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

A Weekend in Review, Pt 3: The Brooklyn Museum

June 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Loyal Fanbase, may I present the Brooklyn Museum. I’ve been meaning to go for about seven years, and today, I finally went.

For a mere quad-pain inducing bike ride, or a quick hope on the ol’ 2/3, one can experience the least crowded museum, well, ever. With your student ID, just 4 bucks. Free bag check, a nice big bathrooms with lots of mirrors so you can waste time trying to implode that irksome under the skin thing that’s been growing on your face.

But check out the exhibits, too!

Seriously – it was eerie-ly quiet. I’m used to my museum with a hefty side of baby cry and accidentally walking into the person in front of you, and the person in front of you Getting Pissed in French.

The design of the building is awesome, really soothing. Yes. A building can be soothing. Like a back scratch or a violin. Don’t second guess me. You are wasting your thoughts.

Highlights were this collection of New York Landscapes from the 19th century that were pretty breath taking, and I’m not usually a landscape painting kind of gal: but they were so detailed, were vast, these huge paintings of mountains/shipwrecks, what have you: and each painting had these bright little people living inside of them.

Another highlight was the Global Feminism exhibit, which was nuts.5. Pieces of work from women all over the world since the 90′s that I can’t begin to put in to words. And I couldn’t take pictures in this exhibit, so I won’t put it into visuals, either but: let’s just say live video feeds of a woman hula-hooping with a piece of barb wire, a lesbian going through her breast binding ritual, lots of other assorted boobs, and a compilation of every scene from every movie where a woman gets hit: entitled love.

I’m glad I went.

As for a rest of the museum, take a looksie.

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Get Ye there, Stat.

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Weekend in Review: Pt. 2. People, the iphone.

June 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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People, the iphone. Don’t pretend like you don’t know/want/are generally perplexed about the whole shebang.

People in NYC slept outside of the SOHO apple store for two days, wanting to be one of the first to purchase one, when they finally went on sale Friday at 6 pm.

Read about these nut jobs here: there is a site which gives suggestions about where they should pee during the waiting:

liphone people

Rich people paid poor not rich people to save a place in line for them. Smart people flocked to AT&T stores in Brooklyn, where they knew a few would be sold: AT&Ts sold out super fast.

So – last night – at 11 pm – Steve and I hopped in a car with his roommate, Mike, and his girlfriend, Lu – and hightailed it to Soho, over the Williamsburg Bridge.

People. We were home half an hour later – Mike and Steve both had iphones – they proceeded to ‘Geek out’ – as they call it – for the rest of the night – and probably will continue to do so for days.
We literally walked into the store – they did a little three minute iwaiting – which looked like this -

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and then they were new Dads. Steve as a new Dad looks something like this:

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The thing is imazing. Last night, it went down on me, and today, it helped a confused old Man wandering around Prospect Park figure out where Junior’s restaruant is. We found directions and pointed him in the right direction. Granted, he walked the other way, but we were ihappy to have helped.

It also plays music for all to hear like a stereo, fixes bikes, tells you you are pretty, turns into a canoe,
makes steak n eggs, and writes indie novellas.

Three cheers for the iphone.

idone.

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There is nothing sadder than

June 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

A lost old man in the three piece suit walking down the street with a violin. It’s even sadder if he wears red rimmed glasses the size of his face.

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A Weekend in Review: Pt. 1. Your Boyfriend’s Hair.

June 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

You want the boyfriend to grow out his hair. You appreciate boyfriends with more hair. It has more of a tendency to spill into their eyes when they’re excited; and it’s far more likely to be wild and untamed in the morning, when they wake up, confused: but excited you are there.

But then the boyfriend is obedient and grows out his hair. For a long time. The boyfriend, or the boy, rather, is not one to get excited/motivated about spending money on haircuts: picking the time and place; the doing it. The boyfriend’s hair grows and grows, adorable, apathetic.

The boyfriend begins to look like this.

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The time has come. You select the appointed hour, and you take the boyfriend into the bathroom. Things then happen, that look like this:

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This takes a good twenty minutes. And then it is time to trim the beard, which looks like this:

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It’s finished, You go to bed, finding that strange pieces of his old long hair have ended up somehow in your mouth, in addition to everywhere. You fall asleep with your hand on his head because he’s brand new and you can’t help but touch it.

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And it is not fair when

June 28th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

a small pretty girl who can Act also Happens to Write Plays.

She did not get the memo/email/phone call/text message/violent plea from the soul of my insecurities that she is not allowed to write plays.

She does not understand that it is my thing, in exchange for not being pretty and small. I earned it, being tall, and having cut off too much of my hair.

She will go home and find a note taped to her door. She will cease and desist. She will put on a sundress the size of my finger and laugh through her nose which makes her copious curls fall in her face, and every one on the planet will stop what they are doing and find it adorable.

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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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I am. Getting so Hot. I’m gonna learn about the Ozone.

June 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I’m gonna put this post up.

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People, welcome to back sweat. The kind that makes your summer dress/girlfriend’s Tshirt/bad H&M ‘grown up’ clothes stick menacingly to your region. And need I even mention its evil cousin, the sweaty butt? Ew. Riding public transit, the smell is potent, and people are pissed.

Loyal fanbase: know this about me. I HATE BEING HOT.

I hate what it does to my hair, my optimism, my underwear, my outlook, my upper lip, the air, my shoes, iced coffee, everybody else. The effects of Hot on all these Things are Negative.

It is 93 degrees today. That is a 5 away from the musical stylists of the days of yore, and 7 away from hell. Also – there is an ‘Ozone Warning’ – the past few days, the News Personalities have been warning people with asthma to STAY INDOORS. I promptly called the one asthma ridden friend I have and she promised to wear a mask.

So, Mr. Ozone Warning. Who are what are you? I feel compelled to understand. I mean, I understand it as I walk the two feet from my house to the train and by the time I arrive – after practically canoeing there through thick wet air – ew – I am already a wet rat – I understand it THAT way. But what does it REALLY mean?

Let’s see what wikipedia has to say.

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Wikipedia says that the Ozone is ‘is a triatomic molecule, consisting of three oxygen atoms. It is an allotrope of oxygen that is much less stable than the diatomic species O2. Ground-level ozone is an air pollutant with harmful effects on the respiratory systems of animals. On the other hand, ozone in the upper atmosphere protects living organisms by preventing damaging ultraviolet light from reaching the Earth’s surface.’

Oh – Okay.

The Ozone layer does not have a myspace page.

Maybe this is why I feel like I do not understand it.

No, but I do know this – so learn this from my musings – the Ozone is a Good Thing AND a Bad thing. ‘Good Up high, Bad Nearby.’ I remember that. From my youth.

But on the for serious, People, as much as I struggle to and DO NOT really understand this problem – I do realize the severity of it – so I ride my bike. I do my part. I think. Everyone: ride bikes.

Here is a picture of Steve trying to Steal my bike.

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Back to the environment. It really is disturbing – if you think about it – the way the climate is gradually shifting. The three years I’ve lived in New York now – fall-winter comes later and later. It doesn’t get truly cold until January-ish. It’s shifting.

There’s a guy that stands and the 6 Ave L Stop with a laptop playing An Inconvenient Truth. He just stands there. People ignore him. Well, okay, people tend to ignore anyone standing in a train station with anything but – it’s like how smokers ignore the hole-in throat- guy – things that are terrifying seem to only exist in THEORY for us – because we really don’t want to believe they are real. Terrifying things seem far away and not immediate.

I think in the future, there will be giant amusment parks in domes where people will go to play Winter Sports and roust about in the snow. Cold sports will be an exclusive, expensive thing.

In closing, I can’t just paint a bleak portrait of the world and not offer adorable, specific solutions to this hot hot heat.

1. Take peach sorbet and mix it into a really cold glass of Chardonnay. Stir and enjoy.

2. Run an extremely cold bath, grab a roommate/loved one/imaginary friend/THE NEW MIRANDA JULY BOOK, throw on your bathing suit, grab some beers, and hop in. Stay there. For forever.

3. Avoid excessive cuddling. Your partner will understand.

4. Wear as little clothing as possible, while still remaining acceptably cloaked for your profession. Don’t be one of those bitches who wears jeans and sweaters when it’s 90 outside. I don’t care how tiny you are, there is NO way you are cold.

5. Steer clear of anything Stew or Soup-like in nature.

Tommorrow, Claire Danes. Friday: the world.

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And This is What I’m Doing Now

June 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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So in April, I got an email from Mr. Pippin Parker. Subject Reading: How old are you anyways? Body Reading: How Old are you Anyways.
I promptly responded: 24.
To which he responded with a reccomendation for the Old Vic New Voices 24 plays.

This weekend, I will be doing this. Hi, Kevin Spacey. Hi. He’s the Artistic Dir. of the Old Vic in London – they’ve brought their 24 play festival to NYC – writers, actors directors 25 and under get two days of amazing workshops with like Claire Danes/Warren Leight/Diana Son/ Playwrights Horizons Lit People and much more.
Then I write a play! Sun night, all night. That’s right. All night. Then I go to work. Ew. Then Mon night the 2nd – the plays premiere.
I’ve been gearing up big time – maniacally googling the other participants and what not – preparing to blow some minds.
Minds will be blown. THe Atlantic will have to call housekeeping, and how.

Posted in the writing of drama plays, theater | No Comments »

How to Please Your Man with Balls.

June 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

img_3788.JPGSo I’ve been reading a lot ABOUT blogs, and apparently, I’m doing it totally wrong – one CANNOT vent about a certain thing, then suddenly switch to another train of thought, then switch again. This is wrong. One needs to choose a topic of expertise.

Well guess what, The Man. Until I settle upon said ‘expertise’ because I don’t quite ‘have’ one, I am going to write as a I please and pretend that someone is listening.

Are you there, God? It’s me. Bekah. I drank way too much freckle juice. When Ramona and I came home from church, Mom had forgotten to plug in the Beef Stew, and we were all sad. Ramona wishes she were prettier, and not so skinny.

No but on the for real for real: This blog will contain some very important things.

-A Book Review (No one Belongs here more than You by Miranda July)

-A Brief How -to: How to Please Your Man! (Suck it, Elle, or whatever. Shape? Jane? Which bitch? Any of those bitches. I will write you beneath the coffee table. We will wallow in cat hair and really old patches of forgotten cous cous.)

- A stuffy, intellectual reflection on writing truthfully, with vivid imagery. And everything.
i. A BOOK REVIEW

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I have a new gay love infatuation, with one Ms. Miranda July. I finally stole her book of short stories from Steve. Oh Man. So Good. Her stories REALLY DO ‘quietly contain the whole world’ as I pretentiously say that my writing does, which it clearly doesn’t. They are so sad but full of hope and specific and dirty and funny. Me Likey. But seriously though – they’re a lot like my fiction. Mine pales in comparison, mind you – but it’s definitely the same still – with a hint of Brautigan which makes me real happy. Three cheers for her cute Ass. Good her. She’s making a name for herself, doing her thing. I truly believe she means to bring joy, and she does.

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http://www.amazon.com/One-Belongs-Here-More-Than/dp/0743299396

ii. How to Please your Man

I’m supposed to start this with ‘Ladies,’ Right? And then immediately get sassy and satirical and say stuff about penises and chapstick? Here I go.

Ladies, two words: Penises and Chapstick. Yeah? Yeah.

No. what I mean to REALLY say is: Ladies: here’s one thing about boys.

(Though I just recently 25, I still feel strange calling them men. Because then I would be acknowledging the fact that I am a ‘woman,’ which makes me feel like I constantly have seven periods and lactate.)

Okay. Boys will want a thing. They will want it really bad, but only in the moment. Let’s say it’s – let’s say it’s a slip n slide.

‘Oh my GOD. How SWEET would it be to have a slip n slide. We could like – we could set it up out back or on the roof -’

‘Wait, what? The roof? Honey. Bad. No. Bad idea. Think, please. Think very carefully about the slip n slide party on the ROOF.’

(He stops and thinks.)

‘Okay, no. Not the roof but like in the YARD. Yeah, I want a slip n slide so bad. I’m gonna get one.’

Ladies, take this nugget of information and tuck it into the secret place in your brain where you catalogue the things that your man wants. (The place is crammed with hot dogs, banana bread, ast. wii games, new shorts – but there is always room for one more thing.)

Because here’s the thing – He wants the slip N slide. But will he ever actually go and PURCHASE it? No. He will not go out of his way to pursue the thing, as bad as he might want it. If they were selling assorted Summer play sets outside of his work or apartment – he might stop and look. But – it is up to us to remember these specifics, and treat our boys to toys, to the things that they want, but forget about oh too quickly.

That’s all the sassafrass root I got. For Now.

And finally, On Writing Truthfully.

Last night, to attempt to write truthfully, I closed my eyes really really tight until my brain shook, and tried really hard to put myself in the shoes of my Character. Her husband killed himself – she thinks – because she was a bad housewife. Because she couldn’t make a quiche. He finds out he can’t have kids – he’s empty – there’s not one little person inside of him – and she doesn’t know how to respond. How does this feel, when he dies, and she blames herself? (PS – what do I ever KNOW about this besides my brief romp in the fields (er, relationship) which that total douche who loved to wallow in his pain?)

So how does this all feel? I closed my eyes, tight, and tried to feel it. And then I realized – she didn’t exist.

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i’m supposed to do this

June 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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