I'm Off to See the Fishies, the Creepy Little Fishies of Oz

The lovely thing about spontaneous vacations is there's no stressful wrapping up of things before you go away; its just complete abandonment of your life for a week, like leaving your knitting lying around mid-row. Sure there's always the risk that you may lose a stitch or there may be some unravelling, but sometimes its actually gratifying to just put the damn knitting down and run off, you know?

I was also a little tipsy when I packed, so it'll be a surprise to find out what all's in the mystery suitcase. I love that though...surprises really are fun, even the little ones like finding out you packed 3 toothbrushes but no toothpaste or underwear. Unless I packed only winter clothes, I should be fine.

So...ummmm...have a wonderful week y'all. I am hereby officially disappeared until the 7th!

(Unless I get bored at the airport and there's free wifi)

(Or if the fishies eat me...then I'm permanently disappeared)

Glad To Be Old

I went to go have a goodbye drink with Mr. Saucy Funnybuns (his buns aren't funny, he is), as I leave tomorrow evening from the sdj, and we went to my local hell's kitchen neighborhood bar (owned by Mr. Text Message who I briefly dated but as he could only communicate via text message ever, it didn't last very long). Midway through our drinks (which were actually 3, not 1) a gaggle of very young Fordham students came in the bar. They were 21; I am clearly not. While it was mildly entertaining, it was also very sad. Not that I want to be 21 years old again...god no! It was sad because these ladies did not have a strong sense of self and it was so very obvious. I'm sure I didn't either at that age; in fact I know for a fact that I didn't. But it was sad nontheless. Perhaps because I know better most of the time now.

Why are our womyn systematically taught to disrespect themselves? When did intelligence become anything but a virtue?

I realized that yes, I am indeed far from that age. But I am happy to be so.

One of the young womyn spent most of the time talking with Mr. SF and myself. She grabbed Mr. SF's phone at one point and was culling through the address book asking about everyone in there and if they were a guy she could hook up with. As every male in Mr. SF's phone is gay, she was certainly having no luck there. She then asked me to see my phone; I responded that if I had the number of any respectful and worthy straight man in there I'd probably be with him right now. She said that he didn't have to be respectful at all, or even nice. I told her that was definitely a problem and that she should be seeking those things (yes, I know...hello kettle you're black).

I told her to save herself the bother and invest in a lovely hood piercing instead; she asked to see mine, so we went off to the bathroom and as Mr. SF and I were leaving I do believe she was seriously contemplating the endeavor. She also asked, while in the bathroom, if Mr. SF was my boyfriend; I said, quite shocked, "No hon, he's gay!" She seemed so very disappointed to hear this, as I think she had a little crush on him and I thought my god, how could she not know?

As we left the bar, I felt simultaneously old and glad to be the age I am. She may not have any wrinkles, but she also has far less life experience and I'm glad to have as much as I do....the good and the bad. Many lessons and much of my self respect may have been hard won, but at least its there. Why do we ever have to lose it in the first place?

And in the Vein of Running Away..

I'm going to Bonaire Friday on a spontaneous last minute spoiled rotten vacation. Someone in my parents' dive club had to have emergency surgery, so there were two spaces available for almost nothing, and my parents thought of the one person they knew that was always up for and afforded the flexibility for spur of the moment travel. And they're footing the bill!

I know that part of it is that Dad feels far less guilty about going off and leaving Mom when I am there, and this way they get far more time with me than a rushed weekend visit home. I also think they feel guilty about never coming to New York to visit, and I know they've been worried about me. That's part of the downfall (like there's any upside, really) to being the only surviving child, especially where suicide is concerned....god forbid you're having a sad day, much less emerging from a bit of a rough time; depression is a rather unmentionable panic inciting thing. So I know that this makes them very happy to be able to do, and that I should feel good about that.

Still, I feel like a spoiled rotten brat, or worse yet- a jap - for accepting an offer I'd be crazy to turn down. And I could definitely use some clarity time (which travel always affords), as the tours du psyche with Lady Charon have hit choppy rough waters and I'm a little seasick.

So I'm running away for a little well timed week of solitude to reflect on exactly how to sew up old wounds that have been covered with band-aids for a while.

And for those of you familiar with my insurmountable fear of fish, yes, I will indeed be snorkeling. We'll see if I make it out alive...

The Post in Which I Am Suddenly an Awkward Dorky Sixth Grader Again

Why is it that when you want to see someone you can never seem to find them, but when you don't want to see them (or rather know it is not in your best interest to see them right now) you practically trip over them crossing the street? Just when I was perhaps beginning to feel the slightest hint of letting go, I have run into Mr. Emotionally Unavailable three times within one week; difficult would be a gross understatement here.

The first time was after the Saturday Union Square petitioning with the Ladies. The Ladies' founder, I'll call her Lady Alice after her heroine Alice Paul, and I went for margaritas after the petitioning and I told her a brief version of the whole Mr. EU story. We were getting ready to go, and I was on the other side of the outdoor section having a cigarette and still talking to Lady Alice when I noticed a barely discernable shape in the receeded doorway of the next building out of the corner of my eye. My stomach suddenly decided it no longer wished to be in its proper place and lurched full speed into a free fall from depth defying heights towards my knees, alerting me that Mr. EU must be nearby. I have this weird ability to sense when he's within a half a block radius of me, even if I don't see him; its part of the insane sexual attraction we have (which is exactly why I can't see him right now - we have a hard time being anywhere near eachother without having to immediately shed all clothing and screw like rabbits on ecstasy). Lady Alice gathered up our things and was exiting through the restaraunt to come meet me outside, and I decided to sneak a peek in the general vicinity of the receeded doorway to see if he was in fact lurking nearby. I barely caught the quickest of glimpses but knew without a doubt that the shadowy figure was indeed him. Everything stopped for one infinitesimally tiny second; I had one foot pointed towards Mr. EU and one towards Lady Alice and I wanted more than anything else in the world to run to Mr. EU and throw myself into his arms but knew I should run to Lady Alice instead. I realized that nothing at all would be accomplished but further hurt if I ran towards Mr. EU, so I turned on my heel and fled to Lady Alice, frantically motioning for her to come closer in the most unsubtle of gestures. She approached and asked what was wrong. I told her that I just saw Mr. EU, and she said "Okay, we're going to walk in the other direction now, okay?" And I replied, "Yes, we're going to walk in the other direction" with about as much conviction as someone in a coma. But we did. I turned around and left, which while seemingly an immature decision, was definitely the best one for the moment. I'm not ready to be his friend yet; its way too fresh and the risk of falling back into old patterns is way too great.

The second time I saw him was last Wednesday, after the NARAL and Planned Parenthood rally in Union Square. I met an old college friend who just moved here from Chicago for dinner, and we since we were in the area we went to the East Village (also because its the cheapest neighborhood to eat out in). We were leaving the restaurant and heading to go get some ice cream when guess who should be crossing the street in the opposite direction but Mr. Emotionally Unavailable himself. I knew that I couldn't simply run away, so I looked right at him to acknowledge him and smile, but he never looked once at me. He either genuinely didn't see me, which I would think it kind of hard not to notice someone you've been sleeping with for the last year and a half when they're crossing the street a width of two people wide close to you, or he completely ignored me. At the time I took it as intentionally ignoring me, which hurt my feelings greatly. I mean, its one thing to run away like a coward, but a whole other to ignore. Somehow the latter is a far greater offense in my book. Besides, its me that's hurt, not him. I'm allowed to run away; he's not.

So Saturday night I meet up with My Little Vidipookikins after spending the day with Lady Paul protesting at a Code Pink event and then taking care of Ladies' business (ie a planning brunch where we got totally sloshed beyond belief and then running drunkenly around the city buying Ladies' hats and material to sew sashes with). She cooked me a lovely little dinner (no MAH, it was not Hot WP) after letting me nap off an approaching hangover, and I told her the whole story of running into him the previous two times. After dinner we decided to take a walk in the park, and specifically chose not to go to Tompkins Square Park so as not to run into him a third time. Instead we went to Washington Square Park and were venturing towards the free karaoke (aka the regular hippie jam circle that hangs out there) when all of a sudden I got that weird feeling again and took a closer look at the crowd into which we were heading. Of course we were heading straight towards Mr. EU and some girl he was with. I became inexplicably paralyzed and couldn't utter a single word; all I could do was frantically tug at My Little Vidipookikins' sleeve repeatedly while she chattered on obliviously. She finally realized what was going on, recognizing his tall stooping frame, and in one single outrageously blaring gesture she whirled me in the other direction not-so-subtlely dragging me to the other side of the park where we proceeded to repeat the phrases "What the fuck?" and "I can't believe that!" for approximately the next 20 minutes or so.

I then began to feel like quite the pre-pubescent middle schooler, reminding me of the time in sixth grade when I was terrified of boys but was "going with" this kid Mr. Mullet (it was 6th grade, okay? Gimme a break!) in my gym class. We were walking the track, huddled in our respective sexually segregated (by choice and awkwardness not policy) groups, when out of nowhere Mr. Mullet appears and suddenly my girls flee the scene, leaving the two of us [insert gasp of horror!] alone. We exchanged a few phrases that might pass for conversation in an autistic children's home, and then he put his arm around me. I panicked. My little sixth grade innocent and terrified brain just couldn't handle this simple gesture and I ran. Yes folks, my tendency towards fleeing began long long ago. But the thing was I had nothing to run away from; this wasn't an avowal of eternal love or an attempt at getting in my pants, it was a mere innocuous gesture of affection and I stupidly ran. I was so incredibly embarassed by this pathetically uncool display of fear atht I invented this elaborate lie about an out of town boyfriend and feelings of guilt. I never got to tell that lie because he broke up with me the next day (via a note, of course, which is how the whole affair began..."will you 'go with' me? check yes or no..."), and with good reason too. I'm still slightly embarassed about having run away...18 years later!

And there I was, in Washington Square Park, doing a slightly modified version of the same thing.

But I just don't feel ready to see him yet. Even the mere sight of him sets the emotional roller coaster into motion, and I feel all confused and discombobulated. It may not be incredibly mature to run like Brave Sir Robin, but I don't really know how else to react. I'm pretty sure running is better than bursting into spontaneous sobbing or screaming or any other emotional outburst. I know for certain that its better than a swan dive right back into his bed, which is, I suppose, my very real and tangible fear.

I'd like to think that I am a mature, intelligent and highly capable independent womyn who can handle anything....but some things just turn you right back into an awkward bumbling sixth grader just trying to learn the rules.

The Ladies of Liberty in Action

No Suspicious Sweat Please!

So today is the first day of the civil liberties raping random subway searches. I did not take the subway to the sdj today, but took the bus instead; this was not out of protest, but more so because its easier to put on my makeup on the bus than the subway and I pretty much only put on makeup on public transportation. Yes, I'm that woman. You know, that tacky mascara wand waving woman threatening to ruin your white shirt with one lurch of the brakes; hey, I'll do anything for 10 more minutes of sleep.

What's even more disturbing are the NYPD's terrorist spotting tips. Wow, had I only known that every time I get stuck next to the jerk who bathed in perfume or cologne (which happens more frequently than you'd think) my life was in danger! And here I thought the risk was merely the unintentional emptying of the contents of my stomach.

And might I just add, Commissioner Kelley, can you hang out in the overheated subway waiting for a train in this horrific hellish humidity and not sweat profusely? If you can than my assumptions are indeed true; you are inhuman.

John Roberts is an Evil-Dooer, Not a Do-Gooder!

As you can imagine, I am a whirling frenzy after yesterday's announcement. John Roberts is dangerous news, and his track record speaks for itself, especially regarding reproductive rights. I am leaving the sdj early today to head down to Union Square with the Ladies of Liberty where there will be a NARAL, Planned Parenthood, and Code Pink rally in opposition to the nomination. Please, if you live in New York and care about a fair and balanced Supreme Court and a woman's right to hold domain over her own body, come out to Union Square this evening from 5-6:30pm for a RALLY TO SAVE THE COURT.

I have been increasingly active with the Ladies recently (no surprise considering what's been going on with Sandra Day O'Connor's retirement), and am now one of the main contacts for other activist groups. I will be attending an emergency strategic planning meeting tomorrow night on behalf of the Ladies, with People for the American Way, ANSWER, Code Pink, The Green Dragons, The Billionaires for Bush, and many others. Part of me feels like I'm thoroughly unqualified, being so relatively new at activism and street theatre; I suppose everyone has a begining, however, and the fact is that I feel just as passionate a need for action as anyone else. That is qualification enough.

If you feel compelled to speak up, here are some ways in which you can:
Move On , True Majority and NARAL all have click and send e-actions regarding the Roberts nomination. Each of the sites also have activist kits with flyers and petitions you can download, if you want to get the word out in your community.

Shameless Namedropping for Vixanne's Benefit

Tonight's staged reading went extremely well, on many levels. I met numerous people, many of whom were directors who are now in possesion of either my headshot and resume or my card (which has my headshot, cell number and e-mail on it). I got a lot of really great feedback regarding my work and myself as a person and actor and feel incredibly good about the connections I made tonight and the work I did tonight. Film is such a different planet than stage work, and I am reminded of this every time I venture from that lovely comfort zone. I discovered that when I want to, I can maneuver in that world as well.

After the reading I went out for way too many drinks with 3 other actors from the reading (two of whom direct and one of whom works for the Roundabout Theatre and The Actors Studio while he's still in school, which made me feel old). One of them owns several bars on the lower east side, so drinks were completely free and flowed without restraint. In the course of the late night, I got to meet and talk to John Cameron Mitchell (which I knew would thrill Vixanne to no end) and Larry Krone (My Little Vidipookikins will probably know this one) and a bunch of other people who I was supposed to know who they are and had no clue whatsoever but would probably be lambasted for not knowing. My ignorance is umm, part of my charm? Maybe?

I have had many cocktails (as well as conversations I don't necessarily recall but which undoubtedly portrayed me in such an amazingly light as to garner me much work in the future...at least I desperately hope that's the case...there was much laughter involved...I'm pretty sure it was with and not at...) and must go to bed now. I am excited because I was told by two very established industry people that I am ahead of the game for the very short amount of time that I've been here; which is lovely to hear considering my almost contant frustration.

I am ahead of the game! I am able to hold my own in conversation with established industry people! I am.....well, freakin blitzed out of my mind to tell the truth. That probably means I should go to bed now, while I am still able to see how to climb up into the loft bed.

Right now I am dreaming of air conditioning.

Hot WP With Mr. Artsy Hotpants

I just realized tonight that the anonymous e-mail address I initially used to respond to the Craigslist posting was none other than the e-mail address that I had created for this blog; it was the only anonymous address I had which did not display my full name along with the e-mail. Unfortunately, the address is lesyngebleu...which when separated and googled points straight to my blog. Of course the likelyhood of him knowing to separate the name is incredibly small, being that he speaks no french and the word synge is actually an intentional misspelling of the word for monkey. Still, its a bit funny to imagine him stumbling upon what I'm sure is a very different account of the evening than the one in his not-so-humble mind. At least it would help ensure that he does not call.

Mr. Artsy Hotpants also wanted me to include the forgotten tidbit that when talking about his political views Mr. Risky Business jokingly said "Are you going to call your gay boyfriend and tell him I go both ways?" to which I replied, "If I did he would undoubtedly say 'Not again!' " Mr. Risky Business was confused by this, so I explained that the last guy I dated (Mr. EU) is bisexual. He then asked how I did that? And I replied that I was the one without a penis and there were some books I could recommend on the subject if he needed further clarification.

MAH and I cooked a lovely dinner tonight, which we named in honor of certain particular choice phrasing uttered by Mr. Risky Business while engaged in the act for which perhaps he should indeed do some supplemental reading. The dish is called Hot WP, and is a lovely linguine with sauteed garlic, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, mushrooms and parsely. It also provided endless amusement to say phrases like "I went to MAH's apartment last night and ate some delicious Hot WP" or "Do you want to come over to my place to eat some Hot WP tonight?" What can I say? Its better to be slightly adolescent than tragic, right?

Tomorrow night is the staged reading of what I actually think is a pretty good screenplay; I got a call from the director today and am now frantically searching my wardrobe for something that remotely resembles what a lawyer might wear and is not black. Yeah, that'll be an easy one for sure. Although the rehearsal begins in the early afternoon I have wisely elected not to have all of the life sucked out of me beforehand by going to the sdj in the morning. I'll suck up the financial loss; I'd rather have the energy.

Which is exactly why I should be sleeping now instead of writing about linguine and other such fascinating topics. The curse of the perpetually insomniatic natural born night owl.

Close Encounters of the Obnoxious Kind

So here it is, the long anticipated account of Friday night's misadventure into the land of normalcy, which in this particular instance seemed to mean purely business... at least that was the bent of the majority of the conversation. At one point I even told him that I felt like I was living in Glengarry Glen Ross; I was neither exaggerrating nor trying to be witty, although that was the vein in which it was received.

My date, let's call him Mr. Risky Business, is in the business sector; a fact I knew prior to the date and was slightly apprehensive about, with good reason as it turns out. Over pre-dinner cocktails (the first of many as the drinks flowed like uncontrollable raging flood waters) I mentioned to Mr. Risky Business that I had been worried at first about him being an axe murderer, but this fear had been supersceded by the fear of him being a Republican. I myself happened to find that fact humerous; he did not. The innoccous comment propelled him into a lecture on how in business one must never show any leanings towards one side or another, at the risk of offending a client, and how as an actor I should know better than to make statements such as that because what if he had been a Republican who was well connected with agents and casting directors and I had offended him or not given him a chance because of his political leanings? I would have screwed myself out of a potentially lucrative and beneficial alliance simply because of my attachment to my personal ideologies. He explained that he is affiliated with neither party and never votes strictly along party lines, but more importantly he waits to hear the client's particular views before ever voicing his own. And this was explained to me with such pride, as if having strong personal beliefs that one voices is the mark of Cain and to be a mere sheep of the moment is something to be held in high esteem. Wow, thanks for the great tip; I'll remember from now on to have no discernable speck of inidividual personality in any interaction, lest it ruin my chance of success in life. I'm so glad I was forewarned! Here I was believing that as an artist individuality was an asset, not an impediment.

He gave more fascinating but completely unrequested career advice throughout the course of the evening, despite having no idea whatsoever about my mettier (which clearly was not a problem because he's so successful in his that he can be an authority on everyone else's) or how it works. He advised that in my next cover letter I should approach it from a business standpoint because that's clever marketing and thinking outside the box, which will set me apart from the other actors who are marketing their talent alone. I should evidently write in my next cover letter that I should be hired to play a role because I will make the theatre more money, as I get repeat audience members. He then advised me to write up fake testimonials from people who have seen previous performances and returned 6 times based solely on the strength of my performance. Wow! Fake testimonials and the money angle...its ummm, so so...hmm, I'm just not certain what the word would be...inappropriate and ineffectual spring to mind. So as I sat there trying desperately not to laugh and shoot Mohito out of my nose in his general vicinity, he graciously offerred to lend his extraordinary business expertise to my personal endeavors and informed me that he would write my next cover letter for me and I'd see for myself - the results would be astounding; he'd be wiling to bet on it.

While that was probably a bet I should have taken, I graciously smiled while inwardly fixed on an expression of perpetual incredulity, and made a valiant attempt at changing the subject; I was continually thwarted in this, as it seems like unbeknownst to me every subject is inextricably linked to business. How the hell have I survived my whole life without knowing this fact and existing in my lovely naive little artistic bubble? I must be crazy.

As the evening wore on and exhorbitant amounts of alcohol were consumed (my best estimate lies at 2 Mohitos, a shared bottle of wine which I was chastised for not keeping up with him in consuming, a shared after dinner Frangelico, and two vodka tonics at the place we went to after dinner) the talk did become more palatable, as it rounded the corner into flirty combat of wit (in which my skills far surpassed his if I may say so without seeming to cocky). I did discover that the two things which made me respond to his post in the first place were rather flimsy extentions of truth, if not outright lies. He does not seem to go see theatre at all (he asked what Wicked was) and confessed that his love of the outdoors was more in the vein of loving to drink and eat outdoors when the weather was nice. It also turned out that he had suggested going to see "more rockin" music, and not Moroccan music. Silly me for perceiving a modicum of culture where there was none.

We spent the whole evening on the Upper West Side, and when I confessed that I spent little time in that neighborhood he said "Of course not; you're too busy hanging out on 11th street between A and B". I quickly defended myself, correcting his error; I'm usually further south between A and B like 5th through 9th, thank you very much. I asked if it was my turn and told him that he always drives into and out of the city, rarely taking pulic transportation depsite his professed concern over the environment, and stuck primarily to the Upper West Side though could be occasionally found on the Upper East or Midtown East and on very rare occasions he would even venture somewhere around the Grammercy area. He liked being in the places that he knows and rarely ventured out of his comfort zone. He said that was a fairly accurate reading, but how often did I venture outside of my own comfort zone?

Lest it sound as if the evening were spent in awkward and strained polite argument, these exchanges were done in an almost flirty teasing manner and he seemed to enjoy my strident nature, despite the threat it posed to his sense of masculinity which he constantly attempted to assert by assuming some sort of perceived control and "telling it like it is". One would think me a helpless child, by the manner in which he seemed to believe I was in such desperate need for some sort of guidance that he alone could provide. Poor lost and helpless little Synge, so confused and mistakenly entrenched in her own idealistic little world.

I knew about ten minutes into the date that I probably wouldn't be seeing him again and really had no desire whatsoever to date this man at all. So I went home with him. Yes, dear reader, I went home with a guy I did not even like or respect; I let my hormones get the better of me. I figured at least I could get something out of the evening and perhaps the sexual fulfillment would be some sort of redemption for the horrible waste of several very drunken hours. Oh how very wrong I was. It was so not worth the 20 minute trip into Westchester. I am very aware of my own body and how it works and can usually pretty much ensure that I have a good time no matter what; I am an independent womyn in all regards I suppose. But usually is the operative word here, folks. Usually, but not always. There are evidently rare instances in which a trip to Westchester is nowhere near the effort; instances where one should cut their losses early and go home to their battery operated lovers. I didn't even bother to fake it. Mr. Risky Business, however, seemed to enjoy himself greatly; as evidenced by the extensive verbal monogue greatly influenced by the porn industry (and thus highly amusing) that I was treated to during his throes of what I can assume were passion.

He drove me home in the morning, on his way in to continue his great string of sucesses in his field, complaining with great pride that he hasn't has a day off in months. I quietly hid behind a guise of hung over, happy to participate in the conversation as little as I could. When he dropped me off in front of my building, I gave him a quick kiss and wished him a good day. He said he would call soon, and I wished him a good day again, ardently praying that he won't.

Well, at least I can now say that I have seen Westchester. Its very green and suburban.

A Change of Venue?

I am slightly (gross understatement, as proven by the number of times in which I am currently forced to hit delete) intoxicated at the moment, so the date update must inevitably wait. However, I just spoke with Mr. Event-In-And-Of-Himself's boyfriend, The Semantics Whiz, who is a manager at a very posh restaurant here in the city, and was offered a job as a hostess garnering higher wages in what seems to be an equally flexible environment as to the sdj I am currently miserable at. I adore The Semantics Whiz (and Mr. Event-In-And-of-Himself) and know that he is someone I would enjoy working with. I also am primed for a change of venue, provided it affords the same level of flexibility I am now afforded. It sounds like a really exciting change of sdj, and I already told him I am very interested. I may be able to juggle all 3, as well as auditions andc activism. My scheduling nightmares confuse even myself these days; such is the New York way. Even more confusing is the question of how to type when I am seeing two keyboards, so I should probably sign off for the night, especially considering it is now 2:50am.

The Grand Experiment in Normalcy

I don't have time to write the post that I want to write about my date; I have to get ready to go down to Union Square with the Ladies of Liberty dressed in a corset, long skirt, sash, and hat to petition on behalf of NARAL and canvass on behalf of Planned Parenthood. Yes, we are shamelessly canvassing in underwear (the corsets), but hey...whatever gets signatures. It's all for the cause, man.

The grand experiment in normalcy was not a success; he is not a Republican, but he is quite alien nevertheless. I will write the whole funny story later when I have time to really sit down and give it the attention it deserves. Suffice it to say that Mr. Artsy Hotpants had a really good laugh on the phone today, and he and my mother both commented "Well, at least you got a nice dinner out of it."

That's it. I'm done. I am becoming a Jewish nun...minus the whole celibacy thing, of course.

Sorry to tease you, but stay tuned; I promise the whole story shall be unfolded shortly.

I Have a Date or What the Hell Am I Doing?

Okay, so my pathetic confession du jour is that last Friday night, whilst fervently searching craigslist for a futon (no, I still have not found one), in a fit of patheticness (and horniness) I happened to sneak a glance at the personals on Craigslist. I swear I usually just use it for furniture! There amidst the sugar daddies and men seeking asian women, I found a simple little post that caught my attention from a guy who said he liked the outdoors and going to the theatre. As you can imagine, this interested me a bit, so I did something I had sworn never to do; I responded. I've never (and had never intended on) venturing into the online dating thing, but several friends had lately begun to do so, and well I'm evidently an unoriginal follower. I had no idea how to go about it though, so I constructed a brief (ha ha, like I'm really capable of brevity) response framed rather identically to his post but in my own individual somewhat quirky style. I evidently forgot to sign my name however, and his response back stated that I certainly wasn't boring (well that's a relief, and here I thought I was so very ordinary) but I had forgotten to include my name. We exchanged several e-mails and pictures in the odd ritualistic dance of this new and incredibly foreign dating medium, and then he suggested we talk on the phone. At this point I became sure that I wouldn't like him and that the forced constraints of this highly impersonal method produced such flawed results that how could it ever work? After much urging from Mr. Artsy Hotpants to just give him a chance (and simply for the fact of being able to tell Vixanne that I gave a normal nice boy a chance) I responded with my phone number.

He called tonight, and the incredibly shocking thing was that I actually enjoyed our conversation; we talked for almost an hour, none of which felt forced or awkward. He's pretty normal, but not boring...I had no idea the two could co-exist! And furthermore, he wasn't at all bothered by my wackiness (I held back nothing and behaved as normal). He held his own in sarcasm and flirting and all of the witty verbal foreplay that you engage in at the inital stages of attraction. I was enjoying the conversation so much that when he asked what my plans for the weekend were, I invited him to go hear Cuban music with me at Lincoln Center tomorrow night. He then suggested we go to dinner first (sushi and he loves wasabi just as much as I do) and go hear Moroccan music afterwards (unless he said "more rockin" but I'm pretty sure it was Moroccan) which I freakin love! He said he'd take care of making all the plans, which is even better because I hate making choices and picking places.

I hung up the phone, rather excited about this spontaneous plan, when suddenly it hit me...I'm going on a date...with someone I've never actually met...that I found on Craigslist! I feel so very trite all of a sudden.

Even stranger is that I feel slightly nervous. I am normally not nervous about dates, but then again I've usually met the person beforehand and can be relatively asasured they are attracted to me and I to them. What if he's not at all attracted to me? Worse yet, what if he is and I'm not attracted to him? What if he's an axe murderer canvassing Craigslist for his next victim?

I can't believe I'm suddenly so very unoriginal. It was the outdoors thing that hooked me. I'm unoriginal and easy. Wow, my dating patheticness has reached new lows...but at least his idea of a date wasn't just to fuck and go get ice cream so perhaps I'm actually moving up out of the abyss. We'll see.

My Adventure in Fratland

Curiosity got the better of me last night. Curiosity usually gets the better of me; she's much stronger than I and frankly that's not usually a bad thing.

I have a blogging aquaintance that lives in the city and manages a bar in an area that I normally would never frequent. This aquaintance, however, seems to be a very interesting and incredibly nice individual; on a whim, I decided to pay him and his establishment an undercover visit. Yes, I am a secret agent woman...but not a secret asian woman, that's just a common misquote of the song. I am also always at the ready for new adventure and was incredibly curious after reading so much about the place as to what I'd think.

So I bravely ventured forth to explore a new and totally alien neighborhood wholly incongruous with my usual existance. I went incognito, of course, though still nowhere near blending with the conservative (I'm not sure I could ever really blend in with conservatives) 20-somethings frequenting the establishment. I thought it would be an adventure as well as a bit of a challenge; I wanted to see how sharp my chameleon capabilities were and see if I could still adapt to any situation I'm thrown into.

It was definitely an adventure - it was like stepping into another world entirely. My New York is quite different from the one I peered into last night. I would say I was a fish out of water, but I am deathly afraid of fish and thus wouldn't want to compare myself to one. It was an interesting social study in group mentality. One half of the vacuous space, towards the back, was completely empty while the whole front of the establishment was packed to the gills with people, sardine style. (I really don't know where all these fish references are coming from...its a bit spooky) Yet no one would venture away from the crowd, not even in the interest of breathing room. Most of the people were dressed very similarly and there was a definite lack of distinguishable individuality amongst the majority of the customers. I felt like I was in what could best be described as the logical extention of the faternity/sorority culture...not exactly quite my cup of tea.

It was lovely for my ego, however, as I was sloppily wooed by two drunken men who's only tactic seemed to be repeating that I was gorgeous. I attempted to explain that the wine and beer only gave the appearance of such things, but as this was their only knowledge of conversation technique, they continued to repeat it closer towards my ear as if that would somehow win me over. The first man, we'll call him drunk off his ass as that was most definitely his state of being, just didn't know what to make of my somewhat smart ass tendencies. He continually wobbled between offended and adoring, but was never quite capable of uttering a complete phrase in either state. He kept beginning sentences and then abandoning the effort with a dismissive "Never mind. You don't want to hear it anyway." despite the fact that I never alluded to an opinion regarding his half begun phrases. He also asked my name a sum total of 7 times; after the first three times I stopped reminding him that he had already been told. It seemed to be a moot point really. He also kept threatening or promising (I was never entirely sure which it was) to leave, saying "That's fine. I'll leave you alone. I'll stop bothering you now. But I will always love you and I will tell my children about you. I'll never forget you." but he never actually left. This remark was usually followed by a long pause in which he stared at me, sitting stationary the whole time, and then he would launch into one of the whopping 5 phrases that seemed to be the only ones in his lexicon of the evening. Yes, folks, this is the quality kind of a man I attract. Its a rare talent, but I seem to have been abundantly blessed.

Drunken suitor number two seemed to be quite turned on by being spoken to with abundant sarcasm, and every time I gave a retort to one of his many inane efforts at intelligent conversation, he looked as if I'd spanked him and he greatly enjoyed it. He began the conversation by saying "You're not a liberal, are you?", which as you can imagine was quite the winner with me. I responded with "Even worse, an activist! Oooh, scary! Why? Was my bleeding heart spilling out onto the floor?" This began an amusing, though rather circular discourse as to our different beliefs; his were never quite articulated fully and mine were responded to by him in a manner which I believe might have been an attempt at seductive condescension...but I'm not quite sure. His response was along the lines of aw, how cute, I think you're hot and am now going to repeatedly attempt to insert my tongue in your ear while you continue to squirm out of my reach. I finally excused myself to use the facilities, and met him in the narrow downstairs hallway as I was exiting. He grabbed my arm, which as I rule I am generally uncomfortable with in regards to drunken strangers, so I pulled away using the self defense techniques every good feminist knows. Undaunted, he then leaned in to try and kiss me, and I said "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not kissing you in some random bathroom hallway." (not that I intended on kissing him at all, mind you..) He replied, "Will I at least get your phone number at the end of the night?" Ever the brutally honest bitch that I am I said, "No. No, you're not." To which he said, "Its because I'm a conservative isn't it? You can't handle that I'm politically conservative." Umm, yeah, that's it. Definitely.

I do have to say that the staff of the establishment more than made up for those frequenting it, and although I did not meet the blogging aquaintance (I later found out that I did catch a brief glimpse of his head out of the window above the bar while I was outside smoking) the staff that I did meet were charming and incredibly nice and funny.

It was a funny adventure and its good to stretch your horizons a bit and go places you normally never would. And hey, I was made to feel quite sexy by two very drunken and obnoxious men...never mind that they kept missing the barstool when they went to sit down.

Liberte! Egalite! Fraternite!

Joyoux Quatorze Juillet!

Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras.
Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Que veut cette horde d'esclaves
De traîtres, de rois conjurés?
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves
Ces fers dès longtemps préparés?
Français, pour nous, ah! quel outrage
Quels transports il doit exciter?
C'est nous qu'on ose méditer
De rendre à l'antique esclavage!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Quoi ces cohortes étrangères!
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers!
Quoi! ces phalanges mercenaires
Terrasseraient nos fils guerriers!
Grand Dieu! par des mains enchaînées
Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient
De vils despotes deviendraient
Les maîtres des destinées.

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Tremblez, tyrans et vous perfides
L'opprobre de tous les partis
Tremblez! vos projets parricides
Vont enfin recevoir leurs prix!
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre
S'ils tombent, nos jeunes héros
La France en produit de nouveaux,
Contre vous tout prêts à se battre.

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Français, en guerriers magnanimes
Portez ou retenez vos coups!
Épargnez ces tristes victimes
À regret s'armant contre nous
Mais ces despotes sanguinaires
Mais ces complices de Bouillé
Tous ces tigres qui, sans pitié
Déchirent le sein de leur mère!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Nous entrerons dans la carrière
Quand nos aînés n'y seront plus
Nous y trouverons leur poussière
Et la trace de leurs vertus
Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre
Que de partager leur cercueil
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil
De les venger ou de les suivre!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Amour sacré de la Patrie
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs
Liberté, Liberté chérie
Combats avec tes défenseurs!
Sous nos drapeaux, que la victoire
Accoure à tes mâles accents
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!

The Right Place at the Right Time...For Once!

For the first time ever in my life I can actually say that I was in the right place at the right time. Usually I am either horrifically lost and have no idea what time it is, or I went to the wrong place on the wrong day. But tonight, tonight the gods were with me.

I went to go see a staged reading of Desire Under the Elms that a friend of mine is in town directing; I wasn't particularly dying to go and its quite a long play, but this friend is always incredibly supportive of my endeavors and someone I respect. So I arrive 10 minutes early, after a paranoic scramble through the disgustingly muggy evening, certain I was arriving late when in actuality I was only arriving drenched, and immediately spot an actor I worked with this past spring in The Vagina Monologues. This actor was not part of the core Mighty Yawp group, and I had not seen her since the production. I immediately ran over to her, thankful to not have to be the sad lonesome person knowing no other person there (minus the director, but he was being all director-y), and the first words out of her mouth were "What are you doing on the 18th?". She is doing a staged reading of a screenplay and another actor had just dropped out; she was wracking her brain trying to think of who could fill the role when in walked yours truly. So now I am also doing a staged reading of said screenplay next Monday night, which is great because there are a lot of prominent film industry people involved and well, you just never know where these things can lead. Tonight proved that at the very least, people you work with on projects will suggest you for other work. Work begets work, even if its just a reading. Plus it will be wonderful to have something to look forward to and something to throw myself into for this moment, which is well timed after the disappointment of the fringe show that isn't happening.

The callback for the Israeli/Palestinian dialect fringe play never happened. Very late Tuesday night I got an e-mail from the producer saying, "The call back has been cancelled for Good Fences. The playwright has decided to move forward on his own. We thought you were wonderful and look forward to seeing you in projects. Sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.", which essentially means that there was some huge drama between the playwright and producers and one side bailed. I received a voice mail message the next morning reiterating this, along with great accolades about my talent and how much they loved me and want to use me in the future and are saving my headshot and resume to definitely call me in again, blah blah blah. That's all quite lovely, but I want work NOW! Why did the stupid playwright have to be all high maintenance? His play was absurdist theatre, but must he behave absurdly too? Such is the lovely career I have chosen...even when the stars align and you give a great audition and they love you and you're practically cast, it still doesn't mean its a done deal. In fact, its never really a done deal...look at shows that close in previews.

Anyway, at least I have a staged reading of a screenplay to look forward to and more contacts to hopefully make through this. I loved that I just happened to walk in the door at the perfect moment. I guess I finally understand about the whole luck and who you know side of things.

Work begets work. This is good. So what begets motivation? And more importantly, what begets more freakin hours in the day and the energy to have a sdj so you can pay the rent and a full time career, which auditioning is? Ooh, and while we're at it, what magically begets a clean apartment, cuz mine's a freakin train wreck?

Synapse Breakdown to the Tune of Cheesy Musical Theatre

I am so very embarassed and ashamed to admit this; I've been listening to Without You and Your Eyes and Goodbye Love from Rent on repeat all day and pining for Mr. Emotionally Unavailable. I think I'm even more embarassed about the fact that I'm actually cheesy enough to be listening to the Rent album than I am about pining for Mr. EU; after all, its perfectly normal to have a hard time letting go of someone after a year and a half, but the Rent album is not exactly a hot commodity. It does remind me a bit of Mr. EU, however, as he used to be a LES squatter and Tompkins Square Park fixture around the time of the squatter's riots. Plus those are great feel sorry for yourself songs.

One would think that it might've been easier to let go after the whole illness scare; especially considering he broke the news by inviting me out for ice cream and when I declined he said "well, I guess I'll have to tell you over the phone then...". I'm not a 6 year old! An ice cream cone doesn't magically make everything better and erase all wrongs! If it did, I'd be a huge cow by now. Gelato, on the other hand, cures all. Especially the gelato in Florence. Mmmmm.

This fresh onslaught of angst was precipitated by two phone calls from Mr. EU last week. He was supposed to be not calling me, as I had requested, so that I could transcend the vicious circle of breaking up and getting back together. I suppose he thought a month enough time to magically fall out of love and for all heartbreak to dissolve, but gee...I guess I somehow missed that stage of development where my insides are sheathed in rubber and I can bounce back without injury at the drop of a hat.

The first call was on the 4th, and he left a message lettting me know both that he called and that it was the fourth of July. Wow, thank god he left that message or I would've been horribly freaked out by the sound of fireworks. See, how can I ever manage without him? Upon receiving no return call he must have been worried...not about my well being, no, more likely worried that he did not have me dangling on a string as before. So he called again Tuesday night, and genius that I am, I picked up the phone; there are 3 people only who come up as "restricted" on my phone because their numbers are unlisted: Mr. Artsy Hotpants, Mr. Emotionally Unavailable, and my neighbot the African Warrior Goddess. I was horrendously sick and wasn't thinking so I picked up the phone expecting it to be MAH. It wasn't. I was so taken aback all I could stammer was are you okay? He graciously let me go at lightning speed upon hearing my half dead froggy voice, dispatching me to go drink copious amounts of tea and to sleep like Rip Van Winkle. I complied, too sick and too shocked to remind him that he wasn't supposed to be calling and that I need more time in solitary confinement.

This, of course, has incited much rumination on Mr. EU and our relationship...more tending towards memories of only the good, of course. Then I have to keep reminding myself that it doiesn't matter how fun it was and how great he is and all the other mushy gushy crap ping ponging through my mind. Why go back to someone who doesn't love you? Its not exactly the most fulfilling of prospects or anything. Yet somehow, somewhere the synapses between my brain and my heart have faultered and the communication just isn't being transmitted as it should. Especially when he freakin calls!

To give him credit, he's calling because he does care and I did say I wanted to remain friends, which I do. But the transition's probably going to be a pretty lengthy one, and I think I need to stay in my cocoon a while longer before my metamorphosis into "friend" is complete. I also evidently need more time in which to have pity parties where the DJ seems to be stuck on the Rent soundtrack, only adding to my patheticness.

Why am I still writing about this schmuck?

"At Least It Wasn't Paris!" or an Angry Diatribe Against Francophobia

As I was walking back to the sdj from an emergency coffee run and smoke break, I glanced at the headlines in the machine selling newspapers and noticed a very disturbing title in The Daily News. The article was on New York losing the 2012 Olympic bid, a trite and hackneyed subject here in this city where nobody, with the exception of the Grand Asshole Bloomers himself, even wanted the damn Olympics to come in the first place. In huge capital letters, it screamed out : AT LEAST IT WASN'T PARIS!

I find this ongoing francophobia so juvenile its pathetic. They didn't join our oil war, boo hoo....so we villify them for actually being intelligent free-thinking non-lemmings? This ridiculous machismo is a tiresome perpetuation of the swaggering cowboy U.S. stereotype, egged on by a president who declares "You're either with us or against us.". Gee, it must be nice to view the world is such simplistic do-gooders and evil-doers terms. Go eat your "freedom fries" and forget all about Lafayette's aid in ensuring that freedom. It's okay that London wins the Olympic bid, because Tony Blair shoved his head up Bush's ass and proceeded to blindly follow into the lion's den. France had more common sense than to jump into a drained swimming pool and crack their heads open, so they clearly do not deserve to win an Olympic bid.

I am a very proud citizen of La Republique Francaise, as well as a sometimes proud citizen of The United States of America. As of late, I am more often ashamed of the U.S. than proud. I am also deeply embarassed on behalf of America for such purile antics as this neverending campaign to malign France; a campaign in which only the U.S. participates. And maybe Britain, but they've always hated the French. ( but their food is completely inedible, so they've got no room to criticize)

I have endured a lifetime of teasing for my pronunciation of Brie and quoissant and Montreal, and have always takem the personal ribbing good naturedly. But the bullshit villification of ridiculous proportions disgusts me and offends me on the deepest level. And we wonder why we're the butt of all the world's jokes?

Getting the Hell Out of Dodge!

I'm running away!

Mr. Saucy Funnybuns and I are going away for the holiday weekend to the Hudson River Valley / Catskills border area, near the Shawangunk mountains which I cannot seem to pronounce after one beer. I found a charming B&B that had a cancellation and was offering a dirt cheap deal, so off we go! I, of course, am thrilled to be going to the mountains and want to do at least one hike (which must be an easy one, as Mr. SF has a tumor in his back and this does affect movement - hence the B&B instead of camping). Mr. Saucy Funnybuns is excited about miniature golf and a waterslide at the lake; we are so different its hysterical!

Yay! A mini-vacation! I couldn't be more excited to get the hell out of Dodge if a firecracker was up my ass and the fuse was burning away.

Bye Bye Sandra Day Hello Fascist Repression of Womyn's Rights

Oh Shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit! Did I mention oh shit?

Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor just resigned this morning. She will undoubtedly be replaced by as conservative a weasel as Bush can scrounge up, thus ensuring the court's swing to the right and putting Roe V. Wade in great danger of being overturned.

If you care at all about supporting womyn's reproductive rights, I strongly implore you to call your senator's office and say, "My name is __________ andI've just heard that there's a Supreme Court retirement. It's very important that the senator makes sure that any new Justice strongly supports Roe v. Wade and a woman's right to privacy and choice." You can also send an e-mail through NARAL.

This blog is one of many devoted to choice issues, and here's Planned Parenthood's Action Network and Activist Tool Kit.

If a woman's right to choose is an important issue for you, it is imperative that you begin working now, in whatever capacity you feel you can, to safeguard this important right and to keep our womyn out of the dangerous and exploitive back alleys, holding no dominion or control over our own bodies.

WE CANNOT GO BACK!

Okay, So Maybe I Don't Hate Auditions All That Much...

A revolutionary epiphany just occurred to me: you have to get off your ass and audition if you want to get callbacks and get work. Work does not generally fall from the sky, and the phone does not magically ring on its own. Perhaps auditions are not such a bad thing after all...or at the very least a necessary evil that I've been ignoring for quite a bit of time.

But after stubbing my toe while attempting to tentatively dip it in the whirling slightly polluted waters of the biz once again, the results are surprisingly encouraging.

Guess what fabulous monkey just got a callback for the Israeli and/or Palestinian dialect show? Think wonderful thoughts Wednesday evening between 8:30-9pm.