Behold, Woody Guthrie’s resolution list from 1942. I admire it muchly. I don’t usually make resolutions because I think that there are way too many things I’d like to change about myself and I’d rather not set myself up for disappointment, but rather, be PLEASANTLY SURPRISED AND SHOCKED when I do actually change. Or, do you have to take the risk of setting yourself up for said disappointment to ever actually change? Ponder this while I go really get behind numbers 27-30.
It’s always nice to have Erin so close by in Yadkinville when I’m home for Christmas. She always knows the important things, like exactly when it’s time to hit up the gas station for boiled peanuts. She’s one of those lady friends that regardless of whether I actually ever get married, I would still pick out a weird dress for her to wear, and make her follow me around with rose petals and pour me champagne, because I would 100% do the same for her (WHICH MIGHT BE HAPPENING SOON. AHHH!!!!)
Today on Life is a Highway, and for how long I would like to Ride it, I’m really enjoying how TV writing is forcing me to think more simply in terms of storytelling. There’s something very beautiful about how SIMPLE the architecture of a great story is. We muddy a simple story with all of the crap we put on and around it, but at the heart of it, there’s something very plain, universal and human. We bury this beneath our personal obsessions and experiences, things we find amusing, winks at our current world, etc, and sometimes it takes YEARS to unearth the simple story.
For example, talked to Evan last night about Cutie and Bear. We’re gearing up for a January workshop at the Roundabout. We’ve been working on this play for TWO YEARS, and have had countless conversations about it. Last night, mid-conversation about the play, I SUDDENLY DISCOVERED WHAT THE STORY IS. This incredibly simple sentence just came out of my mouth and suddenly, there it was. And it was magnificent. And it only took me two years to know.
In case you’re wondering how many times I plan on saying simple, it’s five.
Each time I’m home, I like to take a moment in the frozen section and marvel at all of the different kinds of microwavable breakfast sandwiches. THERE ARE SO MANY KINDS. ALL ARE DELICIOUS AND THEN THEY WILL MURDER YOU.
As my brothers and I get older, it’s our parents that are dragging US out of bed Christmas AM, and it’s business suits and heart rate monitors that we ask for, and that we’re gifted with. But thankfully my Mom always has something to remind us that to her, we’ll always be eight years old: Nerf guns for the boys, GIANT TEDDY BEARS FOR THE GIRL. Merry Christmas, the internet! I’d love to stay and chat but I have a REALLY important imaginary tea party to get to.
You guys. I think I’m going to start a new career as a performance artist. I do still life interactions with found seasonal objects discovered in my parent’s house. Mainly I’m just exploring the emotional landscape of the homefront via holiday traditions. If Santa doesn’t bring me a grant and a performance space I just don’t know WHAT I’m going to do.
I had a particularly nice mash-up of Julien, vodka and nostalgia last night at the new ZIGGY’s downtown, which just so happens to be the venue where I saw my first bands, including but certainly not limited to Guster and Cowboy Mouth (Jenny says: turn off the radio.) And then Jimmy Jollif performed, who I remember as senior football playing intimidating presence person, but who now has a giant beard and lives in Brooklyn and raps (quite well), which I just really. Really. Like.