When you are a lady playwright raised to please and to apologize, and you get a series of bad reviews written by OTHER lady writers who write directly and bravely and without apology because they were perhaps raised THAT way, THE PROPER RESPONSE IS TO EMAIL THE REVIEWERS AND DEEPLY APOLOGIZE AT LENGTH FOR RUINING THEIR EVENINGS AND WASTING THEIR TIME AND GO INTO GREAT DETAIL ABOUT YOUR SHAME AND EMBARRASSMENT AND THEN MAYBE ALSO FIND A WAY TO SEND THEM BAKED GOODS? THIS IS RIGHT, RIGHT?
Has anyone been on the train with this one homeless woman – she pretty much never has shoes, has a slight speech impediment – and ‘doesn’t want something for nothing’ as she puts it – she’s not begging, no sir – she sings for her supper. But she only knows one song, ‘Have yourself a Merry little Christmas’ and she moves down the train, literally singing it to each person on the train, one by one, the sincerest thing you ever did see. Last night I saw a girl slip her a twenty and I nearly cried. This reminds me of the time that my Mom came to visit and there was a particularly awful seeming homeless woman on the corner on 17th and 5th (kind of an odd corner for one) and my Mom wanted to call the cops and she wouldn’t leave the woman until she felt like she was okay. And I also think it’s terrible that men feel so in despair re: money and re: life that they must kill their whole families and also themselves. And then just now, I googled water-boarding because I never QUITE understood it exactly, and now I wish I hadn’t.
Because I am completely Looney Tunes, I found myself stressed out that I had three days off, and wanted to fill it with the most perfect and productive activities. So I went to a metal show. RARR!! Yeah, I did that. Liberated, I felt, pushed around at the edges of the Mosh Pit. Judged, I was, in my ‘corporate American Apparel loser clothes’ (Steve heard someone say this. Right on.)I thought: this is amazing. Then some threw their Beer in my face. So I went home. I guess I’m not hardcore enough – but it’s super fun to pretend.
I was assigned a task this weekend that at first I found to be daunting, but ended up ultimately being extremely therapeutic.
Working Man’s was, at the very last minute, given a week at the Ohio Theater – we frantically filled it with shows – I’m working on monologues to go in between the one acts, in an evening entitled ‘New York in Dead.’
Given my recent frustrations with my jobthing, I decided to make fun of real estate. With no further doo doo, the thing that I just wrote:
A Jumpy, desperate real estate agent is on his cell. He enters quickly, frantically.
It’s a very hot address. Very hot. Brick fire place, granite in the half kitchen. You get trannie trash from the Path but it’s like a two minute walk from the west side high way.
(He motions to us to hold on.)
Yeah, the water. Statue of fucking Liberty, Swear to God. The river. No, you can’t swim in it.
(He motions to us that the person on the phone is a douchebag.)
It was Scarlett Johannassen’s first apartment. For real. Swear to God. No, it’s a true one bed. Okay so the previous tenant erected a divider wall but in terms of square footage – 5,000. Dollars. A month. 4800 hundred, roof top access, a view of the park, luxury amenities, et cetera, etc cetera, no no no wait – 46. 46. I can’t go any lower, I – hello?
(The person has hung up.)
(He hangs up. To us)
Sorry to have kept you waiting. Douchebags move here from nowhere Wisconsin and think they can get a true one bed from less than five. I can tell you’re not a douche bag, though, you know what you want. You know what you need, you know what it takes, I take fifteen percent.
Here we are, Soho, you can’t beat that. This place sells itself, really, you don’t need me, just listen to the space, it’s talking to you, what do you think? It’s currently owned by some Hippie indie theater company but as the world goes, as things happen, they’re loosing their lease. I think it’d be better as your Home or a Banana Republic.
High ceilings – put up a few partitions, you’ve got a living, a dining, an office, a room for your whole goddamn dog, I would kill to live here, like I would literally – Whoopi Goldberg lives upstairs, swear to God. She leaves once a day to go to Balthazar, do you have kids? They could go right over there.
So Where’re you living now? Don’t tell me, Inwood, don’t tell me, I see your shoes, you live in Cobble Hill, no, you just moved here, you Dad pays your rent. I don’t judge. Your first Manhattan apartment is a delicate choice, it’s like picking a lover. I’d choose carefully if I were you, and by carefully, I mean live here, Goddamnit, look at this place, I would kill, I would literally kill – these floors are an artifact, General Robert E. Lee stood here once, Swear to God.
So what do you think? I say picture it. You go out, you’re out, you get drunk, it’s been a long day. You’re at Mercer kitchen, you’re watching Russell Crow throw his blackberry at a waiter, you’re having an appetizer, you meet someone. This person is hot, this person is lonely, you’re lonely, you want to take this person home with you to exercise your right to do it. So do it. And where do you take them? Right down the freaking street. Right here. Like yeah, I live here, where do you live? Now kiss me til I forget myself.
(His phone rings. He answers.)
Yeah. I’m in Soho. I can be uptown in ten. It’s been gutted but it’s a hot address, HOT. You need – yeah, I know what you need. I’ll be right there.
(He hangs up.)
So what do you think? I gotta tell you, I gotta know by today, I gotta, I’m showing it, there are others, everyone wants it, everyone, you’re blind if you don’t see – look at the ceilings, look at the goddamn height – you need this place. It needs to you fill it. You’ve got til the end of today.
(His phone rings. He answers.)
Gah. What is this artist SAYING? I just don’t GET it.
Yeah, I go to museums sometimes. What if I do.
*Note* – the following pictures are NOT from the Guggenheim. Next time at the Guggenheim just happens to be a group of words that are pretty grand to say. They are from MOMA, which is an equally cool response to the question ‘What did you do this weekend?’ (But: *subnote* – say the word ‘MOMA’ flippantly, as if you went to the laundromat, as to not draw TOO much attention to how stinking cultured you are – or how much you are trying to be.)
*NoteNote* – I did not go to MOMA this weekend. I cannot tell a lie. (It was a few weekends ago.)
*NoteNoteNote* – Bekah DOES not perceive herself to be a connasieur of art. She cannot even spell connasieur. She remains a douchebag person who says things like Hey, isn’t that a Pollock? and not much else. Though she would love to be the kind of person who can wander into a museum and say hey, omg, it’s a ‘obscurefrenchminimalistfromNaziRomania,’ and be totally right, she is Not this person. But, nonetheless, she enjoys museums, though she cannot seem to retain any factual information about movements, artists, etc. Instead, she enjoys the wandering, the quiet perusing; the sticking of one’s face dangerously close to the thing to see how it looks. Up close. She enjoys the painful details.
A person who considers Himself to be a work of Art, boots and All, considers the Work of Art.
And finally, some corn next to a violin.
Because life is meaningless, or something.
….It was good.
I approve of these things:
A new rock musical, or rather, a play with words. It’s really awesome to see these new sorts of musicals (extremely non-traditional with amazing music; like a gd truth party) succeeding on Broadway. So good. All based on the life/music of this dude ‘Stew,’ just Stew – Passing Strange is sort of a coming of age story that parodies fun things like black people pretending to be blacker than they are. It also delightfully pokes fun at German people, and has a lot to say about artists preferring art to life. That sounds gay. What I mean is – there was some line that I found to be truthful something like – art is better than life. Made me understand where I possibly get my uber unrealistic life expectations.
I. Love. This. Movie.
It’s funny, and re-imagined bible stories make me happy.
Finally, I calleth this last item NOT good:
The Emperor’s New Clothes movie of 2007. To hip for its own good. To sassy to stomach. So much no, the story goes to crap. I think I’m involved in some sort of self-loathing with my dislike of this movie, but so be it.
I like You, though. I definitely like You.
Why am I not musically inclined? If I had a wish, besides erasure of my student loans/leaf bag of monies, it would be that I could sing like a mf, or play the violin, or the piano, or harmonize, or something. But actually – I don’t give myself enough credit, I guess: I am certainly not tone deaf, and when I was 8ish I practically taught myself the piano. I had a good ear, I really did. But I will never blow minds, this way, not like, well, the subway musicians. Have you heard/do you listen? Wow.
Like the other night, too late, waiting for L: Two boys: one stand up bass, one flute. Flautist? Some really mind-blowing ‘flaut’ing happening. I was floored, and stare I did.
It was so lovely, even the rats were dancing.
We don’t like this one
Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. I guess I’ll go eat worms. And stuff.
I guess I cannot be everyone’s cup of tea.