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

Senatorial Etiquette

August 28th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Dear the Senator Larry Craig of Idaho,

Thank you for looking like this:


I would reccomend that you NOT try and seduce the sexy manperson in the airport bathroom who is secretly a cop.

I only suggest this because you are a Senator who has voted frequently against gay marriage, and it does not look good.

If  you want to engaged in airport intercourse with manpersons, I suggest a more mansex lucrative career. I suggest you open an antique store on Christopher Street, work at Tasti delite, or maybe at the Gap. Said occupations would be more more conducive to your obvious Gay.

I’m just saying. I’m here to help.

Your friend,


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August 28th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Fans, have you been feeling a little willy-nilly as of late? Has life been a bit haphazard/impetutuous/utterly BLAH/confusing? Lost your sense of drive, even? Do you find yourself late at night, unsleepable, gnawing on your cellular?


Delayed teen angst? Naw, Dog. It’s Mars, say the Science people. Apparently, last night, Mars,

a Giant Planet situation far – far – far away –

was closest to earth as it as has been in hundreds of years. Now, if you remember from the acronym Zack Morris


implemented on HIS exam – or was it screech – eh – MVENNSNUP – or something – or other – Mars closest to earth. Eh? Right? Eh.

So – At precisely 12:30 last night, Mars came within 34,649,589 miles of earth – making it as bright as the moon, even. This will not happen again until the year 2287.

This info I heard from the lovely ms. Annie MacRae, friend and Lit Manager of Manhattan Theater Club – who had heard said tale from her father, set her alarm, and hit the street to view the red devil at its best.

I of course had to run home and google this sky situation. I am, at the moment, working on a show in which a character happens to know lots about the stars and planets. While writing this play, I have enjoyed the googling and the lack of understanding of celestial business very much – I got a D in Astronomy. An A in the Lab, mind you, but a bigbutted D in the actual class. My mind, regretfully, just does not work that way. (Numbers; space things.) Do I wish that it did? Well, yes.

Point being: I googled the Mars thing. Apparently, there is dissent as to whether the circulating rumors about Mar’s personal business last night is actually true. Did it indeed come close? To say hi, even? To say – I am here – I am close to you – I am red – I am hot – Hi. Some argue that it was a rumor circulated via email; that actually earth-closeness occurred in 2006.

Either way, folks, here is my thought: I really like this about people. I very much dig how we attempt to understand the planets. How we get excited by sky-things, be them true or not.  I remember Eclipses and first understanding them. I like this about being alive.

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is my ‘homeboy’

August 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


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August 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Some Thoughts on; by Bekah.





Point being, ladies and gentlemen, there is no set way to woo. There is no formula, though the dry champagne and fresh snickerdoodles and the Bubble Bath are definite contenders; attributes of a thorough seduction. But a seduction is not Romance, even. Romance itself is practically not even Romance. Romance is delicate. Intanglible, unpredictable. Unplanned. It could be a clever juxtaposition of place, air temperature and consumables, even.  It could be a Milky Way, as opposed to The. It could be hot and in your hand after he split it in half, giving you the bigger piece. It could be the joke thereafter when you’ve managed to get it in your hair.

It’s the unplanned way in which hands are held, getting lost. Tripping over wet newspapers and falling into seemingly unwilling arms: Romance. It just happens.  Try and grab it, make it, you will laugh. It will be a laughable version of a thing you once saw on TV that your mind told your lips was love. It’s in your blood, even, and when it boils, want/need/yay, you know it’s there.  We should all kiss more illogically.

Posted in i am scared, love, sucking, tout, trying too hard | No Comments »

je sick

August 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Today, I am sick, which happens quite rarely and is pretty pathetic and looks like this:


Now, I hate the sick with a passion, because I am very much a go-doer and the HATE not having the drive to accomplish the things on my seven year long to do list which is horrendously embarassing and looks like this: photo-94.jpg

Eh. When I sharpie something up all good, I mean it.

So armed with tylenol cold – and daunted by my tasks of job-finding, floor washing, clothes-organizing (what/why), drama play writing, bill paying -I feel very disney movie. Very sword in the stone, but not nearly as animated.

Welp. You know what they say in France. Or in Sword in the STone. To and Fro. Stop and Go.

Here I go, sans stopping. Cough/Sneeze.

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chubby pinky

August 24th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Today, mid-spinning class, my pinky all of the sudden became all a-chub. What the H? Just swelled all up like a sweet lil flesh balloon. Now it’s all itchy and hurty and chubby and I don’t know why.

I’ve been icing the brother down and it’s sort of subsided but I just don’t want to drop dead from a blood clot/spider bite/pinky aids. There is no bite-y scary mark of any kind. What the H is going on? Can anyone diagnose me?

Also – it looks like this.


Well, you can’t really tell but – I promise it is not just in my mindhole. It itchy throbby fats, a lot. Weird. Thoughts?

If you are reading this, thank you, and I like you.

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Child-Rearing at its Best

August 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Dear Motherhood,

I’m stoked. I think I have pre-maturely figured you out via through sitting on of Babies. And by Babies, I mean one really stellar near-eight year old girl in particular. Her name is Kate.

Step one: Give the Kate at least two hours to dance it out to High School Musical Two. The REMIX, even.


Allow time for costume changes and impromptu moving of furniture. Freak out when she does cartwheels in her socks.

Step two: Cookie Shop, and how. Take the Kate with you to purchase the ingredients. She likes this. Let her convince you to use white chocolate chips, because those are her favorite, and her parents both like dark so she never gets to have it. Also let her convince you to buy a giant overpriced can of organic whipped cream that you will later forget you bought, and most likely use in un-child rearing activities.

Step three: Cookie bake. Let Kate do most of it herself, as hard as it is to let go. Let her eat big dough balls off the spoon.


During cookiethon, allow her to the tell the story of Where All her Teeth Went. Allow Kate to ball the dough childishly onto the tray, like so:


Let go. Let her do it. Letting go is hard. It looks like this:


Finally, Step Four: while they are baking,  paper doll it all to hell.  Dig through your personals, grab your construction paper and sticker collection. Go to Town.


Make a girl doll and a boy doll. Force them to make out.


Wonder why Kate prompts this, and knows what it means.

In summation: Bring it, motherhood. I welcome your letting-go challenges, and your butteryburnt cookies.

Posted in i am scared, recipes, sucking, tout, trying too hard | No Comments »


August 21st, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


They wandering together through the outdoor flea market, stopping to touch things periodically. The dragon statues slept on weed-wackers and the action figures melted into each other. The unicorn tablecloths shared holes with that of meringue colored curtains, and here and there, there were large patches of someone’s old socks.

She thought: This was amazing, this: the wandering with someone through batches of peoples’ old things. She was sure it could not be possible, that this was indeed what she was doing; that she had found a person who shared her love of musty envelopes and half-eaten sweatered things. It couldn’t be real. Perhaps it was the heat, and she was imagining it.  It was hot and thick as hell or boiling orange juice. A writer could say something like ‘the heat could drive a man insane’ about this place, and mean it. A writer could cook up a story about an over-heated black man standing in the middle of freeway, waiting to be hit, waiting to collect funds from the white man behind the nice wheel – and tell the truth.

She decided to relish in the stroll, heat daze or not, so she grabbed his hand as they walked.

She was wondering why the vendors insisted on attempting to sell The Christmas size candy bars in this heat. Their sad wrappers, abandoned, folding into themselves, made her sad. Oh, the futility, she said, and this made him laugh and squeeze her hand harder.

They had some purpose for the visit. She wanted an old typewriter to put on some sort of desk to make her feel useful and important, like the kind of people who keep old typewriters around despite the fact that the W sticks. And he wanted an old bike so that he could feel free, like he could fly, like the kind of person who rides bikes and pretends that they are flying.

They paused at a table of old jewelry. The sweaty woman behind it was beside herself to see them stop, and immediately began to sweat more and she quoted prices. Everything sparkled with age and heat; each piece was special. Overwhelmed, she wanted to pick each up and tell it how pretty it was. She picked one ring in particular. It was pretty and it made sense. Silver; gold.  It bit her fingers with burn from the heat.

The old sweatwoman reacted fast.  She knew what to do. She took the ring from her fingers, and plunged it quick into an ice bath she had prepared, handing it back, proud of her fix.

She put it on her finger. It felt cold, good. He took her hand and slid it off, replacing it on her ring finger. She paused.

I want to make you a promise.

Gay, she said.

He insisted. I promise.

She insisted. Gay.

No –  I mean it. She looked up into his eyes, blue and honest as ice. A writer might notice this, and say something like: Ice never lies about what it means, or its intentions, and mean it. She nodded.

We’ll take it, he said, and handed the sweatwoman her bills in sweats.

It felt good to walk away from the table towards other filled with wooden squirrels and lollipops. It felt good to put her icecold hand in his.

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a fat pussy

August 20th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Ladies and Gentlemen, the baby kitty. If you pussy is chubby, limit the time he spends sleeping on copies of your Written Word.

Posted in the baby kitty, whining | No Comments »

Sylvia Plath

August 20th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Alright. I have a confession to confess to you. Now, I was raised the Baptist. We express ourselves via the Bundtcake and the Handshake. So this is foreign to me. Um. Hail Mary’s and velveteen pope robes and rabbits and whatnot. Okay, here goes.

I make Sylvia Plath jokes with the best of them. Sylvia Plath references are handy when referring to one’s on purposeful melancholy, or that of other’s. Most of my Sylvia Plath references are used in the presence of, or ABOUT the personage of my good friend William, or Bilbo Baggins to those who know and love.

When we ourselves are having a Sylvia Plath Tea Party of Doom, it looks like this:


Now, William has actually read Sylvia Plath. He’s probably read most everything ever, which is why he is so smart, which is why he is so bittersweet, which is why I love him so much. Also, he is the Gay.

So, yesterday, I finished the first Harry Potter. I found Dumbeldore’s shift from strange man of mysterious to kind friend-person delightful and gratifying. Welp, I needed something new to read, so I wandered into the roomplace of my new roomate, Elizabeth, and asked to borrow a collection of printed word. She reccomended The Bell Jar.

It’s depressing, but you know, She said.

Depressing? I said. Or questioned, rather. Awesome, I said. Let’s do this, because it needs to be done. And I began a -reading.

Also, it should be mention here that I have officially arrived. I.e., my roommate speaks fluent french and plays the violin, which is damn pretty and cute and looks like this:


Elizabeth also has a set of vintage titty playing cards she found in her Grandma’s attic. They look like this:


Hi, iphoto booth. You are useful; necessary. Anywhoo, point being, I’m really enjoying this book, a lot. Lots of morbidly rich sad lines like The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence. Lots of wry comments about pretty girls, hot bath taking, and vivid descriptions of mayonnaise-crab meat resting in beds of avacado.

No, on the for real, it’s not too depressing – yet. Dry/angsty, bitter, but very specific.

More to come on how I digest the rest of this Book.

But for now, I feel like my life/ Bekahperson is really reaching a healthy level of Plathitude. Robe-donning, solitude, pristine amounts of drinking with greasy hair in the dark. This, of course, looks like this:


But no worries, readership; those who care. This lil head is only goin in the oven to fish out of the pieces of burnt banana bread and birthday cake.

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