Months 1&2 Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Ticket order for Hedwig and the Angry Inch put in for this coming Saturday. CHECK!

So, remember that plan I talked about in my last journal entry? The one about seeing one play per month. I've added a disclaimer. If a particularly good play goes to two months and your work schedule just happens to fall that you could see it two times per two months then that play can and will count for both months even if it's the same play.

I'm taking my mom to see it. I think she'll adore it and we both need a bit of cheering up and escapism as it comes to our financial situation. Granted, I'm spending more money which seems to add onto our current disability with money, but it seems like what we need. One of those emotional girl things where my logical male half is shoved to the back of the room to sit in the corner and think about what money we're just throwing into the wind.

I'm not stereotyping here by saying girls are passionate and boys are logical. I'm generalizing. There's a distinctive, yet equally offensive, difference.

The thing is, about a play like this, there is no doubt it will not be the same play that was seen Thursday. If my dad was here and not in a nursing home he'd probably squint his eyes and ask "Why would you want to see the same play again for more money than the first time?" And I would reply, "Because it was fantastic the first time. But it won't be the same kind of fantastic the second time." And he would tilt his head down and bury his eyes up into his salt and pepper eyebrows and shake his head "no." Lucky for me, he's not here to offer such sage advice.

Now, with something like Big River not much is going to change during the course of its performances (though I sincerely doubt that anyone went to see that musical more than once because it was just so fantastic. Now, it was good, I don't argue that. But something was lacking and nagging and, oh yes, the lead roll. Anyway, I'm sure I'm offending someone otherwise fabulous. So I'll stop here.) Big River is that type of structured sort of performance that can't lead to much deviation unless a pink elephant drops squarely on the lead's head. (tee, okay, now I'll stop) The only big way it could change is if the lead or other members were any more on key or less on key or didn't get their lines or delivered their lines in a different way from one night to the other.

I think I just adore the black box theatre style, too. I love seeing people who won't follow the actors as they move around. They just stare at the stage-like side and ignore their peripheral perhaps in some desperate hope that they'll come back to the stage and everything be like it should again. I'm an "over-turner", I find. I turn at everything. If the character went completely behind me I'd be face to face with them before they could tap me on the shoulder. Also, I watch other characters as they leave. I want to see everything. It's very exciting. I'm like a kitten being waved with a little fuzzy ball.

*boink boink* Oooh! Left now!
*boink boink* Oooh! To the right! Look at that!
*boink boink* *falls on head*

I was reading something on here about making your blog popular. It said to by no means write diatribes and keep your paragraphs and entries short and to the point. I'm glad I don't have the desire to impart my wisdom on the masses with short to-the-point entries. It'd probably lead to some sort of genocide eventually.

currently: freckled and pimpled.

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A Little Bit of Culture in My Life, A Little Bit of Live Shows By My Side

Okay. Here's a thing I don't like about myself:

I'm an uncultured swine. It's really that simple. I sit here and act as if my grammatical expressions are the result of some sleepless studies of obsessive reading over the great authors of our times, but it's not. None of it is. You know the latest book I've read? Me neither! I can't remember for the life of me the last time I read something that was more than a magazine article long.

(sidenote: I miss-spelled viciously in my last entry. Not the first time. Yeah, that one. Apologies.)

Don't get me wrong. I want nothing more but to be cultured, obnoxiously so. I want to be so cultured that my nose literally turns up at the end (a feat for a jewish girl). But, also, in addition to all that, I want to see more plays. I want to save money from going to movies and see plays. Let me rewrite that: I want to have money to see more plays. There, revision was needed.

Here's the thing, culture costs money. I realize this. But here's another thing. If I want it I will sacrifice to get it. I think it's a little whiney? No, maybe not whiney. Maybe it's more of an excuse thing. People who say they want to see more plays and then claim to have no money for it. If you love shoes enough to buy them in mass quantities despite your apparent lack of money, if you love technology enough to buy cameras despite your apparent lack of money, or if you love movies enough to rent and purchase them despite that same lack of money then love plays enough to buy one ticket to one play a month (like a monthly fee on cultural enlightenment) instead of buying that new dress, new shoes, box of cigarettes, or Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked half-pint of icecream (guilty).

But, if you're in a bind like I am and you can't afford any of the other stuff to begin with, don't fret. Culture is in everything. You could go downtown, but I'm telling you that life is a fantastic experiment in culture. Ya don't have to sit in a chair and watch someone onstage to be culture-fied. Though, if you get a chance to see a play, I recommend trying everything, both the bad and good. One play bi-yearly. Quarterly.

My new goal. A play a month. Paying off my play bill. ...*snort*

Ah, but I'm cheating. I've heard-tell of a little blog round these parts. KnoxTheatre
A local little blog with a man who seems to be on the nudge nudge with the local theatre and performances. I'm hoping his reviews will help me pick that fraction of my paycheck to use best. And if not, that pair of shoes has been calling my name for a week.

currently: ambitious

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But You Can't Take the Sky From Meeee.

I may be wrong, but I think I'm actually starting to get addicted to this thing. We might need an intervention soon.

scene:
Me sitting crouched over with claw-like fingers tip-tapping across the keyboard like some vicious perpetual riverdance.

Pan over to a group of figures silhouetted by my sunny window, curtains drawn, as they've opened them.

Close up on me hissing in disdain of the natural light hiding my unnatural soothing computer light.

Them: You need help.

Me: You don't know meeeeeeeee! *shriek, run away, monitor trailing behind me*

Okay, so maybe it won't be that dramatic. But think of the possibilities! I could actually go into a vicious mind-numbing withdrawl!

Speaking of vicioius and mind-numbing. I just got back from work where, for eight hours, I stocked accessories. Belts wrapped in bags wrapped in bigger bags. Hose put in boxes put in bigger boxes. Purses stuck in plastic wrapped in bigger plastic. The tagging of purses and wallets. And, my favorite, the one belt wrapped in a bag, bubble wrapped at the buckle, and put in a long, wide box. I opened it and stared numbly into what my fate had become.

I need another job.

A better job.
A job that doesn't entail either putting out stock or picking up doo doo and puke from the floors of the store.
A job where human contact isn't necessary.

currently: misguided

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Hed-Wigging Out

My mind is full of Hedwig today and I'm not quite certain why. I suppose its better full of Hedwig than full of, say, a thousand heads being decapitated all at the same time. No, just one head. I suppose that's a bit harsh of me to say, though. What can I say? It's nine thirty in the a.m. I'm just barely glossy-eyed and rat-tailed.

Have you ever been so incredibly lazy that instead of edging your fingers up to the numbers line or across to the numbers pad you'd much rather type the numbers out? See example above.

But about Hedwig. There's a song, I think it's called "Exquisite Corpse," where there is a verse that Yitzhak sings that goes "Tornado body with a hand grenade head and legs are two lovers intertwined" (forgive the errors for my brain might have fragmented my memory on that one) and I can't help thinking what a fantasticly horrible picture that is. I'm just picturing this person with its head exploding bleeding from this twisted wrecked body not even able to run away because its so tied up in getting back together that it falls flat on its headless, warped torso of a body. It's gruesome but, somehow, relatable.

I've never been in muskrat love. I've infatuated, don't get me wrong. I think everyone has infatuated at some point about someone or even something. Who knows, girls could be falling in infatuation with their vibrators everytime they come home from a hard day's work from dodging grabs and comments from their chauvenistic boss or lesbian secretary.

But we're not talking about my fantasies, we're talking about me not ever feeling that draw to be in full, idiotic, lose control of, mind-numbing, blind, spiteful, wonderful, painful, love. And I've never been there. I think I was almost there once. But she had a girlfriend. A tall redheaded fantastic girlfriend who I could have easily been attracted to myself. A sweet girl who I couldn't be sour to for anything.

So there you have it. I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with her anyhow. Though I can't think of a viable reason right now why not.

It all comes back to ego, though. It has to. That's the only thing anyone really knows about, themselves. And if they don't know that, I sincerely doubt that they would ever be in a successful relationship lasting a span of lifetimes. It makes sense to me that more divorces happen each year because U.S. society creates a thick barrier between knowing who we are and knowing who we should be at any point in time.

Not that I'm for anarchy, because I'm not. I'm sure many people are and that's fine with me if they are just don't invite me to your world, I don't want to go. Nice place to visit but wouldn't want to get shot there. Structure has to exist because without structure there'd be no civilization. But, then again, who says we need civilization to survive? Oh, yes, every species of animals that have some sort of their own civilization. Lions have a pride. They're not dead. Wolves have a pack, last I saw they weren't on the endangered species list either. Actually, they might be...anyway!

Granted, we aren't animals. Well, we are but *wink wink, nudge nudge* we're "not." We are the mighty human beings! We have sophisticated levels of groups that don't strike out needlessly against other groups despite protest from half the population to the contrary of the situation for simple governmental economical gain! Do we! Do we? Oh, for Cod's sakes, everyone knows I'm not a political girl. The most I can do is hint at my disdain. Besides, it's 9:42a.m. and I've already babbled to my invisible audience enough.

Go have a poptart, someone.

currently: drowsy

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Goodmorning.

I would like to argue the fact that morning officially starts when the sun rises. I dispute that morning begins only in the a.m. of the day and not the nearly p.m. of afternoon. In fact, I deny the fact that morning should even exist in the world. I believe that when we wake up it should be the beginning and when we go to sleep it should be the dormant (because end sounds too much like we're dying).

So Good Beginning, everyone. No matter when you're waking up. Noon, afternoon, or even sometime in the evening after a long sunlight's worth of sleep.

Now to break the fast, pay my bills, follow up on my procrastination during the week, call my Betty, and go to work.

currently: awake?

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Disclaimer: Minor Urine References Within

Who decided that the default color for pencils should be this sort of offish yellow? And it is offish. It's not even true yellow. It's like if yellow had relations with a yellow/orange and its love child was default color pencil yellow. You would think that the default color for pencils would be--like--wood. Or something. Maybe that shade of yellow is so unpopular that it was the cheapest coating in which to make the pencils. They had, like, three gazillion tanks of this yellow and kids everywhere were getting splinters from their uncoated wood-color pencils and they had to coat them with something so kids wouldn't get splinters and so they coated them with all this three cents a bucket ugly arse yellow hue.

And maybe the number 2 isn't really the hardness of the graphite. Maybe it's actually a denotation that this was their second attempt at making a successfully functioning pencil. It's all psychosematic, really. Erasers are pink for the sole reason that erasers are pink. Pink Pearl made a fortune making huge hand erasers and then everyone was like, I want to make my eraser that sort of pink salmony color too! And so there it was.

It's sort of like toilet paper. You know, we bleach our toilet paper. Paper isn't white, contrary to popular belief. We bleach our toilet paper even though we don't have to and it pollutes our lakes and streams. Because brown toilet paper would be sort of redundant, I guess. We need to see if our piss is an unusual hue. I suppose. I'm sorry if anyone read that sentence.

I think if someone dressed in pencil coordination with a sort of grey scarf or bandana and pencil yellow dress or shirt with a black pant, if applicable, donning sort of salmon pink shoes with silver accents I don't think they'd look terribly good. Though, on the other hand, I find pencil thin mustaches attractive on some people. And pencil skirts are quite nice, though I'm too short to pull one off. Pencils have inspired many a fabulous trendy look. They just look like piss on a stick. My apologies, again, to anyone who read that last bit.

currently: stubbornly awake

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Flower Pothed. Wig in a Box.

Flower pots are very pretty. They can be painted quaintly and set upon shelves. They can be broken and taken a a dramatic abstract picture of. They can be packed with dirt and be planted with seeds. They can be packed with fake dirt and planted with fake pansies.

Flower pots are dynamic. They can be big or small. They can be so large to fit a small tree or fern into. Or they can be so small to fit a Food City Mother's Day Cactus or Venus Flytrap into. Or they can just be flower pots. I'd rather them be just flower pots because I have a notorious black thumb known throughout the flower pot consortium.

I saw a play last night at the local Black Box Theatre. I think the best productions of any sort (be it movie or play or book) are those who encorporate a fantastic story around a universal, nearly cliched, theme. Find yourself within yourself, what you were looking for all the time. But dress it up in a stylish wig and fantastic costume changes in a German accent and a botched, reluctant SRS and you've got this manic search for something everyone wants regardless of their similarities to the character or situation.

Hedwig is one of my favorite productions. I own the movie, have watched the commentary, dream of owning a foam fanwig, drool over the idea of owning Wig In A Box, and pine over the main character with the geekish glee akin to cultivating a pocket protector in a plaid shirt breast pocket. I know that's old-fashion. I'm just not hip with the current batch of retro-geeks these days to offer a more applicable analogy.

And I will be leaving a comment at Mr. Joe's blog (the actor who will be playing Hedwig this weekend and next before the show ends) because I'm not a stalker. I'm a fan. I'm sure there's a difference.

currently: Hedhead

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