Thursday, June 28, 2012

On your mark, get set…Angela and Michael on a roadtrip


Road Trip 08 (Lincoln, NE)
The great open road. Miles of asphalt, road signs, trucks, and cops. You eye the gas gauge, read the road signs, and try to beat the ETA on your GPS. Its beef jerky and nuts and afternoon coffee and driver’s arm and screaming along with Queen. (“Somebody to Love” high note contests all day, every day.)


The great impending road trip of 2012 is in five days.  (Serious excitement, hence the bold effect.)  New York to Illinois, South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, and California. It dreams of rodeos, space (like actual goddamn space), National Park passes, and a state by state view of the country.


My car is somewhere here (NYC)
It is a Honda Civic about to celebrate 127,000 miles. She is tuned up, washed up (for the first time in a year, god bless east coast living), ready to make her second and last journey across the country.

It is Angela, not yet a road rager despite the insane asshole audacity that is New York drivers, and it is Michael, flying in from the Bay Area. It is the history of two friends who played Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conqur, a show that lead to the greatest theatrical “holy goddamn shit” moments of their theatrical careers. (I’m still sorry Michael.)

Five days till we hit the road, sunglasses on and cooler filled. A duo made up of soundless laughs (Michael) and ear shattering cackles (Angela).

And it is the first time in almost a year we have nothing to do but sit there, update this blog (daily, so comment and enjoy), and see some serious scenery. (And memorize my lines for my upcoming show and write some plays. But that ain’t no sweat.)

Start your engines baby.


Michael and Angela:
would rather be onstage wearing white wigs but happily bowl instead

Non-poetic distillation of the above

What: Driving cross country in six days
Who: Me, Michael, and my Honda Civic
Why: I need to get to SF to make some theater this summer and we want a vacation
When: Monday the journey begins
How: Peddle to the metal

Monday, June 25, 2012

Porn and Starbucks: a little piece of nonfiction


I presented the following piece at Big Words, Etc, a monthly literary reading series that asks writers to present work based on a chosen theme.  The theme for June's event was strangers.

 Pornographic Offerings:
 a Starbucks study

The Staring Men of Starbucks: a brief history

The men at your local Starbucks vary in variety and many present no clear danger to women, beverages, or other coffee house sensibilities.  Particular varieties of men include the newspaper holding retiree, the eyeglassed artist positioned over moleskin or laptop, the midday business man, the early morning business man, and then there are the staring men.

The staring men of Starbucks have tractor beam stares that sound off warning sirens that only women can hear.  Common qualities of staring men include a uniform of pants and nondescript shirt, they come armed with a beverage or they may be sans beverage and often have business cards they force your fingers to wrap around.

Staring men might smell of alcohol and ask if you are a good girl, if you are a bad girl, give you tips on proper Mac care, tell you they do not make “your kind” anymore and want you to meet their mothers. 

Staring men have been found at Starbucks located in Astor Place, by Astor Place, California, San Francisco, and Concord California which is near San Francisco.   They are commonly attracted to women who sit alone and occupied with laptops, books, soy lattes, and iced coffees.  If a woman looks into the eyes or answers a single question from a staring man she will become a target.

In rare cases, the staring men of Starbucks have been known to make pornographic proposals. 


Staring men of Starbucks: a study of pornographic offerings

Case #1:

Female subject is seated at a table located by a window and a prized power outlet.  Her eyes meet a staring man.  A siren sounds and he walks to her, stopping approximately four feet from her table.

You want to make a porn with me?

He stares and says:

You want to make a porn with me?

Subject responds with one or more of the following standard reactions:
#1        Go to hell.
#2        In your dreams.
#3        God no.
#4        Something far more profane than options 1, 2 and 3.

The staring man reacts to these responses by exiting.


Case #2

Same setting.  Female subject at table with power outlet.  Staring man’s beam is activated.  A siren.  He approaches her.

You want to make a porn with me?

He stares and says:

You want to make a porn with me?

Subject responds with the following completely logical illogical reactions:
#1        How do you know I’m even good at sex? [i] 
#2        You could have a disease.  When was the last time you were tested? [ii]

The staring man responds by saying
My friend is waiting at home with a camera.

Subject says
Why would you ask me to do that?


Pornographic offerings:  a firsthand testimonial

I was 21 years old, a poor undergraduate and a recovering Catholic[iii]. I was at Starbucks in Concord California working on my laptop, listening to Modest Mouse, and trying to write one of my first plays, Red Umbrellas.

I remember I had to gather change around the house to afford my iced tea.  The Starbucks was a half a mile from my first apartment that had a horrible futon that ate your ass whenever you sat down and a huge fake pot tree my mother bought in Venice Beach because the vendor convinced her it was a Japanese eggplant. [iv]  I remember I drove to Starbucks with my gas gauge on empty and I wasn’t wearing much makeup.   

Alan was my first staring Starbucks man.  He came into the place and didn’t even buy a drink.  He flirted with the hot barista at the bar and she refused to give him any.  I looked at them, he caught me looking, and he came to my table.

Alan was all disorder.  He had unsettled eyes, blonde brown hair and older than his years tanned leather skin that hung off his face.   No hot tamale ripped man wonder but ragged.

He came up to me and said
You want to make a porn with me?

I said
How do you know I’m even good at sex?  I could be horrible at it.  Are you going to ask me to audition?

He said
Make a porn with me.

I said
I could have a disease.  Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m clean?  You could have a disease.  When was the last time you were tested?

He got very serious and said
I want you to make a porn with me.

He didn’t know me, I didn’t know him, I was in awe by the audacity of the whole thing.

I stared at him and said
Why would you ask me to do that?

He looked at me and said
You got big tits.

Alan then sat down at my table and we talked for twenty minutes. 

Other girls have done it with me.  My car is in the parking lot.

Why would you ask me to do that?

I won’t pay you, but you’ll have a good time.

Why would you ask me to do that?

My friend is waiting.

Why would you ask me to do that?

You have big tits.

I know.  Why would you ask me to do that?

Eventually, Alan undressed at the table, but only partially, only shirt pulled up, his chest staring at me and a scar, a roadway from his belly button to his heart.  It was one inch thick, pink, fresh, maybe a couple years old.  I showed him my scar, it circled my left eye and was still pink, it was four years old.  I hit a steering wheel and busted open my eye, Alan’s motorcycle hit the pavement and he needed to be cracked open.

Alan told me he spent three months in a coma.  He woke up to a torso scarred and his moods scrambled.  We both knew about brain injuries but I recovered and Alan couldn’t.

His wife left him, she couldn’t handle a scrambled man.  He was hard to live with.  Said he had mood swings all the time.  He used to have money.  His wife took custody of his girl.  He used to have a lot of money.  He hadn’t talked to his daughter in a while. 

He stared at me and said.
I don’t know why I’m alive.  Why does God want me to live?

I wasn’t qualified to talk about God, especially mid afternoon at a Starbucks.

I don’t know.
I said.

I really didn’t know. 

Then I said
But I think it has to do with a little girl who would love to hear from her Dad.   Do what you can and give her a call.  

I can’t describe the face of a man who cries from rock bottom.  It’s bigger than metaphor, it bites an angry thumb at simile.  

Alan never met a playwright before, he hoped to see a play of mine one day.
He said
Who knows, maybe a character will have my name and I’ll say, ‘I met that girl at Starbucks on time.’

He said he was glad he met me, then he walked away.


Staring men:  a conclusion

Staring men are creatures of explicit attention.  However, explicit is not just sweaty torsos, grinding limbs, unwanted caresses, or slimy stares.  Explicit is also the cracking open of the self, bearing witness to a man being ripped apart, and the shocking intimacy of a moment that is instantly heavy with significance.  It is easy to identify the dangers associated with pornographic offers, those that lead to nudity and a guy holding a camera, but the dangers of pornographic conversations, the kind that lead to profane profundity, are never discussed.  And perhaps should be

Staring men at Starbucks happen.  They are a common, but not an every day, occurrence.  They lead women to butcher their napkins as they sit nervously chanting “please go away.”  Their business cards are unearthed from rarely used purses and a cringe instantly happens.  They are barked at, evil eyed, and sometimes women talk to them.   

In one rare instance, a staring man was written into a play and the character he inspired walked onstage thirty eight minutes into an opening night performance.[v]

The role was small and involved the following:

The Man Who Says His Name is Alan walks up to a barista and says
See that car out there, it’s mine.
He asks
Do you have a boyfriend or husband?

She responds
I got both

The audience laughed and The Man Who Says His Name is Alan ordered a decaf and exited the stage.[vi]


[i]  While this response opens the door for further conversation and may be an error in judgment, it remains a good question.  The concern of sexual performance, even the follow up question of “Are you even going to ask me to audition?,” reflects a sincere inquiry into a rather daunting and highly demanding task that requires commitment, acting ability, muscle memory, and knowledge of camera angles.
[ii] The professional porn industry has a checkered past involving sexually transmitted diseases but such statistics in the amateur genre are not as documented.  However, looking at general public healthy statistic deems this question not only worthy but intelligent, regardless of its context.
[iii] Inclusion of religious status is not important now but will be a useful reference for later parts of this testimony.
[iv] The pot tree was later given away via Craiglist to a history teacher that wanted a “conversation starter” in his high school classroom.
[v] The character was played by an undergraduate SoCal beach god and bared no resemblance to the actual staring man.  The show was called Red Umbrellas.
[vi] It should be noted that Alan never saw himself onstage, as he never attended a performance.

Red Umbrellas, Saint Mary's College 2005

Friday, June 15, 2012

Twas a night of distraction...


Twas a soft breezy night
And a writer sat at her desk
Staring at her computer, unable to rest
Until a scene was made
That made her scream "yes"

Yes

And into the web
She tread with glee,
"Images, music, so much to inspire me!"
She found a song, she found a quote,
She found an article that made her go
"Huh?"

And the web began to thicken
The data clouds rolled in
The air went still
The clocks stopped ticking
And the Irrelevants road in

The Irrelevants
With their lips a' flapping
Their eyes a' cracking
They legs a' weaving
Their sounds a bewitching medley of
WTF
Their videos a hypnotic concoction of 
W
T
F

And stuck in the web the writer stayed
Twas the night of distraction
No scenes were made  
Twas the night of distraction
And the Booty Pillow reigned



Today's moment in "Shuffle is Driving me Crazy"

"Shuffle is Making Me Crazy" follows my iPod/music addicted self and my jarring real life mash-ups while using the shuffle mode.


Today's adventure:

Gchat with a friend

I made a joke about my friend's last name. She asks me if I am “still pissed about the cannoli” she ate last night, when I had no cannoli last night.

Shuffle cues this music:

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Meet my new music obsession



Fickle Capacity (or how my lungs are doing today)

My planner is a laughing abyss. My planner is old school, nothing but hardbound paper and my schedule is tracked in pen. And I carry this thing with me, along with journals and books and the script I have to memorize.


Today I stared at the days in my planner, and thought, TWO WEEKS. TWO WEEKS and I leave for three months cause I got a gig and my apartment will be a ghost town again, minus the tumble weeds and oddly hot and scruffy stranger who randomly strolls by with a deep seeded, personal sense of revenge that makes you think, “I shouldn’t but I would totally tap that.”


I reckon so
 This is the fourth time I am leaving my apartment for a theater gig. I am lucky, I am happy but TWO WEEKS. I got things to do, places to see, things to clean, money to spend, money to save, and meetings meetings meetings before I get in my car and head to the Lincoln Tunnel with a final destination of San Francisco, land of non-humid summers and indulgent Journey car singing.

TWO WEEKS means too much to do in so little time and it is weighs on my chest. I stopped breathing today, just stopped breathing, I was staring at the days in my planner and the air stopped moving. This happens at least once every month. I look at my schedule and hear phrases like “existence is futile,” “holy hell,” “get to da choppa!”


Florence and I have something in common
 And forgetting not to breathe is not like that one time you had that contest in the deep end of the pool to determine whose ten year old lung capacity rocked the hardest.

No, no, no, no. I can hold my breath (thank you voice classes) till the cows come home.


No, no, no, no.

 My shallow breaths, my nonexistent breathes, that pressured feeling is like…

1.  A dog pile where your lungs stack up cause they want to have a serious conversation with your heart but your heart doesn’t want to hear it. And you’re pissed that after all these years, your body is still in a complicated relationship.

2.  Trying to meditate while running and your body is thrown into an existential crisis of “Am I at peace or am I moving or am I both or what is peace and what is both and who is me?”

3.  Drinking a liter of Pepsi then getting on a roller coaster and right before you go down a 90 story drop, you somehow learn (maybe it gets written in the sky?) that your first love is getting married.

4.  A rock hard soccer ball slams into your chest, you fall and to celebrate the moment, the entire opposing team jumps on you and then no one says anything. They stay there and there is extended awkward silence. Maybe a cricket chirps ten minutes in.

5.  It’s pitch black in your room, it’s around 3am and you hear a clear sharp clicking sound on the wall and you look up to see a giant black roach with a shell that’s stronger than a Buick, and before your primitive self forces you to scream or slam the nearest shoe against the wall, you stare in horror. And you stay in that paralyzed state of stare and all you can think is, “I hate evolution.”


Where's da choppa?


Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Today in "Shuffle is Making Me Crazy"

"Shuffle is Making Me Crazy" follows my iPod/music addicted self and my jarring real life mash-ups while using the shuffle mode.



Today's adventure:


Standing by the subway doors 

Watching the sunset over Long Island City with The Man in Black.




Sunday, June 10, 2012

Epic Road Trip: Part II

In August 2008...

This should play in your head in the stylings of an epic Hollywood blockbuster trailer.  So...

Take two!

In August 2008, Angela drove through too many states to name.  She ate too much trail mix, beef jerky, and frappacinos.  She saw the billboards of Indiana (cut to Angela looking in horror), she bought shirts in Nebraska, she flipped off Mile High Stadium (cut to Angela's dad staring at his computer screen.  He says, "Damn that's a good picture."), she visited the ghosts of Gettysburg, and arrived safely to New York York City (cut to Angela honking at some asshole).

Now get ready for Epic Road trip: Part II.  New co-pilot (cut to vague shot of a blonde guy, should add suspense), more state lines, more cowboys (cut to Angela wearing something flannel), national parks, and the return of Angela's tanned driver's arm (cut to Angela's mom screaming, "Now tan your legs!).

July 2012.

Are you ready to drive?

Turn left fool! (Voiceover of Angela's Mr. T GPS.)




Friday, June 8, 2012

Gut drop: about that time I taught with war vets


Teaching the art of the monologue, working with vets, making my public television debut..all in a day's work

Ah, a nice serious Friday afternoon post. Let’s do this.


I check two websites with freakish intensity: Yahoo News and the Weather Channel. (My grand love for weather systems, photos, and charts will be another posting for another time.)

This morning’s news headline was this.

I closed the screen without reading it. A horrible reaction, I feel like my clothes should shout “traitor.”


My thoughts of war used to be ridiculously simplistic. To me, war was a horrible hell wrapped up in conservative wrapping paper and we should all stop being animals and give peace a goddamn chance. War was about politics and never about faces.

And then I worked with veterans last spring. I was teaching at Northern Stages in Vermont, a curriculum full of war stories and monologue writing, and during the second week of lessons veterans visited my 13 high school classes. There was the National Guardsman, fresh from his deployment in Afghanistan, nervous as he met me in the general office. There was the white haired Marine and rough Army Sergeant telling me they usually don’t talk to teenagers as they smoked cigarettes in their muddy Jeep. And there was the kind Vietnam vet with his briefcase full of war mementos, waiting for me to pick him up at the VA parking lot.

All of them were nervous: they were stepping back into high school to publicly speak about their war experiences. (Triple whammy.) When they asked for any advice, I told them, “None of my students think war has anything to do with them.” All the guys looked shocked, gave either a devious smile or serious glance, and walked straight into class.

I ate lunch with these guys. I drove across the state with these guys. I sat in class and talked with these guys. And we talked about war. Everything from training, John Wayne, patriotism, guns, gear, ambushes, shrapnel, humidity, mountains, bases, dogs, ice cream, IEDs, mortars, death, blood, explosions, PTSD, prostitutes, drugs, love, long hair, Kent State, Obama, Bush, adrenaline, divorce, alcoholism, guilt, and survival.

There I was, Ms. Liberal Theater Artist from Los Angeles who never heard anyone tell a war story, and I spent a week with people full of war. And I don’t mean that in a trigger happy kind of way but with humbled sincerity. As a civilian, I didn’t understand the explicit ways war stays with a person. That it camps out in the bones and never stops firing.

These guys hated war, across the board they felt all politicians were idiots, that their conflicts were pointless, that the cost was too much. And despite battles with the bottle, being deemed “unemployable,” and injuries that made trees enemies and legs throb in the snow, they all said that if given the chance they would do it over again because they have skills that can save lives.

That fact still makes my gut drop. What do you say to a veteran after that? All I could do was shake their hand as they left classes, buildings, and my car. I watched them drive off and I would go back to my apartment and try to write.

And I couldn’t write. Not a damn thing. And I took that job at Northern Stages because I knew I would be dealing with subjects of war, I would work with veterans, and I wanted to write a war play. What a goldmine of research!

But one year later, I still don’t have a war play because I refuse to write it. These veterans felt very few books and movies describe their experience with any accuracy. (Just mention The Hurt Locker to an Iraq/Afghanistan vet and tell me how that goes.) There is something profane about taking their stories, recording them, and making them my theatrical experience. It feels like a crime for me to write a war play but I feel a duty to hear the stories of veterans. (Surely you can have a philosophical field day about what a writer has the right to write about. But instead, try saying that previous sentence ten times fast, it’s a dousey.)

Since leaving Vermont, I’ve dreamt of starting a theater program for veterans. I want to give them the stage so they can tell their own stories, make their own plays. I want them to inform the public, I want us to experience these stories as communities, but more importantly I want the experience to help veterans live better, healthier lives. I want them to beat their personal wars, not fall before them. But there isn’t enough time right now. Not enough time to do the research, to reach out to nonprofits, to organize other artists. With shows and jobs and opportunities flying every which way, this remains a giant star on my to-do list.

And then I see an article like this one and I see the faces of war I know, my Vermont vets.  They are eating pancakes with me at diners, giving me funny glances at something a student said, crying as they stare down tenth graders, and I am ashamed I have not done enough. And my gut won’t get back up.

Check out this site to learn how to find ways to help vets in your area.



Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Today in "Shuffle is Making Me Crazy"


"Shuffle is Making Me Crazy" follows my iPod/music addicted self and my jarring real life mash-ups while using the shuffle mode.

Today's adventure:

Updating an Exel Spreadsheet at Work

Try to stay focused while inputting numbers while listening to this.  Oh, I challenge you friend. 

I challenge you!  

***gauntlet is thrown***


A new play is brewing

I tried explaining to my grandmother this past Mother's Day the storyline for my play Spark.  Her first reaction was, "Sex?  How many other grandmother's can you talk about sex with.  Tell me more."  Her second reaction was, "That story was all in your brain?  How did you do that?"

I could say the usual defenses: "I got an idea,"  "I had an obsession," "What can I say, I'm amazing," or "The voices just won't stop talking."

But really it is a combination of things, usually a mix of big questions, news, music, and images.


So here is a look at what is cooking in Playwriting Land.  These things are combining powers in a Captain Planet kind of way to inspire my new work still in baby stages of development.


1.  The big question:  After two years of living in NYC, what has all the hustle, bustle, excitement, and sacrifice made of me?

2.  To go along with that question, this image

3.  The sudden and shocking realization that I am old enough now to really really really understand what Don Quixote is about.



4. "You can envision these state changes as a fast period of adjustment where we get pushed through the eye of the needle" and other scary quotes from this article where scientists warn Earth is headed for...well read it.  I don't want to bum you out.

5.  The street signs visible from the coffee shop I write in, inconveniently located under the 7 train.

6.  And this song:





I would like to point out that my friend, after seeing the before mentioned Spark, challenged me to write a farce this time around. Only time will tell...but this could be a farce...maybe??   If not, I extend my apologies ahead of time.

Inspiration to slap you across the face

Sometimes the gray cubicle walls get to you.  Sometimes the first, second, third writing rejection of the week get so you.  Sometimes the fact that your flats are killing your toes and you can't afford new ones depresses you.  And you wake up from your nap and gasp because you suddenly realize you are almost 30 and after the show you're in closes in November, you have no idea what you'll be doing.

And then you stumble across Zen Pencils, amazing cartoons depicting quotes from a variety of folks, and you are reminded why you've committed to such a crazy ride.  And your gray cubicle walls burst.  

Some favorite cartoons include:

Monday, June 4, 2012

Today in "Shuffle is Making Me Crazy"

"Shuffle is Making Me Crazy" follows my iPod/music addicted self and my jarring real life mash-ups while using the shuffle mode.

Today's adventure:

Monday morning rush hour on the 7 train


After waiting 25 minutes for a train I could wiggle and grunt and maneuver myself into, my 5'5 self attempts to hold the ceiling as to not to fall on the old woman with cane and massive backpacked student nearby.  As people attempt to squeeze past the wall of people near the door to exit the car at the next stop, shuffle plays:


 


Take me back! (a plea to my blog)

Oh blog of mine...I have neglected you so. I know, I used to barely have things to say (besides the epic cross country escapade captured in the August 2008 archive) but I think...we should try this again.

Sure, I wonder if we are going to be good for each other.   You are simple and I am a complicated girl.  I might end up posting things that make you sneer "Holy hell, how indulgent" but we won't know unless we give this another go.



Look at that face and those nifty MacBook Pro bluebirds. (PS Apple, why are there Cinderella inspired bluebirds in my photo booth? I want lightening or something epic. I want to look like I am either going to take over the world, conquer something or just plan super awesome at how I can manipulate nature. Who in the world needs a circular storm of bluebirds over their head?)

So blog, what do you say? I say we should do this. Let's jump back in.