bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

skittles

August 4th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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The best lover picks out the red ones and puts them in her hand, enduring the sick murder of purple and greens in his mouth. He suffers for her, and she likes it.

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Death by Chubby Plane

July 16th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I hate it when people say, Oh My God, I had the craziest dream last night, and then you have to sit there listen to them talk to you about their dream – which impossible, you CAN’T describe a dream because it’s a feeling you can’t grab with words.
But they keep going and going until they get to the part where they can’t remember or they woke up. And you say, yeah, wow.

But anywhoo. I had the craziest dream (last night). In this dream, the guy Sitting in the Cubicle Next to Me Right Now – and my Dad – were flying in a Chubby Plane, which looks like this:

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You remember them. And an Asian baby playing with one looks like this:

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So the Guy Sitting the Cubicle Next to me Right Now – and my Dad – were flying in the Chubby Plane.

(I think this stems from the fact that my Dad has an actual plane, and flies it frequently, and I hate flying, and when I flew last week, the guy sitting next to me had the paper open to an article about that small plane that just crashed into those houses in Florida – burning Children to death in their sleep. (Here/Frightening.)

I was on the ground, watching. The plane crashed. My Dad survived. The Guy Sitting in The Cubicle Next to Me Right Now – he did not.

I’ve been at work now for two hours. Is it my duty to tell him? Do I dare warn him? What if we are all prophets? Could death by chubby plane be avoided, if we would only share our dreams, even if its with strangers?

In my dream, I was sad that he is dead. I stood in the kitchen of his father’s mansion, eating ice cubes, waiting for the reckage to be removed.

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Riding in Cars with Dad’s

July 10th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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Riding in car with Dad for three hours from Oak Island to Raleigh affords:

1.) An in depth conversation about the fundamental differences between Republicans and Democrats.

2.) A timeline of the Development of Differences between Republican and Democrats, including (but not limited to) Roosevelt, Roe V. Wade, the  sterilization of the mentally ill, and money.

3.)  A timeline of his mother’s and brothers’ assorted mental illnesses, of which I had no knowledge.

4.) A short story telling of the horrible Christmas before his parents got divorced when the Christmas tree fell, and his mother ran screaming into the front lawn.

5.) A  brief discussion about the fact that Egypt is in the Middle East, not Africa.

6.) A brief analysis of the movie Babel.

7.) An entire outline of Student Loans! The Musical, co-written by Bekah Brunstetter and Senator Peter S. Brunstetter, including the songs ‘I’m All A Loan’ and ‘My Interest Rate is Going up’ and ‘Consolidation Station.’

8.) A small debate over whether or not Wendy’s serves breakfast biscuits.

9.) Seven consumed pieces of Bazooka gum found in the glove compartment.

10.) One awkward chat with his secretary.

11.) One radio interview, en route, re: feuding newspapers in Mt. Airy, NC.

12.)  Two soggy Quizno’s Subs.

And then we arrived. I love my Daddy.

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Scrabble

July 8th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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I am 33% better at Scrabble than my cousins. They are 33% prettier than me. These things tend to balance themselves out. Sometimes, life is fair.

I think I just committed a small faux paux. Fox Pox? What? I don’t know. I invited some of my lady cousins – ages 12 to 18 – to play a game of Scrabble with me. We’re at the beach, all parents are playing poker, there’s lots of popcorn and white wine, and a brand new scrabble board.

NO. I did not give them the white wine. Which, btw, they have no interest in as they are inclined to read Christian Romance Novels. But on the real legit legit, they are awesome. My lady cousins. I like them.

So we play scrabble, and none of them really know how to play. And I can’t lie, friends, I feel like I took it too seriously. Because as of late, I have been playing it frequently with Steve. Steve is inclined to play elaborate, unexpected words like ‘Panda’ and ‘Gaylord’ and ‘Qat.’ And some other words that mean things like samurai swords and Egyptian grass or strange words for small sticks. People, he is real good, and he has made me better at it. Thanks, the Steve.

So when my twelve year old cousin wanted to spell lice as ‘lise’, or when her sister Bessie insisted Quive was a word – should I not have let this slide? It is just a game, after all, and they are cute, and we see each other once a year.

But is it not our DUTY to instruct new Scrabble players in the way of the game, to save them later embarrassment? Or should I just have kept my mouth shut?

Earlier today, when we were all packing up and leaving the beach, my big cousin Kathryn (two years old, now with two kids) blatantly picked up my brand new bottle of tanning lotion (innocently) thinking it was hers, and put it in her bag. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I thought somehow that she deserved it.

Straying for one more moment from the topic at hand – I was charged this afternoon with the making of our family tree, since I am the ‘artist’ of the family. So I got to work with some poster board and serious sharpies – but only after I fought to convince my grandma that the illegimate children and their unmarried parents belonged in the tree, too. My Dad suggested that we make some sort of Key, and that all the Bastards be written in a special font.

Straying a bit further, FOUR cousins thusfar on the trip have asked me ‘if I brought my bowl.’ Um. I have never smoked with any of these people. Nor I am inclined to travel on a plane with a bowl. But there is something about me that radiates ‘stoner’ or ‘person who flies on plane with bowl’ or ‘generally cool person who one can talk to about pot.’ I think I’m flattered. But I’m not sure.

I will close with something that has absolutely nothing to do with scrabble, illegitimacy, or pipes: my youngest cousin, Petra: age 5: and the in depth conversation we had today.

She’s got the fattest cheeks, and today donned a pink gingham dress, french braids and pink ballet slippers. Imagine this, please. She had not yet talked to me the entire trip, but suddenly this evening, she just parked herself in my lap.

Petra: ‘Hi.’

Me: Uh – hey! What’s up – you?’

Petra: I am NOT excited about starting kindergarten.’

Me: Oh – why not?

Petra: Because I want to stay with my Mommy and be little forever.

Me: Oh – well – I’m 25 and I still feel little. And kindergarden is REALLY COOL. You get to play outside and color and make friends and –

Petra: I’m not going to know anything and the teacher is going to get MAD at me.

Me: If she gets mad at you, I’ll get mad at her.

Blank stare.

Petra: I want ice cream. Who are you again?

And then she was gone.

I’m really good with kids.

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My Lovely Lady Cakes.

July 5th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

p1010043.JPGPeople, I like to make cakes. Maybe I do. I have an entire play fueled by the hours I spent with my Mom learning how to ice a cake. (It involves butter knives, luke-warm water, and skills that I do no possess. She makes some serious perfect, as Mom’s tend to do.)

Maybe I’m saying that I’d be happy to make and decorate stupid/silly/festive cakes all day – forever. Maybe I’d like that. Now I’m not claiming that my cake-gifts are superior to those of people that are – say – trained. I have no ‘skill’ per se – nor do I really have the patience to like make flowers and/or villages out of sugar water – or whatever the f. Maybe I don’t feel like I need an mfa in the cake.

So I present to you some of the bekah cakes (and maybe a pie) of the past and present. Because yes, I photograph them.

Smile, the cake.

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Americans, meet the cake of Independence. I was fixing up this sassy little patriotic monster yesterday and my Mom called. She asks, ‘ What are you doing?’ ‘I’m making an Independence Cake!’ To which she replies, ‘ So am I – and so’s your Grandmother!’

Yes, ladies. Unity. If you have not made this with your Mom, you Have Not Lived. This cold white cake boasts (YES. IT BOASTS, okay? literally) whipped cream frosting and fresh fruit, and is guaranteed to threaten to fall out of the fridge before consumed. Nothing says freedom like a cake that – somehow – magically -comes from a box. So easy, your boyfriend can help.

For a more tolerant Cake of Independence Cake, substitute ‘brown’ cake for ‘white’ cake.

Next up, We’ve got Charlie the Bunny Cake. Nothing Says ‘He is Risen’ like an edible rabbit appendage. Fanbase, look closely.

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You’ll notice that it’s secretly two round cakes: one for the face – and the other is cut to make two ears and – goddamnit – A BOW TIE. It’s important that this cake be named Charlie, every year. I don’t know why. To give the illusion of fur, mix coconut into the icing. It is also important that you eat about 8,000 starburst jelly beans during the creation of Your New Friend. It is then important to Eat his Face.

Next up, we have the ‘My little brother is going to Boot Camp so let’s get him nice and chubs before he Leaves and goes to Boot Camp which is really Strange to Imagine and sounds pretty terrible Oh Well I guess I’ll just make a cake’ Cake.

The marine corps emblem is NOT edible.

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Next up, the Sideways Cake for Gay Male Friend who is Into Strawberries. jcs-bday-014.jpg

Some sort of marble effect occured with this cake that I don’t really recall, but I think I was trying to create some sort of metaphor for the blurred lines of his sexuality.

This next cake section is not for the faint of heart. It is dedicated to my friend Michael Mason, who enjoys Sleeping in My Bathtub, Bagels, and Vaginas. Naturally, for his birthday in 05, Amy and I decided that this was an appropriate gift. Notice yet another clever usage of the coconut.

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And then, he ate it, which looked like this: thanks-for-the-vagina-046.jpg

Awesome.

The following year, I decided to PG my Michael Mason cake of Choice, which looked like this.

Okay, i can’t find it right now. It looked like a bagel. For real.

Here’s this one instead: made for one Ms. Erin McCarson, who thoroughly enjoys pink things, gummy things, and being paid attention to, so this lil beaut went over swell.

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Wow, faithful admirers: this is sad. As I dig through the derge (derge? what? okay. derge) that are my photo’s, I’m realizing how many pictures of cake I have. Technically I am ‘working’ now so this might have to be a two part instillation.

But let me leave you with this inspirational thought: cakes are awesome, easy to make. Just think of a few things you know your subject likes: and attempt to create it, via the cake. The person will feel honored, chubby and loved.

Don’t just do it, do it!

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A Slave to the Weed.

June 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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There will be no just ‘cutting back.’ There will be complete cessation. You will simply just no longer go to the bathroom.

Going to the bathroom is bad for you. There is a good chance you could one day die from it. You will feel better once you no longer go to the bathroom. You only started doing it because you wanted to feel sexy, older, invincible, and now you find yourself doing it all the time – with no memory of why you even do it.

You feel like you have to do it. Like you need to. But secretly – it’s a want. Yes – once you stop completely – you will feel the old urge creeping up – you see toilets – toilet paper – other people doing it – everywhere, reminders. But you will remain strong. It is not a habit, it is an addiction. It is something you are USED to doing.

There will be no cutting back. You will just stop. You will find your life to be better. You will have more energy. You will no longer be a slave. And soon enough – you will no longer have to go to the bathroom.

Aha.

I think that this is how Smokers feel when they their loved ones demand – or they demand of themselves – to stop. This is really how it feels. ‘ You want me to stop what? But – but that’s a thing that I DO. You don’t understand. It’s a thing that I’m used to doing.’

It really is like somebody telling you like you should no longer breathe, it’s dangerous. Stop peeing, immediately. If you could only see your lungs! If I could only put them in your hands!

The thing is – you can’t tell a smoker no. You can’t reason with a smoker. They know the consequences, and the more they know them, the more they choose to IGNORE them. You could place the dead body of a lung cancer victim on their lap. More than anything, in that moment, they would want a cigarette.

Obviously what really needs to happen is a total re-vamping of the mental attitude towards the cigarette. It is not a best friend, a reliable friend, present at parties, after huge dinners, with wine, without wine, early morning, mid-afternoon, right before bed, walking to work, 45 minutes before and after the gym, in dreams, in anxious twitching of the feet and hands.

It is – instead – something unnecessary. Not evil, per se – this the wrong way to go about it. If it’s EVIL – then we want it. More than anything. If you try and quit this way – it’s like you are constantly DENYING and DEPRIVING yourself. When you see other people smoking, you are jealous. If come to learn and realize that you don’t even NEED it – it’s like you never gave anything up – you just changed your life for the better.

I believe in God, in the cute ignorant way that conflicted kids raised in Religious homes grow up to embody. But I do. And lately – random people on the street keep yelling at me to quit smoking. Well- sometimes they yell- driving by in a van – sometimes it’s a quiet thing – mumbled as they pass. And I am really not imagining it. I really feel this message coming on strong – there’s never a right time, so the time is now.

Maybe I feel all self-help and guru-ish because I’ve been reading Alan Carr’s ‘Easy way to Quit Smoking.’

This book really makes me feel less afraid is is changing my whole attitude towards my – er – dependency. I don’t want to cry about it anymore – I just want to try.

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