So I’ve challenged myself to write a kid’s play. I’ve decided it’s going to be really really hard and refreshing and a nice change of pace. (Celebrity play is officially in the Oven.)So Not just a play FOR kids, but a play that kids can be IN, too. I’m pretty stoked. So while babysitting tonight, I asked the chillins the ulitmate question, the answer to which holds my writerly fate. The question is, of course, Robots or Pirates? Pirates are perhaps safer. I think it’s a bunch of pirate kids on a pirate school. On halloween, they dress up like doctors and electricians. It could be duely titled, school is Harrrrd.Uh. Just thinking out loud, here. BUT – Robots are so much more timely. I think kids would really be into being robots and making robot-esque noises. Robot children eat their vegetable pills and clean their boxes. They speak Latin and already know everything about math and science, it having been programed into them. But what happens when one little Robot is unable to retain any info?! Does this robot having a learning disorder? There is a flaw in the system! Abort! Abort! Perhaps to dark.Either way, pirates or robots, a severely positive, slightly obvious life lesson will be gently woven into the story, this I’m sure of. Brush your teeth. Be nice to your grandparents, do your homework, feed your cat. Don’t yell too loud when mommy and daddy are drunk.What? I worry I’m not capable of writing for kids. My mind keeps going dark. Ah, hell. I’m going to try anywhoo.On a slightly related note: Cat, StuffedCat, or RobotCat?
It’s official. Maggie Gylennhaal looks like me. I have suspected this before, as it is always encouraging to liken ourselves to famous folk. It’s a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
But now, it is officially official. Julien recently pointed out to me the lastest Intervew Magazine, featuring a sultry ms. Gylenhaal lazing about on a couch or bed type situation.
People, it’s freaky. We are twins.
Okay well sorta. My stummy does not do that rib thing when I lay down, but for serious, it’s weird.
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.)
Due to extenuating Dramaplay writing situations, I have found much of my weekend viciously eaten by the state of New Jersey, which I have now re-named ‘Weekend Eating Monster Machine.’
(I have definitely found that if you work a grown-up person schedule, weekends become this sacred thing, and anyone or anything that tries to eat of it, or mess with it, becomes a Villian.)
But: I am happy, nonetheless, and proud, to be Doing Things. So train and bus I did to this neighboring state; Friday night to see see a show at Luna Stage in Montclair; 45 minutes there and back on NJ Transit. Today, I hoofed today to Hackettstown, NJ, for a rehearsal for You May Go Now at Centenary Stage.
I have definitely learned that I hate transit, I am incapable of doing productive things while transiting, I enjoy starring at drug stores and little shopping centers, and that mountains are pretty.
As for You, the Weekend Eater Monster Machine: I’ll see you Wednesday. You haven’t seen the last of me.
if you think I should adopt a cat friend for baby kitty this weekend from BARC which is a no-kill pet sanctuary nearby. I could get a blind blue kitten named Elizabeth, if I wanted. I think I just might. Baby meows incessantly sometimes and I think he’s lonely. I think I will acquire for him a friend. Then I will have two cats. And as my Dad says, ‘two cats are better than one. Then you can kick one into the other.’
Also, raise your hand if you think hipster brooklyn mice prefer organic peanut butter or over-priced goat cheese that should be saved for sandwiches.
The answer, of course, is cheese.
Do NOT raise your hand if someone is looking, because that would be weird. If someone is looking, tell them to F off. If they F off, blog about it.
The honorable soon to be Mrs. Blaine Barbee (insertlastnameofherenfiancedwhichicannotrecall) has selected her bridesmaid’s dresses AND I APPROVE AND APPLAUD!
It’s a stretchy number that can be worn in copious amounts of ways. We will be shifting the dress hourly, as to thoroughly wear it. I can’t wait.
I want to go here, so bad, and apparently, so does my new play Celebrity, which at this point in time is still very much so a toddler of an idea. (It’s cute and annoying and Gets into Things its not supposed to. It must be kicked and cooed into submission.)
So an obsessive googlethon led me to land on this Place as the Place for Celebrity, because I wanted to go somewhere, at least in my mind. Lately, I have the travel bug, SO BAD. Worse than ever. I want to go somewhere. Anywhere. Just somewhere I’ve never been. Hood River boasts some of the tastiest apples and pears and cherries around, and is the wind surfing capital of the country. Also, it’s rustic website boasts, ‘ Come taste our Juicy Fruit.’ Heh.
I think I just need to talk this one out. Please feel free to question what I am ‘smoking.’
So in Hood River, in my mind, this Celebrity (named either Tiffany Tears or Hosanna Faucet) has decided she doesn’t want to be a celebrity anymore. She has lost her shiz and walked to Oregon to home of Jason, who she believes to be her biggest fan. He, of course, is a local celebrity as of late for his infamous (LEAVE TIFFANY ALONE! blog thing.) Tiffany arrives just as Jason is about to high-tale it LA.Tiffany tries to seek refuse in this small town and embrace a real life away from voyuerism and the ‘Razzo’ if you will – but her manager/lover, and the cameras, of course, catch up with her. Convinced that she will never know privacy ever again, Tiffany decides to tell the whole world where they can Stick it by Televising her own suicide. Will Jason let her go through with it? And also, there is a fairy who is sort of a Gossip Journalist, and there is also a little girl who’s been up all night reading the bible, and there’s also a bunch of camera men that are weird fixtures of the set, and uh, and there is also some native american folk lore. Okay? Okay.
I write plays. For my next trick, as the wise Michael Weller said to me, I will keep my eyes forward, and not sideways, and write the next great american faux-celebrity-docu-drama. With fairies. I’m goin to Broadway, ya’ll.
Yesterday, it being sunny and a startling 57 degrees, I embraced the bug that is the spring cleaning. Extremely gratifying, this task seems daunting but is ultimately fulfilling. Allow yourself at least 3 hours to trudge through all the embarassing goodwill clothes you have stuffed under your bed, vomiting out of your closet, breaking the doors. If you cannot decide whether to get rid of something, Wear it Around for a Minute. Do you feel like yourself, or a douchebag? Have your opinions of polka dots changed?
As you get older, quit clinging to things that make you look 16. Keep a couple of weird things, though, to remind yourself who you once where. Wear said things when you’re bored with yourself.
Finally, with the aide of a cute boy and his man tools, be a Grown Up and put Shelves on your Walls. (Be a lady; make him a flank steak in return.)
What joy! I’m not kidding. I’ve spent the morning shelving things that have been rotting in cat hair on the floor for circa a year. Now my prized books sit firmly, pretentiously, above my desk. Next step: thorough obsessive alphabetization.
In days of yore, we balanced buckets of water above doorways and put mayonnaise in people’s pants. Did we? We should’ve. Now, There is a new ways to April Fools a person; this, of course, is the Text Message. ‘I am Pregant’ or ‘I am engaged’ or ‘I got bit by an elephant.’ How long you wait before you respond to the victim’s frantic text with ‘April Fool’s, bitch!!!’ directly correlates with your personal level of cruelty.
I eat streetmeat. I truly do. Mainly the hot dog variety with sweet mustard gobs. Don’t hate. Overpriced and perhaps made of Pigeons, these meatNbuns are reliable and and virtually everywhere you turn. Sure to put a bounce in your step and a mild cramp in the left of your gut. And maybe the runs. A little bit.