Roughly. We haven't a following, not really, and we manage to put on one to two shows a year. Every year that we've been together, I'd say that we lose at least one member. Last Sunday, we lost another. There are a couple of members that appear to be on the edge, as well. HOW DO PEOPLE DO IT?!!! It takes us a bazillion months to mount one production and we never find all the help we need, have lucked out with our meager budgets and enjoyed a small amount of audience appreciation. We don't get reviewed and barely have 1/4 of the house filled during any one production.

We are producing "'night Mother", to open in March. It's not my favorite play, and it's one of those plays that you see so often in scene study classes that you're sure you've seen it a hundred times by the time you're out of college. And then you take classes at acting studios, to continue with the honing of your skills and you see it another hundred times. But have you actually seen it? The whole play? Only the filmed version with Sissy Spacek and Anne Bancroft, (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090556/--how old fashioned, cut and paste.) I realized, the other day. And, according to our sources, it hasn't been produced in Seattle since the 80's. Of course, another fledgling company could have done it and just not received any press about it...At this point, I don't care. I have a renewed interest in the show, this could be a great production! The company members involved in the directing and acting aspects absolutely LOVE this play and therefore have the necessary passion to infuse it with love and excitement and desire and honesty. Maybe the entire county of King will realize, as I did, that they haven't actually seen this play and by gum and by golly they need to get to the theatre this March! Perhaps this production is the one that will give us that little nudge putting us in the public consciousness? I think it might. I hope it does. I want it to.

So, that's what Sight Nine is doing now. What's next? Well, we'll know that by the time we open "'night Mother". Stay tuned. In the reading phase, right now. And since we lost our last male actor on Sunday, our casting focus has changed. A play with four great roles for women--3 in their 30's, able to play mid-late 20's and one in her 70's, able to play 60's--know any? Know any that AREN'T "Crimes of the Heart" type plays? ugh. Men are allowed, just not as the main roles. There are plenty of plays for men. Why is that? 5M, 2W. 4M, 1W. 8M. 3M. 16M, 3W. Really. I have a stack of about 30 plays sitting on the floor and MOST of the casts are light on the female presence. I know this isn't some kind of breaking news, but it frustrates me no less. How many auditions do I have to go to for plays that are looking for one woman and ten men? 20 men audition and 100 women do. You think I'm exaggerating? HA! ok. Maybe just a little. But it's not far from the truth!!!