I'm not sure what happened.
I have a sneaking suspicion that my soul is simply so thirsty for a rehearsal room that I have sunk to the absolute bottom and am now offering free directorial advice to anything around.
As my entries are long, and I appreciate your patience, I will try to back off this one and just show you the bare naked truth of the moment.
The following is a complaint email I sent to one of Gotham's leading news channels regarding a new anchor who I thought was sub par.
Subject: Bad anchor
To Whom It May Concern,
I have enjoyed watching channel 3 for many years and believe the anchor staff to be strong, sure and sincere. Don, Cathy and Rick are fantastic! However, I do not think the newer anchor (Wanda?) is a good addition to the team.
I turned to channel 3 this afternoon for information about the North Springfield Mall stabbing- my friend had called me while in lockdown in Macy's. No one else was talking about it, so I was happy to see channel 3 was on top of it. There were not many details to speak of, so I understand that there was little to report, but Wanda seemed to smile while she talked about the story. I know she wasn't laughing, but her lips kept twitching and she had strange dreamy look on her face while she sat there. It was bizarre and as if she were talking about a mall far away instead of one 20 miles away full of Gotham residents a week after Thanksgiving. I thought that perhaps she was just nervous about reporting Breaking News, but then she also seemed to smile when reporting on the young cancer patient who died. She was very condescending when she introduced the video report. She seemed to smile while talking about how he knew it was his time and had accepted his fate. Her hushed tone made it sound like she was talking about an darling puppy who got stung by a bee and not an 11 year old boy who passed away after a long battle with illness. It was very strange.Maybe people thought it was okay to put her on the Saturday afternoon news because they don't consider the program to be hard hitting, but I think she brings down what Don and Cathy maintain. I got so sick of her eerie facial expressions and seemingly canned tone that I turned the channel and waited for the Channel 5 at 5.
She's very pretty, but doesn't seem to be a real person. She just doesn't seem to "get it." Maybe she needs more experience as a field reporter before settling her in to the newsroom. Channel 3 is better than Wanda (at least at this time in her career).
Thank you for your time.
Kind regards,
-Miss D
I'm not sure why I did it. But I honestly meant everything I said. At the time. It did piss me off that she was so crap. However, I think I was more annoyed at the station because the woman clearly had no idea where this crime took place. Furthermore, the way she dressed was OBVIOUSLY not Gotham. Surely there is some kind of stylist that can help her or like a course that new anchor people take to better acquaint them with the area. It was the station that should have trained her better.
Well, I went to sleep slightly forgetting what I had done, but also feeling like I was being a good consumer providing feedback. I figured that some manager would see, screen it and perhaps mention a much diluted version of the complaint to her or someone else in passing.
9 am the next day however....
Hi Miss D-
I am very much a real person and want to thank you for sending this note to the station. I appreciate your feedback and am very sorry you weren't happy with the presentation. I hope you will give me a second chance and continue tuning in to channel 3 beyond my third week on the air here. Yes, breaking news like today's is undoubtedly important. I wish the details would have come in more quickly. I certainly would never smile about a situation involving someone injured by gunfire with thousands of shoppers and store employees nearby. Something very similar happened years ago in my hometown. Several innocent people were killed. The stories were heart wrenching, I don't think I'll ever forget it. I would hate to ever sound insensitive about families going through anything similar.Again, I take your comments personally and my job seriously. I hope you will forgive my weaknesses and let me know what you like and don't like in the future.
Take care,
Waverly
Yeah....so....
In short: wrote a rather lengthy and bitchy email to a news station (that I DON'T even watch and only watched because it was talking about the story), soured the humble beginnings of some girl and got her name wrong. And then she wrote back.
Moral: I need to have sex with something. Anything. Now.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Cast(away) Party
So Miss Direction is more like Miss Administration at the moment (to be more exact its more like Dame Excel Spreadsheet, but that's sounds kinda dirty). Although I work at a theatre company, I'm far away from the rehearsal room. Its depressing and I can't help but wonder if I'm losing my edge. Furthermore, I feel like the actors look through me whenever I'm in their line of vision. Since I'm not in the rehearsal room, an artist position or ye olde grande Gotham theatre clique (which means everyone who has ever graduated from University of Gotham State or Gotham Arts College or any other educational institution within Gotham city limits in the last 100 years- snore) surely I must be not worth knowing.
Because of this, I try to make every run in with a cast member a positive one and jump at every opportunity to be seen by them which also includes cast parties. Although I had promised myself never to own any of the following items in my life:
1) A fanny pack
2) A mini-van
3) Tapered-leg pleated front pants
My parents had purchased a mini-van to help me get to work and be more available to the theatre scene. I was not thrilled about it at first, but its in good condition, I enjoyed the freedom and I never had an excuse not to participate in anything.
Even though it was a Sunday and thus a day off, I still planned on doing the two hour round trip voyage to the Frederickon Family's Cast Party which seemed to be a regular occurrence at the company. All of my co-workers smiled broadly when speaking of the Frederickson Cast Party and made it sound as if the party lasted for hours.
Knowing this, I only felt mildly bad when I left an hour after I promised myself to leave for the party (which also took an hour to get to). Absolutely nothing in my closet seemed to work that evening, but I finally settled on something and grabbed some coffee in order to perk my nervous spirits. Additionally, I drove with country music blaring the whole way in order to arrive buzzing with energy and positive vibes.
I parked my 2000 white Plymouth Voyager (a mini-van... the night was already off to a shaky start) across the street from a very residential looking house in the Riverside section of Gotham. (I could already see two figures moving down the front steps and thus away from the house; again, not a good sign). Yes, I understand that saying a house looks "residential" seems obvious, but you know as well as I do that a house on The O.C. looks very different from a house on The Brady Bunch. Equally, your expectations are different for either house (in one you wouldn't be amazed to be offered oral sex in the front hall and in the other you'd expect to smell the faint aroma of baby vomit and apple sauce). This house told me to expect to see a Yankee Candle and an Irish style ivory cardigan within the first 5 minutes. Curiouser and curiouser...
Approaching the house I shook off the nerves and prepared to be engulfed by a din of celebration and drunken discussion (that I couldn't hear from the front stoop but surely it would be inside!... Perhaps they had double glazed windows?). I knocked on the door instead of just walking in so as to look adorably demure as I entered the party.
A girl I'd never seen before and dressed in black work clothes answered the door looking at me awkwardly. I told her that I worked for the company and was here for the party. She introduced herself as the company lighting operator (um... okay) and waved me into the house. This was not the entrance that I expected nor desired. She rapidly led me through the front room which was lined with male actors deep in brooding conversation who looked at me with indifference. Suddenly I was happy that Ozzy Osbourne's kid sister was leading me through to the next room. She pointed me at a table full of "Indian" food that our hosts apparently had made. (The naan bread looked like you could chisel a message on to it. Perhaps I would need one for my epitaph later on). She stood there looking at me until I realized that she wasn't just going to leave me up to my own devices. I told her wasn't hungry so she turned 45 degrees to the left and pointed to a table that looked more like a dresser that held many liquor bottles on top of it. She said that I was welcome to fix myself a drink. Then she stood there.
Waiting.
And staring.
Waiting and staring.
Quickly, my eyes darted from side to side, bottle to bottle looking for something that I could hold with a smile in order to ditch my Death Eater shadow. She started pointing at actors and explaining who they were in the show and I quickly tried to explain that although I didn't know who the Hell she was it didn't mean that I didn't know others (honestly, did she think that I was lying when I said I worked for the company? Or maybe that I worked out of a sealed refrigerator box?). Suddenly I realized it was all liquor and no mixers. Even more suddenly I realized that I no longer drank hard alcohol. Again, I blurted out that all I wanted was a beer, so she dutifully escorted me to a cooler on the back porch where I saw a small bunch of people crowded around a fire pit. She flipped open the lid, asked me what I wanted and was about to read every single bottle out loud until I plunged my hand into the ice and grabbed my usual draft. She plucked it from my hand and used a large bottle opener that was attached to the exterior kitchen door and left.
I meandered back inside and perched next to the aquarium attempting to look both sexy and vulnerable... next to an aquarium. The lead male in the show (who is about 5' 6") was telling the room (while kneeling on a cushion) all about the time he told a critic for a major Gotham music newspaper that he "WOULD KICK HIS FUCKING ASS" if he EVER criticized his best friend on a personal level in an article again. It was a very boring story and no I don't think it would be better if I knew either person involved. He told it with tremendous masculine vigor which only made it more boring. I was so nervous and embarrassed about how boring the actor was in real life that I had already finished my beer. Unfortunately, it had zero effect. I stared longingly at the aquarium wishing I was simply staring at it while alone in the room instead of awkwardly perching against an entryway in halter top next to it in a room of strangers who probably thought I collected sassy stationary in my desk at work.
Then, the clouds parted and Sarah, my friend from work, showed up. Hooray! I couldn't have planned it better. I'd been here less than 10 minutes and one of the people I know best in the company arrives!
"HI GUYS!"
Abort mission: Sarah is plastered.
She charges through the front room towards me as if she were on a conveyor belt.
"HEY, YOU'RE HERE. WOW, THIS PLACE IS A LOT MORE EMPTY THAN WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE."
I quickly ushered her towards the food and drink room not because I want her to drink more, but I didn't want her to say another thing at sonic boom level in a room of ear-possessing people that included the Artistic Director. I re-entered the main room sans Sarah because I was hoping that a moment on her own would allow her to collect herself and realize that we were not in fact in the middle of a rave during Mardi Gras on New Years Eve hosted by Puff Daddy and Richard Simmons.
When I was back in the main room I noticed a man who looked like Willie Nelson without a personality looking like he was angling to speak to me. I feverishly searched the room for a distraction when I noticed that many of the actors were looking like they were leaving! Blast! I was even slightly sad to see the young-ish actor who's overly proud/amazed of his two young daughters (news flash: I don't care) packing up to go!
Sarah returned at that very moment with a whiskey neat.
MAN DON'T YOU LOVE THAT THEY MAKE YOU MIX YOUR OWN DRINKS? THERE'S NOTHING TO EVEN MIX ANYTHING WITH. I FINALLY JUST HAD TO GO WITH THIS.
The look on Willie Nelson's face (who, incidentally, had a ponytail that made it look like his neck was having a bowel movement) told me that he was most likely Mr. Henderickson. In an effort not to look like an ungrateful bitch I smiled at Sarah as if I hadn't noticed anything and said, "Oh yes, I felt so bad that I couldn't take advantage of such a great spread. I just don't know how to mix a drink! But I was happy to grab a beer out of the cooler." To my dismay, Mr. Tuck-my-production-T-shirt-into-my-high-waisted-black-jeans Henderickson took this as a great time to enthusiastically jump in, explain the bar, introduce himself and explain that he knew exactly who we were because he was at the board meeting when we were introduced. And all with a smile.
My heart sank.
I should have stayed home and watched "Big" on TV.
But at that moment the actors were still heading towards the door and our gracious host went to say good-bye.
MANIT SUCKS THAT EVERYONE SLEAVING. I THOUGHT THAT EVERYONE'D SAID IT WAS GONNA GO FOR LIKEA REAL LONG TIME.
There was no point in attempting to help Sarah at the point. I agreed with Sarah while admiring the aquarium wondering what would happen if I pushed it out of the picture window in front of it and followed it down.
ya kno-PEOPLE'VE MISTAKEN ME FORA DYKE BEFORE.
The subject changed almost gave me whip lash.
ITS HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCEYEAH
(Could I drown myself in the aquarium? Could I drown Sarah in the aquarium?)
I had only been there 20 minutes (7 of which I spent probably appearing condescending and ungrateful) could I leave? Would it be socially acceptable? Would it be morally acceptable as I had driven for an HOUR to get there? What would happen if I just ran really fast in a straight line and to Hell with the consequences?
The Martha Stewart in me demanded that I stay another 30 minutes.
This time it was Sarah who guided me towards the back of the house (there was nowhere else to venture towards as the rest of the house was barren).
The remaining lot was sitting around the fire pit roasting marshmellows including my original soul mate, the company electrician or whatever, who sat huddled in a corner. Others included an a potentially leading man actor with an unfortunate receding hairline and his girlfriend; Mr. Henderickson and his wife with disgustingly dry skin on her feet; and the House Manager who's actually very lovely. Also, a new star party goer entered the circle: Kay the costume supervisor of the production. While I debated whether or not to ask for a marshmellow, everyone exchanged pleasantries and expressed their disappointment over the others collective departure. Apparently the show had gone well although there was a young teenage couple who sat in the front row and made out the entire time. (Another 30 minutes wouldn't kill me right?)
Almost as swiftly as she had entered the conversation, Kay had usurped the aimless conversation and manipulated it into the perfect opportunity to talk about what she looks for in a Protestant church.
The actor and his girlfriend left.
I realized that if I was going to survive the next 30 minutes I was going to have to become painfully absorbed in toasting marshmellows. I reached for them as if they were a defibrillator.... and in a way I suppose they were.
Kay continued to lead the group through every topic she desired like General Patton pushing through harsh terrain. Subjects included condescendingly explaining the company (later I found out that she is not even on staff), condescendingly explaining her scarf and the ever popular "What I Look For In a Protestant Church."
9 marshmellows later I had successfully managed to sit through the Fire Pit Chats with saying very little and I felt my inner clock flashing the 5 minute warning. I started my final 'mellow...
Sarah seemed to be having a good time and her drunken comments were actually hilarious or, at the very least, harmless. She started explaining something she had seen on TV in that tedious way that drunk people do, using too many words and trying to remember too much. Apparently there had been a segment explaining that people in America should not pity people who live in grass huts because the people in grass huts are actually richer than most middle class American's since they actually own their own land and all of the scrap metal that lands on it (or something strange like that). Everyone was going along with the story while they enjoyed the flickering flames and cool night air, although I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else hated secretly wished they were somewhere else/ surrounded by other people (including Mrs. Henderickson). I was hoping to just nod through her story and slip into the house with a courteous comment and a smile.
All of a sudden, the electrician slid into the firelight glow and began to speak with alarming clarity.
"UM...
I DON'T AGREE WITH THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN GRASS HUTS ARE BETTER OFF THAN MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNERS IN AMERICA.
BECAUSE i AM A MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNER IN AMERICA...."
The strong articulation even made Kay shift in her plastic green porch chair.
Before the girl could outline the 10 points she would be discussing from her soap box, I grabbed the gooey white blob from the top of my stick, shoved it in my mouth and asked Lady Crusty Feet for directions to the bathroom. Once I left the bathroom, I located my coat and purse, waved to the hostage fish in their tank and told them that maybe one day they would be free, too. As promised I went outside, made a delightful comment about marshmellows and smiled as I waved good-bye.
As I walked through the empty house the front door I laughed under my breath in amazement over how much the evening had not gone as planned. I also realized that making friends/ gaining ground in an entirely new city was not going to be as easy as showing up at a party with big earrings. At that time, I laughed at myself. True, that kind of "cast party" would not have gone down well in the European city wherein I had been working. I could point out all of the holes and frustrations I wanted, but the fact remained that I was now living in Gotham. Yes, I had travelled a great length to arrive a lame get-together, but I still knew no one. I stopped laughing and kept walking.
Once outside, I ran into the street, black heels slapping against wet pavement glowing orange in the street light, excited to turn on the country music yet again and realized that owning grass huts and scrap metal might be fair and great to some but I sure as Hell was happy to own a mini-van.
Because of this, I try to make every run in with a cast member a positive one and jump at every opportunity to be seen by them which also includes cast parties. Although I had promised myself never to own any of the following items in my life:
1) A fanny pack
2) A mini-van
3) Tapered-leg pleated front pants
My parents had purchased a mini-van to help me get to work and be more available to the theatre scene. I was not thrilled about it at first, but its in good condition, I enjoyed the freedom and I never had an excuse not to participate in anything.
Even though it was a Sunday and thus a day off, I still planned on doing the two hour round trip voyage to the Frederickon Family's Cast Party which seemed to be a regular occurrence at the company. All of my co-workers smiled broadly when speaking of the Frederickson Cast Party and made it sound as if the party lasted for hours.
Knowing this, I only felt mildly bad when I left an hour after I promised myself to leave for the party (which also took an hour to get to). Absolutely nothing in my closet seemed to work that evening, but I finally settled on something and grabbed some coffee in order to perk my nervous spirits. Additionally, I drove with country music blaring the whole way in order to arrive buzzing with energy and positive vibes.
I parked my 2000 white Plymouth Voyager (a mini-van... the night was already off to a shaky start) across the street from a very residential looking house in the Riverside section of Gotham. (I could already see two figures moving down the front steps and thus away from the house; again, not a good sign). Yes, I understand that saying a house looks "residential" seems obvious, but you know as well as I do that a house on The O.C. looks very different from a house on The Brady Bunch. Equally, your expectations are different for either house (in one you wouldn't be amazed to be offered oral sex in the front hall and in the other you'd expect to smell the faint aroma of baby vomit and apple sauce). This house told me to expect to see a Yankee Candle and an Irish style ivory cardigan within the first 5 minutes. Curiouser and curiouser...
Approaching the house I shook off the nerves and prepared to be engulfed by a din of celebration and drunken discussion (that I couldn't hear from the front stoop but surely it would be inside!... Perhaps they had double glazed windows?). I knocked on the door instead of just walking in so as to look adorably demure as I entered the party.
A girl I'd never seen before and dressed in black work clothes answered the door looking at me awkwardly. I told her that I worked for the company and was here for the party. She introduced herself as the company lighting operator (um... okay) and waved me into the house. This was not the entrance that I expected nor desired. She rapidly led me through the front room which was lined with male actors deep in brooding conversation who looked at me with indifference. Suddenly I was happy that Ozzy Osbourne's kid sister was leading me through to the next room. She pointed me at a table full of "Indian" food that our hosts apparently had made. (The naan bread looked like you could chisel a message on to it. Perhaps I would need one for my epitaph later on). She stood there looking at me until I realized that she wasn't just going to leave me up to my own devices. I told her wasn't hungry so she turned 45 degrees to the left and pointed to a table that looked more like a dresser that held many liquor bottles on top of it. She said that I was welcome to fix myself a drink. Then she stood there.
Waiting.
And staring.
Waiting and staring.
Quickly, my eyes darted from side to side, bottle to bottle looking for something that I could hold with a smile in order to ditch my Death Eater shadow. She started pointing at actors and explaining who they were in the show and I quickly tried to explain that although I didn't know who the Hell she was it didn't mean that I didn't know others (honestly, did she think that I was lying when I said I worked for the company? Or maybe that I worked out of a sealed refrigerator box?). Suddenly I realized it was all liquor and no mixers. Even more suddenly I realized that I no longer drank hard alcohol. Again, I blurted out that all I wanted was a beer, so she dutifully escorted me to a cooler on the back porch where I saw a small bunch of people crowded around a fire pit. She flipped open the lid, asked me what I wanted and was about to read every single bottle out loud until I plunged my hand into the ice and grabbed my usual draft. She plucked it from my hand and used a large bottle opener that was attached to the exterior kitchen door and left.
I meandered back inside and perched next to the aquarium attempting to look both sexy and vulnerable... next to an aquarium. The lead male in the show (who is about 5' 6") was telling the room (while kneeling on a cushion) all about the time he told a critic for a major Gotham music newspaper that he "WOULD KICK HIS FUCKING ASS" if he EVER criticized his best friend on a personal level in an article again. It was a very boring story and no I don't think it would be better if I knew either person involved. He told it with tremendous masculine vigor which only made it more boring. I was so nervous and embarrassed about how boring the actor was in real life that I had already finished my beer. Unfortunately, it had zero effect. I stared longingly at the aquarium wishing I was simply staring at it while alone in the room instead of awkwardly perching against an entryway in halter top next to it in a room of strangers who probably thought I collected sassy stationary in my desk at work.
Then, the clouds parted and Sarah, my friend from work, showed up. Hooray! I couldn't have planned it better. I'd been here less than 10 minutes and one of the people I know best in the company arrives!
"HI GUYS!"
Abort mission: Sarah is plastered.
She charges through the front room towards me as if she were on a conveyor belt.
"HEY, YOU'RE HERE. WOW, THIS PLACE IS A LOT MORE EMPTY THAN WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE."
I quickly ushered her towards the food and drink room not because I want her to drink more, but I didn't want her to say another thing at sonic boom level in a room of ear-possessing people that included the Artistic Director. I re-entered the main room sans Sarah because I was hoping that a moment on her own would allow her to collect herself and realize that we were not in fact in the middle of a rave during Mardi Gras on New Years Eve hosted by Puff Daddy and Richard Simmons.
When I was back in the main room I noticed a man who looked like Willie Nelson without a personality looking like he was angling to speak to me. I feverishly searched the room for a distraction when I noticed that many of the actors were looking like they were leaving! Blast! I was even slightly sad to see the young-ish actor who's overly proud/amazed of his two young daughters (news flash: I don't care) packing up to go!
Sarah returned at that very moment with a whiskey neat.
MAN DON'T YOU LOVE THAT THEY MAKE YOU MIX YOUR OWN DRINKS? THERE'S NOTHING TO EVEN MIX ANYTHING WITH. I FINALLY JUST HAD TO GO WITH THIS.
The look on Willie Nelson's face (who, incidentally, had a ponytail that made it look like his neck was having a bowel movement) told me that he was most likely Mr. Henderickson. In an effort not to look like an ungrateful bitch I smiled at Sarah as if I hadn't noticed anything and said, "Oh yes, I felt so bad that I couldn't take advantage of such a great spread. I just don't know how to mix a drink! But I was happy to grab a beer out of the cooler." To my dismay, Mr. Tuck-my-production-T-shirt-into-my-high-waisted-black-jeans Henderickson took this as a great time to enthusiastically jump in, explain the bar, introduce himself and explain that he knew exactly who we were because he was at the board meeting when we were introduced. And all with a smile.
My heart sank.
I should have stayed home and watched "Big" on TV.
But at that moment the actors were still heading towards the door and our gracious host went to say good-bye.
MANIT SUCKS THAT EVERYONE SLEAVING. I THOUGHT THAT EVERYONE'D SAID IT WAS GONNA GO FOR LIKEA REAL LONG TIME.
There was no point in attempting to help Sarah at the point. I agreed with Sarah while admiring the aquarium wondering what would happen if I pushed it out of the picture window in front of it and followed it down.
ya kno-PEOPLE'VE MISTAKEN ME FORA DYKE BEFORE.
The subject changed almost gave me whip lash.
ITS HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCEYEAH
(Could I drown myself in the aquarium? Could I drown Sarah in the aquarium?)
I had only been there 20 minutes (7 of which I spent probably appearing condescending and ungrateful) could I leave? Would it be socially acceptable? Would it be morally acceptable as I had driven for an HOUR to get there? What would happen if I just ran really fast in a straight line and to Hell with the consequences?
The Martha Stewart in me demanded that I stay another 30 minutes.
This time it was Sarah who guided me towards the back of the house (there was nowhere else to venture towards as the rest of the house was barren).
The remaining lot was sitting around the fire pit roasting marshmellows including my original soul mate, the company electrician or whatever, who sat huddled in a corner. Others included an a potentially leading man actor with an unfortunate receding hairline and his girlfriend; Mr. Henderickson and his wife with disgustingly dry skin on her feet; and the House Manager who's actually very lovely. Also, a new star party goer entered the circle: Kay the costume supervisor of the production. While I debated whether or not to ask for a marshmellow, everyone exchanged pleasantries and expressed their disappointment over the others collective departure. Apparently the show had gone well although there was a young teenage couple who sat in the front row and made out the entire time. (Another 30 minutes wouldn't kill me right?)
Almost as swiftly as she had entered the conversation, Kay had usurped the aimless conversation and manipulated it into the perfect opportunity to talk about what she looks for in a Protestant church.
The actor and his girlfriend left.
I realized that if I was going to survive the next 30 minutes I was going to have to become painfully absorbed in toasting marshmellows. I reached for them as if they were a defibrillator.... and in a way I suppose they were.
Kay continued to lead the group through every topic she desired like General Patton pushing through harsh terrain. Subjects included condescendingly explaining the company (later I found out that she is not even on staff), condescendingly explaining her scarf and the ever popular "What I Look For In a Protestant Church."
9 marshmellows later I had successfully managed to sit through the Fire Pit Chats with saying very little and I felt my inner clock flashing the 5 minute warning. I started my final 'mellow...
Sarah seemed to be having a good time and her drunken comments were actually hilarious or, at the very least, harmless. She started explaining something she had seen on TV in that tedious way that drunk people do, using too many words and trying to remember too much. Apparently there had been a segment explaining that people in America should not pity people who live in grass huts because the people in grass huts are actually richer than most middle class American's since they actually own their own land and all of the scrap metal that lands on it (or something strange like that). Everyone was going along with the story while they enjoyed the flickering flames and cool night air, although I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else hated secretly wished they were somewhere else/ surrounded by other people (including Mrs. Henderickson). I was hoping to just nod through her story and slip into the house with a courteous comment and a smile.
All of a sudden, the electrician slid into the firelight glow and began to speak with alarming clarity.
"UM...
I DON'T AGREE WITH THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN GRASS HUTS ARE BETTER OFF THAN MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNERS IN AMERICA.
BECAUSE i AM A MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNER IN AMERICA...."
The strong articulation even made Kay shift in her plastic green porch chair.
Before the girl could outline the 10 points she would be discussing from her soap box, I grabbed the gooey white blob from the top of my stick, shoved it in my mouth and asked Lady Crusty Feet for directions to the bathroom. Once I left the bathroom, I located my coat and purse, waved to the hostage fish in their tank and told them that maybe one day they would be free, too. As promised I went outside, made a delightful comment about marshmellows and smiled as I waved good-bye.
As I walked through the empty house the front door I laughed under my breath in amazement over how much the evening had not gone as planned. I also realized that making friends/ gaining ground in an entirely new city was not going to be as easy as showing up at a party with big earrings. At that time, I laughed at myself. True, that kind of "cast party" would not have gone down well in the European city wherein I had been working. I could point out all of the holes and frustrations I wanted, but the fact remained that I was now living in Gotham. Yes, I had travelled a great length to arrive a lame get-together, but I still knew no one. I stopped laughing and kept walking.
Once outside, I ran into the street, black heels slapping against wet pavement glowing orange in the street light, excited to turn on the country music yet again and realized that owning grass huts and scrap metal might be fair and great to some but I sure as Hell was happy to own a mini-van.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Miss Direction's Adventures Through the Looking Glass (and What She Saw There)
The other day, I found myself staying longer in the city to attend the opening of Steven Billings' new glass art and sketch exhibit at Freeman Space. Although I had a splitting headache from the "brand new and thus infinitely better" large, flat screen monitor that SCG had installed for me, I wanted to go to the opening to support the artist who regularly worked at The Hugo, but also because I assumed that Hugo employees and sexy artistic regulars at the studio would also be in attendance.
...and I was right!
(along with some very delicious olive bread and Jelly Bellys)
I took my time at Freeman before going up to Steven because it was clear that there were many more impressive people there and people who could actually afford his stuff with which to speak. The the Hugo posse arrived and I was welcomed (thank God!) with open arms (or else that would have been very embarrassing). Many of Hugo's sexy artists were there including the mysterious Truman Roberts.
Truman Roberts AKA "Tru" to his friends is a sculptor and visual artist who makes what I would call "Una Bomber Art." Its sculpture, found objects and images that 'touched' hermits would consider art or valuable in their shacks surrounded by austere forest. Metal animal traps and cages; distressed public signs and blurry, off-centered photos of homemade mailboxes mounted on fencing can be seen in his collections.
Perhaps the most impressive piece of art associated with Tru Roberts is HIMSELF. Yum yum. I suppose, much like his work, his beauty is in the eye of the beholder but I behold him as very very sexy. No, his sexiness cannot be captured in this humble blog because the words shall seem all wrong: he's about 6 feet tall with a strong build and an ever-so-slightly olive toned complexion, probably carries 15 pounds he does not need on his tummy and always wears Caterpillar workboots, even to launches and donor parties. However, the ones he wears to fancy affairs are spotless. Call it "John Deer Chic." Although one might question why I mention the extra mass he has, but I feel that it genuinely adds to his overall appeal. To put it plainly: I cannot help but attempt to imagine the sheer force of our sweaty, man-fueled, grunt-inducing sex every single time I look at him. (yes, the previous sentence might not have made literal sense, but if you saw this man then you would understand how hard it would be to describe your fantasy passions with him, too).
But his true beauty is his eyes:
Pale as ice in the center of the iris with a bright, deep olive green border with flecks of gold.
His gaze has actually managed to stop my heart on more than one occasion. They shouldn't have been searching for Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq because they were right here in the homeland firmly fixed in Tru's skull.
The least attractive part about Tru is his girlfriend.
Word on the street is that his girlfriend is in her very early 20's (that shows, in all the wrong ways) and also an aspiring sculptor (that does not show... or actually.... it does but in the wrong ways). I've "properly met her" only once although she has been around me on more than once. I was speaking with Tru (who I did not know had a girlfriend) and she came up, kissed him and then glared at me until I left the area. Apparently, she does that to every girl that works at The Hugo. She basically tries to, in essence, pee all over Tru to mark her territory in an effort to keep females away. I've only seen her smile once and that was when Tru introduced her to the Director of The Hugo. The sad thing is that her plan does not work because he is still a terrible flirt when flying solo, most likely strays and I would have vigorous sex with him if ever given the chance not only for the experience but also just to spite her.
No, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
Unfortunately, she has acquired two nicknames: "Mini-Me" and "The Mountain Troll."
"Mini-Me" because she actually is starting to look like Tru. She's cut her hair very very short and has these VERY thick eye brows that look like two Siamese twin caterpillars in parallel attack positions on her forehead.
&
"The Mountain Troll" because she is about 5' 2", appears to never wash her hair, and yet uses ample product.
Again, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
BUT I DIGRESS, yes Tru was there avec Troll but I spoke with neither of them because she keeps him on a short leash when she's around (and he knows better apparently then to even try to look at anything with ovaries under the age of 35) and I frankly had better things to do (did I mention the olive bread and Jelly Bellys?). Why was it relevant that I told you the previous story? Who cares, but it does bother me to see hot guys going around with stupid girls and yet it bothers me more that it bothers me! I'm sure Virginia Wolfe took her life over a very similar paradox...
So I did my multiple circles around the soiree, headache and all, and was fabulous. Yay! And, more importantly, didn't knock anything over! YAY!
After I collected my good-byes and a free beer, I left Freeman Space and thought it best to return my headache and myself to my home an hour away. But I got sidetracked as I walked by the Gotham Art Museum. It had the coolest installation in the front window and it seemed to be calling my name. It must have been written in the stars because it was the second Wednesday of the month which meant that the museum was giving out free tickets! That kind of perfect scenario can only be found in a metropolis. Much like a morning walk and an accidental meeting turning into a coffee turning into a lunch with an unexpected phone call turning into a barbecue attended by strangers turning into a baseball game turning into a movie turning into drinks on a porch turning into a beer in a hot tub is the kind of perfection that can only be found in a suburb.
Instantly, I got lost among the many rooms of art in the museum and slowly realized why people complain about the small exhibitions at The Hugo which slightly intensified my headache. I was enveloped by Georgia O'Keeffe, Karl Andre and John Singer Sargent; art from Japan and colonial America. I even saw some of Tru's work there that was only recently acquired by the museum which was very cool until I saw some colorful toilets and started to wonder exactly who curated the place.
The other thing that I noticed in the museum were all of the young couples who were also taking advantage of the free Wednesday offer. While meandering through the labyrinth of chambers, I would occasionally see an attractive, clean cut young man through a neighboring doorway but almost as soon as I spotted him his girlfriend would drift into view and I would over hear them discuss which pieces were their favorite and even more occasionally hear the guy say quite bluntly that he didn't "get" it. The one scenario made me lose interest out of decency and the other scenario made me lose interest out annoyance, both scenarios made me lose interest out of disappointment. Although I would have loved for the free Wednesday event at the Gotham Art Museum to turn into a John Cusack movie where I would be admiring a Shaker chair and a man would come up and casually mention that he like the piece and I would agree which would slowly evolve into a hushed but enthusiastic and humorous discussion during which I would realize just how handsome this art-supporting, independent, open-minded man actually was and he would ask for my number and I would thrice refuse him until I was so taken by his charm that I gave him my number and within hours he would text me saying how great it was to meet me and the rest would be history. Vera Wang-ed, Tiffany-boxed, Spring-ceremonied history.
But that did not happen.
Instead I got to be the girl in the bright green rain boots standing in front of a huge Native American art display by herself with a hand held art description listening device hanging from a long, black nylon chord around her neck and keys to a mini-van in her pocket. Did I mention that I was also carrying a small notebook to jot down artists' names and quotes? Yes, I could have easily been mistaken for Scarlett Johansen that evening.
Needless to say, my headache showed no sign of decreasing.
The highlight of my Gotham Art Museum experience was passing the two high school students shamelessly making out behind a small paperback book to stand in a large room that seemed be dedicated to Pointillism. The couple ran passed me to continue making out from behind a temporary wall and though I could not see them the sound effects painted even more of a solid picture than the Pointillism. Suddenly, I heard the loud sound of heels smacking against the floor. Two tricked out trannies entered the room in full cocktail (no pun intended) attire complete with hair styles and nylons. The pair made no attempt to invent delicate voices, but instead spoke loudly and with bass. I could not hear exactly what they were saying but the first conversation ended with the more frail of the two saying "spiteful bitch." The ladies then moved closer to me where the blond proudly told the brunette that art should not be bought it should be leased by the artist. She then made a dismissive face to the piece we were all looking at and moved swiftly to a room full of ugly, old jewelry. It was fabulous. Sadly, the trannies did nothing for my headache.
Finally, while studying a giant, black, foam rabbit peering down from directly above a mannequin of a small child, I was told the museum was closing. I started back to car and after getting lost on the way to the elevator and then getting lost in a desolate and silent parking garage where I kept having thoughts of getting brutally raped and murdered a la "Saw" I climbed into my white mini-van and headed home.
On my way home, I attempted to reflect over everything I had seen, but my headache made it impossible to call up any specific images. Although I had been in the museum for over two hours I could only recall about three things with quick glimpses of the Troll and sparkling grapefruit juice. Little did the blond tranny realize that her/his statement was still true: we do not actually own the art, we only lease the images from the artist. And it was in that black, sleaveless, velvet covered precis that my headache finally found peace.
Fin
...and I was right!
(along with some very delicious olive bread and Jelly Bellys)
I took my time at Freeman before going up to Steven because it was clear that there were many more impressive people there and people who could actually afford his stuff with which to speak. The the Hugo posse arrived and I was welcomed (thank God!) with open arms (or else that would have been very embarrassing). Many of Hugo's sexy artists were there including the mysterious Truman Roberts.
Truman Roberts AKA "Tru" to his friends is a sculptor and visual artist who makes what I would call "Una Bomber Art." Its sculpture, found objects and images that 'touched' hermits would consider art or valuable in their shacks surrounded by austere forest. Metal animal traps and cages; distressed public signs and blurry, off-centered photos of homemade mailboxes mounted on fencing can be seen in his collections.
Perhaps the most impressive piece of art associated with Tru Roberts is HIMSELF. Yum yum. I suppose, much like his work, his beauty is in the eye of the beholder but I behold him as very very sexy. No, his sexiness cannot be captured in this humble blog because the words shall seem all wrong: he's about 6 feet tall with a strong build and an ever-so-slightly olive toned complexion, probably carries 15 pounds he does not need on his tummy and always wears Caterpillar workboots, even to launches and donor parties. However, the ones he wears to fancy affairs are spotless. Call it "John Deer Chic." Although one might question why I mention the extra mass he has, but I feel that it genuinely adds to his overall appeal. To put it plainly: I cannot help but attempt to imagine the sheer force of our sweaty, man-fueled, grunt-inducing sex every single time I look at him. (yes, the previous sentence might not have made literal sense, but if you saw this man then you would understand how hard it would be to describe your fantasy passions with him, too).
But his true beauty is his eyes:
Pale as ice in the center of the iris with a bright, deep olive green border with flecks of gold.
His gaze has actually managed to stop my heart on more than one occasion. They shouldn't have been searching for Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq because they were right here in the homeland firmly fixed in Tru's skull.
The least attractive part about Tru is his girlfriend.
Word on the street is that his girlfriend is in her very early 20's (that shows, in all the wrong ways) and also an aspiring sculptor (that does not show... or actually.... it does but in the wrong ways). I've "properly met her" only once although she has been around me on more than once. I was speaking with Tru (who I did not know had a girlfriend) and she came up, kissed him and then glared at me until I left the area. Apparently, she does that to every girl that works at The Hugo. She basically tries to, in essence, pee all over Tru to mark her territory in an effort to keep females away. I've only seen her smile once and that was when Tru introduced her to the Director of The Hugo. The sad thing is that her plan does not work because he is still a terrible flirt when flying solo, most likely strays and I would have vigorous sex with him if ever given the chance not only for the experience but also just to spite her.
No, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
Unfortunately, she has acquired two nicknames: "Mini-Me" and "The Mountain Troll."
"Mini-Me" because she actually is starting to look like Tru. She's cut her hair very very short and has these VERY thick eye brows that look like two Siamese twin caterpillars in parallel attack positions on her forehead.
&
"The Mountain Troll" because she is about 5' 2", appears to never wash her hair, and yet uses ample product.
Again, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
BUT I DIGRESS, yes Tru was there avec Troll but I spoke with neither of them because she keeps him on a short leash when she's around (and he knows better apparently then to even try to look at anything with ovaries under the age of 35) and I frankly had better things to do (did I mention the olive bread and Jelly Bellys?). Why was it relevant that I told you the previous story? Who cares, but it does bother me to see hot guys going around with stupid girls and yet it bothers me more that it bothers me! I'm sure Virginia Wolfe took her life over a very similar paradox...
So I did my multiple circles around the soiree, headache and all, and was fabulous. Yay! And, more importantly, didn't knock anything over! YAY!
After I collected my good-byes and a free beer, I left Freeman Space and thought it best to return my headache and myself to my home an hour away. But I got sidetracked as I walked by the Gotham Art Museum. It had the coolest installation in the front window and it seemed to be calling my name. It must have been written in the stars because it was the second Wednesday of the month which meant that the museum was giving out free tickets! That kind of perfect scenario can only be found in a metropolis. Much like a morning walk and an accidental meeting turning into a coffee turning into a lunch with an unexpected phone call turning into a barbecue attended by strangers turning into a baseball game turning into a movie turning into drinks on a porch turning into a beer in a hot tub is the kind of perfection that can only be found in a suburb.
Instantly, I got lost among the many rooms of art in the museum and slowly realized why people complain about the small exhibitions at The Hugo which slightly intensified my headache. I was enveloped by Georgia O'Keeffe, Karl Andre and John Singer Sargent; art from Japan and colonial America. I even saw some of Tru's work there that was only recently acquired by the museum which was very cool until I saw some colorful toilets and started to wonder exactly who curated the place.
The other thing that I noticed in the museum were all of the young couples who were also taking advantage of the free Wednesday offer. While meandering through the labyrinth of chambers, I would occasionally see an attractive, clean cut young man through a neighboring doorway but almost as soon as I spotted him his girlfriend would drift into view and I would over hear them discuss which pieces were their favorite and even more occasionally hear the guy say quite bluntly that he didn't "get" it. The one scenario made me lose interest out of decency and the other scenario made me lose interest out annoyance, both scenarios made me lose interest out of disappointment. Although I would have loved for the free Wednesday event at the Gotham Art Museum to turn into a John Cusack movie where I would be admiring a Shaker chair and a man would come up and casually mention that he like the piece and I would agree which would slowly evolve into a hushed but enthusiastic and humorous discussion during which I would realize just how handsome this art-supporting, independent, open-minded man actually was and he would ask for my number and I would thrice refuse him until I was so taken by his charm that I gave him my number and within hours he would text me saying how great it was to meet me and the rest would be history. Vera Wang-ed, Tiffany-boxed, Spring-ceremonied history.
But that did not happen.
Instead I got to be the girl in the bright green rain boots standing in front of a huge Native American art display by herself with a hand held art description listening device hanging from a long, black nylon chord around her neck and keys to a mini-van in her pocket. Did I mention that I was also carrying a small notebook to jot down artists' names and quotes? Yes, I could have easily been mistaken for Scarlett Johansen that evening.
Needless to say, my headache showed no sign of decreasing.
The highlight of my Gotham Art Museum experience was passing the two high school students shamelessly making out behind a small paperback book to stand in a large room that seemed be dedicated to Pointillism. The couple ran passed me to continue making out from behind a temporary wall and though I could not see them the sound effects painted even more of a solid picture than the Pointillism. Suddenly, I heard the loud sound of heels smacking against the floor. Two tricked out trannies entered the room in full cocktail (no pun intended) attire complete with hair styles and nylons. The pair made no attempt to invent delicate voices, but instead spoke loudly and with bass. I could not hear exactly what they were saying but the first conversation ended with the more frail of the two saying "spiteful bitch." The ladies then moved closer to me where the blond proudly told the brunette that art should not be bought it should be leased by the artist. She then made a dismissive face to the piece we were all looking at and moved swiftly to a room full of ugly, old jewelry. It was fabulous. Sadly, the trannies did nothing for my headache.
Finally, while studying a giant, black, foam rabbit peering down from directly above a mannequin of a small child, I was told the museum was closing. I started back to car and after getting lost on the way to the elevator and then getting lost in a desolate and silent parking garage where I kept having thoughts of getting brutally raped and murdered a la "Saw" I climbed into my white mini-van and headed home.
On my way home, I attempted to reflect over everything I had seen, but my headache made it impossible to call up any specific images. Although I had been in the museum for over two hours I could only recall about three things with quick glimpses of the Troll and sparkling grapefruit juice. Little did the blond tranny realize that her/his statement was still true: we do not actually own the art, we only lease the images from the artist. And it was in that black, sleaveless, velvet covered precis that my headache finally found peace.
Fin
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Night(mare) at the Museum
A second.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
I have two jobs and one of them is working at The Hugo Gallery and Studio. Its a rather unique art space because people can see contemporary art on display and also watch in being made. Select artists are invited to come to The Hugo and work on piece while the paying public watches from a safe distance.
The public watches from a safe distance.
I enjoy working at The Huge because contemporary art is an art form that I do not know much about let alone the making of it. The position took me quickly from being an uninformed member of the public to feeling like more an insider in the world of contemporary art. That dramatic progression in such a short amount of time made me feel invisible! Miss Direction: Connoisseur of Theatre, Opera AND Contemporary Mixed Media Art Forms. Huzzah! What else besides an MFA in Art could propel me even further? Why, volunteering to assist in the de-install of an important art show of course!
A second.
An assumption.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
So I did! Not only did I think that this was a great oppotunity to earn a little more money, not only did I think that this was a great opportunity to show senior staff that I was a valuable employee of substance; this was an opportunity to get closer to a very important exhibition than any lowly person of the public! Miss Direction: Art Bad-Ass. Huzzah!
The de-install involved moving many, many loved peices of Lars Griegs' famed ceramic work. Lars Greigs has worked all over Europe and influenced most ceramic artists working in America.
When I reported to work on my first day of the de-install I was very excited. Having worked in the theatre both on stage and backstage I felt that my hands-on skill would be perfect for the job. The director of the install is very very handsome and on-staff at The Hugo, so I was naturally aiming to impress him. But I pushed my fears aside and made myself available for any and all assignments. Miss Direction: Nerves of Steel. Huzzah!
So, when I was asked to simply, simply label one complex peice before we officially started the de-install I thought "yikes!... but no problem!" The peice consisted of 38 ceramic Canadian geese suspended from fishing wire over the polished cement of the gallery floor.
A second.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
I broke two peices.
The inside of my wrist lightly brushed the top of one of the birds and it fell
down
down
down
and popped another bird out of its place which in turn fell
down
down
down
smash.
I had to be literally removed from the peice as I had frozen to the spot.
I felt like I had killed someone.
I had immediately thought of all of those art history programs they play on public broadcasting where they talk about grave-robbers, broken artifacts and the multiple thieves who kept cutting down The Hope Diamond. When you watch those programs you think "How could someone rob a king's grave!" or "What MORON would lose artwork?" I was now a part of art history. It made me think that perhaps Nazi soldiers had not deliberately shot at the Sphinx, perhaps it was an accident that someone felt really, really bad about. Miss Direction: Nazi Soldier Sympathizer. Huzzah.
It was very difficult to keep working but I was urged to stay (I was not to touch any more art that day. No problem.). My first thought was that I was going to be fired. I had gone from thinking I was going to be crowned most valuable employee and now I was the asshole idiot who broke not one but two Lars Greigs! But I wasn't and it was pointed out that there were a number of security/safety precautions that had not been put in place (I'd imagine that was because it was kind of considered "pre-de-install" when we had started working. It was clearly not thought of as an "at-risk" situation. It would be like asking your lover to put a condom on while he was brushing his teeth. Not necessary.)
I cried that day much like a victim of a natural disaster: that helpless, selfish, confused, frustrated, completely surrounded kind of tear-letting. By the time 5 pm rolled around I felt like someone had drawn all of the energy out of my body through multiple hoses. The stress and self-imposed guilt mixed with the actual physical labor and the sense that others were looking at me thinking either "Jesus! I'm glad I'm not her!" or "I can't believe she fucking broke a Lars Greigs" was draining. (I don't think they were thinking any of that, so I suppose most of my fatigue was due to my own Crazy).
This was a responsibility I had not forseen coming my way and I was being crushed into the earth underneath it. It was not something I could "quit" or "give my two weeks" or "return." I could not stop saying "I'm sorry." I could not apologize this away. I could not volunteer to work overtime or come in early or replace. My only relief was that Lars Greigs was still alive. What a strange thing to be thankful for.
I came home where my parents made me a toasted cheese sandwich and tomato soup AKA absolute comfort food. Its the closest thing you can get to ingesting comfort short of baking a cake made out of a quilt, a teddy bear and a whiskey and eating it on your mothers' lap. "Thankfully" my mind was quickly distracted by the fact that John McCain had announced Sarah Palin as his running mate.
A second.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment they can never take back.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
I have two jobs and one of them is working at The Hugo Gallery and Studio. Its a rather unique art space because people can see contemporary art on display and also watch in being made. Select artists are invited to come to The Hugo and work on piece while the paying public watches from a safe distance.
The public watches from a safe distance.
I enjoy working at The Huge because contemporary art is an art form that I do not know much about let alone the making of it. The position took me quickly from being an uninformed member of the public to feeling like more an insider in the world of contemporary art. That dramatic progression in such a short amount of time made me feel invisible! Miss Direction: Connoisseur of Theatre, Opera AND Contemporary Mixed Media Art Forms. Huzzah! What else besides an MFA in Art could propel me even further? Why, volunteering to assist in the de-install of an important art show of course!
A second.
An assumption.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
So I did! Not only did I think that this was a great oppotunity to earn a little more money, not only did I think that this was a great opportunity to show senior staff that I was a valuable employee of substance; this was an opportunity to get closer to a very important exhibition than any lowly person of the public! Miss Direction: Art Bad-Ass. Huzzah!
The de-install involved moving many, many loved peices of Lars Griegs' famed ceramic work. Lars Greigs has worked all over Europe and influenced most ceramic artists working in America.
When I reported to work on my first day of the de-install I was very excited. Having worked in the theatre both on stage and backstage I felt that my hands-on skill would be perfect for the job. The director of the install is very very handsome and on-staff at The Hugo, so I was naturally aiming to impress him. But I pushed my fears aside and made myself available for any and all assignments. Miss Direction: Nerves of Steel. Huzzah!
So, when I was asked to simply, simply label one complex peice before we officially started the de-install I thought "yikes!... but no problem!" The peice consisted of 38 ceramic Canadian geese suspended from fishing wire over the polished cement of the gallery floor.
A second.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment you can never take back.
I broke two peices.
The inside of my wrist lightly brushed the top of one of the birds and it fell
down
down
down
and popped another bird out of its place which in turn fell
down
down
down
smash.
I had to be literally removed from the peice as I had frozen to the spot.
I felt like I had killed someone.
I had immediately thought of all of those art history programs they play on public broadcasting where they talk about grave-robbers, broken artifacts and the multiple thieves who kept cutting down The Hope Diamond. When you watch those programs you think "How could someone rob a king's grave!" or "What MORON would lose artwork?" I was now a part of art history. It made me think that perhaps Nazi soldiers had not deliberately shot at the Sphinx, perhaps it was an accident that someone felt really, really bad about. Miss Direction: Nazi Soldier Sympathizer. Huzzah.
It was very difficult to keep working but I was urged to stay (I was not to touch any more art that day. No problem.). My first thought was that I was going to be fired. I had gone from thinking I was going to be crowned most valuable employee and now I was the asshole idiot who broke not one but two Lars Greigs! But I wasn't and it was pointed out that there were a number of security/safety precautions that had not been put in place (I'd imagine that was because it was kind of considered "pre-de-install" when we had started working. It was clearly not thought of as an "at-risk" situation. It would be like asking your lover to put a condom on while he was brushing his teeth. Not necessary.)
I cried that day much like a victim of a natural disaster: that helpless, selfish, confused, frustrated, completely surrounded kind of tear-letting. By the time 5 pm rolled around I felt like someone had drawn all of the energy out of my body through multiple hoses. The stress and self-imposed guilt mixed with the actual physical labor and the sense that others were looking at me thinking either "Jesus! I'm glad I'm not her!" or "I can't believe she fucking broke a Lars Greigs" was draining. (I don't think they were thinking any of that, so I suppose most of my fatigue was due to my own Crazy).
This was a responsibility I had not forseen coming my way and I was being crushed into the earth underneath it. It was not something I could "quit" or "give my two weeks" or "return." I could not stop saying "I'm sorry." I could not apologize this away. I could not volunteer to work overtime or come in early or replace. My only relief was that Lars Greigs was still alive. What a strange thing to be thankful for.
I came home where my parents made me a toasted cheese sandwich and tomato soup AKA absolute comfort food. Its the closest thing you can get to ingesting comfort short of baking a cake made out of a quilt, a teddy bear and a whiskey and eating it on your mothers' lap. "Thankfully" my mind was quickly distracted by the fact that John McCain had announced Sarah Palin as his running mate.
A second.
A breath.
A moment.
A moment they can never take back.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Day One Many Days Late
Where to start? Where to start? Where to start?
How fitting that the first blog post by Miss Direction should seem misdirected.
I am a young theatre and opera director. For the past five and a half years I have been living in a European city working as a theatre and opera director. Recently, I returned to a small city in America to live with my parents. Yes, that may not make sense but I have reasons-I'm not saying they are good ones but they are reasons none the less. Much the same as a cheeseboard and lemon sorbet are found on dessert menus: they are not good desserts like creme brulee or chocolate souffle, but they are desserts all the same and you can't rob them of that title.
Why all the mystery you might ask? Why the "European city" and "small American city" nonsense? Why not just come clean? What the Hell Miss Direction?!
My point is this: this is not one of those H I D E O U S sites where artists whine, complain and tragically polish their egos by contstantly attempting to explain what they are 'striving for,' 'struggling with,' or attending. Theatre is like sausage, you don't want to see it being made. you just want to enjoy it once its out there. Actually, theatre is more like Microsoft Excel: who the fuck cares why it was created the fact is that its damn useful and a delight in one's life.
That being said, its not REALLY important then that you know where I was exactly or where to the latitude I am now. The fact is that I am out here trying to make it as an artist and running into strange people, places, circumstances and pop culture. And then I like to write bitchy things about them all.
I, Miss Direction, am going boldly forth into the blogesphere because my friends told me that I of all people should have my own blog because I apparently have a unique POV. As my debt to them, I shall vow to make this blog as humorous and as intellectually tickling as possible.
Although they have been telling me this for the past number of months, I turn to you now this evening. This evening as I reach for the last dreg of my second beer. This evening as I watch "Under the Tuscan Sun" starring Diane Lane on Lifetime*. This evening as I sit on the bottom floor of the house I share with my parents in my Old Navy pajama pants and "I Have the Most Important Job at Showboat Casino" shirt. I turn to you this evening because a number of wierd things have already happened to me since my return to the vast US of A 45 days ago and I'm certain that more will definitely be coming later this week as I start a new job at ... let's say Shakespeare Company of Gotham (SCG). Although my interviews were brief with this company, I have the definite feeling that there are a number of characters stitched into its lining.
Thank you for joining me. Watch this space.
-Miss Direction
*Not a usual activity
How fitting that the first blog post by Miss Direction should seem misdirected.
I am a young theatre and opera director. For the past five and a half years I have been living in a European city working as a theatre and opera director. Recently, I returned to a small city in America to live with my parents. Yes, that may not make sense but I have reasons-I'm not saying they are good ones but they are reasons none the less. Much the same as a cheeseboard and lemon sorbet are found on dessert menus: they are not good desserts like creme brulee or chocolate souffle, but they are desserts all the same and you can't rob them of that title.
Why all the mystery you might ask? Why the "European city" and "small American city" nonsense? Why not just come clean? What the Hell Miss Direction?!
My point is this: this is not one of those H I D E O U S sites where artists whine, complain and tragically polish their egos by contstantly attempting to explain what they are 'striving for,' 'struggling with,' or attending. Theatre is like sausage, you don't want to see it being made. you just want to enjoy it once its out there. Actually, theatre is more like Microsoft Excel: who the fuck cares why it was created the fact is that its damn useful and a delight in one's life.
That being said, its not REALLY important then that you know where I was exactly or where to the latitude I am now. The fact is that I am out here trying to make it as an artist and running into strange people, places, circumstances and pop culture. And then I like to write bitchy things about them all.
I, Miss Direction, am going boldly forth into the blogesphere because my friends told me that I of all people should have my own blog because I apparently have a unique POV. As my debt to them, I shall vow to make this blog as humorous and as intellectually tickling as possible.
Although they have been telling me this for the past number of months, I turn to you now this evening. This evening as I reach for the last dreg of my second beer. This evening as I watch "Under the Tuscan Sun" starring Diane Lane on Lifetime*. This evening as I sit on the bottom floor of the house I share with my parents in my Old Navy pajama pants and "I Have the Most Important Job at Showboat Casino" shirt. I turn to you this evening because a number of wierd things have already happened to me since my return to the vast US of A 45 days ago and I'm certain that more will definitely be coming later this week as I start a new job at ... let's say Shakespeare Company of Gotham (SCG). Although my interviews were brief with this company, I have the definite feeling that there are a number of characters stitched into its lining.
Thank you for joining me. Watch this space.
-Miss Direction
*Not a usual activity
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