unpack the luggage

2003-09-04T10:27:00.000-04:00

Hey. My blog lives on. Do not taunt my blog or it will bite your ankles. Do not yell at my blog or it will cower in the corner. Do not throw water on my blog or it will multiply. Do not eat my blog or you will suffer a severe tummy ache. Do not attempt to pat my blog on the head or it will leave little bloggy pellets all over your hand. Do not tickle my blog because it will kick and scream. Do not try to change my blog, for it is interminable. Do not expose my blog to direct moonlight or it will howl. Do not stand on top of my blog or you may fall down. Do not take pictures of my blog naked and post them on your website, or you will be facing legal action. Do not insert my blog into any of your orifices because I am not responsible for what might happen. Do not feed my blog candy or it will crazy go nuts. Do not attempt to perform magic tricks on my blog - it will not be amused. Do not phone my blog after midnight, for it needs its beauty rest. Do not go dancing with my blog or you will be put to shame. Do not even think about telling my blog it hasn't been good about updating because it will go postal on your ass.

2002-05-10T15:27:00.000-04:00

she'll be comin round the mountain

A lot of the big super popular journallers will get on with entries like "Hi. I'm really not sure what I want to say and I don't really want to keep writing this journal because I'm bored and have more important things to do with my life, but you readers who love me are making me keep writing even though I clearly don't want to. Oh foo. I guess I'll just keep moving my fingers over the keyboard and whatever comes out is what you'll read, but it takes no effort, nope, none at all, on my part. Look, I've almost filled a paragraph while managing to say absolutely nothing of substance. How about that?"

That's what the journallers do, instead of just, you know not updating. Bore. Snore. Whore. Gore. Pore. Sore. Lore. Fore. Tore. Core. Store. Chore. Shore. Door. Roar. You're. Moor. Floor.

All right, so that covers that. What I don't understand is, why do people feel the need to explain why they aren't updating? I never do that. Or very rarely. Nope, I just leave ya'll hanging. I don't give a flying fuck if you've got nothing to read. Hey, it's your problem. Go buy yourself a Shakespeare anthology and go to town.

I've had an interesting couple of days. Kim had a party on Sunday night. Actually, Allen had a surprise party for Denise, which later migrated to Kim's. I brought my video camera along, which I never do, and I don't know why. We got lots of good footage. Let's just say that none of the attendees will ever be running for public office, at least not while I'm around.

Some highlights of the party:

Me yelling "SURPRISE" at Denise at the top of my lungs as I walked up to Kim's apartment. The surprise party part, had of course taken place about 4 hours earlier. I got shushed.
Me yelling "I don't give a fuck" or something comparably potty-mouthed while Kim was on the phone with her mom discussing her graduation party. I got shushed. Again.
Playing with their little electronic globe thing. You know what I'm talking about, those little glass globes with the cool electricity thing inside it, and when you put your hand on it, all the light moves to your hand? Well, all the guys had to put their penises on it, because Adam said it felt really cool. I put my boobie on it. It didn't feel all that cool though.
Penis art. Adam showed us the hamburger, the snail, and I made Fred do the fruit bowl. There were a couple guys there who weren't theater kids, and I don't think they were amused by the freedom of the nudity, but whatever.
Anthony's dirty stick. Not telling. Dirty! Oh my!
Allen opened a Smirnoff on my ass and soaked us both. I had on this pair of pants, the ones my mom hates, with the great big hole in the ass. Everyone thinks they're sexy. They are soooo comfortable, but they have the hole. So I always wear boxers with them so I don't look like a skank (hey, I'm not that girl). Anyway, I was standing in the kitchen and bared my ass cheek for some reason. Allen jammed the top of his bottle on to my ass and twisted it. Smirnoff everywhere. It was the funniest thing that has ever happened to me.
They made watermelon Jell-O shooters with way too much liquor. They naturally refused to gel, so they froze them instead. Grrrrreeat. Tasty. Oh they were bad, ya'll, so very, very bad. We drank (ate?) them anyway. Hey, we're in college. Don't be judging me.
Allen tried to flush my Birkenstock down the toilet. He would not give it back to me. I forget why he wanted to flush my shoe, but I'm sure he had his reasons. Don't judge the man, damn it.
I put my head in the freezer at one point, and I remember thinking it was the best idea ever and I never wanted to leave. Eventually the top of my head got cold though.
The guys all sang happy birthday for Denise at midnight, accompanied by a mulitple strip tease. Great. It's not a theater party unless we all get naked, right? Right.
Allen and Bryan put Kim's panties on their heads and pretended they were superheroes. At this point, the party is officially getting rowdy.
A whole bunch of us congregated in the bathroom to shave Justin's chest for him. I believe that I was just cheerleader, I don't think I ever actually wielded the razor, which is most likely a good thing. C-log Mike (not Mikey) tried to get in the bathroom to blow his nose, but the room was full and we were drunk so we were messing with him and holding the door and not letting him in. The next thing we knew, the door frame had jumped a few inches inward. My man had busted the door down. Oh my, so funny. We called him The Incredible Hulk for the remainder of the night.
We tried to shave the cat (hey, we had a razor). Mikey stopped us. It's fun to make a drunk man feign sobriety to stop you from doing something boneheaded. Just try it sometime.
Adam petted my head until I fell asleep and then he made me lay down on the couch. Apparently I fought him all the way to the couch and then sat there in annoyance, not laying down, until I finally keeled over (not on purpose) and stayed in that position for the duration of the evening. Yay party.
The next morning I had to go on a great search and rescue mission for my other shoe, which you'll recall almost got flushed. I found it behind the toilet, soaking wet.... thank you ALLEN!!!!

That day (yesterday), several people (Jason, Bryan, Kim, Mikey, and Adam) were going to Nags Head, and Cash, Denise, Justin, Allison and I were going up to Cash's cabin in the woods. I thought it was a shame that we were all going out of town to party, but were going to different places. Oh well. I can't imagine that the Nags Headers had more fun than we did. Cash's cabin ROCKS, ya'll.

This was the most fun road trip I've taken in a long time. All 5 of us piled ourselves into the Beast and rode 3 1/2 hours to Staunton. You wouldn't believe the amount of stuff Allison had brought for one overnight. No seriously. You think you have an idea, but you really don't. Multiply your idea times about 14 and you probably have it. It was crazy. We just barely fit it all in the back of my car. For an overnight, ya'll. I actually consolidated all my shit into one bag because they wouldn't both fit. Then we had to stop and get batteries, because the tape deck does not, of course, work. We were in 7-11, marvelling at the cost of the batteries.

ANGELA
These are so expensive.

JUSTIN
Don't buy them.

ANGELA
Holy God. Who knew batteries cost this much?

CASH
It's cause we're at 7-11. Don't buy them. We'll just talk to each other.

ANGELA (yelling out the door into the parking lot.
ALLISON!!! The batteries are going to cost like 16 bucks!

ALLISON
I know!

ANGELA
Damn... someone's going to help me pay for these, right guys?

JUSTIN
No! Just don't buy them!!!

I didn't buy them there. We drove to Food Lion (much to the guy's dismay) and Cash told us we had 5 minutes before he drove off and left us. Allison somehow convinced Justin to buy the batteries, but I went in with him to make sure he got the right ones. We bought a whole bunch of 'D' batteries, which Justin kept dropping on the floor, then he'd have to get a new package, because hey, you don't want batteries that have been dropped. Those are some bad batteries. Right.

I had a raw sweet potato in my car (don't ask me why) and Justin decided that it needed to ride on my antenna during the trip. This decision will become very important about an hour down the road. So he takes a pencil and drills a hole in the potato and jams it onto my antenna. It rides there happily. "Yea," we think, "our road trip has a mascot."

So we're on the road to Staunton. We girls were crushed into the backseat and to make up for the lack of room we sang. A lot. Loudly. MMmBop. Cash complained that he was driving the special kids on the short bus. Cash got a bit cranky after a while. I don't exactly blame him, necessarily. He called us "the harpies." Haha.

We left Greg (who was supposed to go with us) a whole bunch of nasty voicemails. Like 12. Telling him how much he sucked for not picking up his phone so he could go with us, and how much he was missing out, and a whole slew of insults in that vein.

We played the game with the truckers where you make them honk their horn. Most of them did it, too. That game is unnecessarily fun.

We also played the Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll game, where you go around the alphabet and name something starting with every letter that either has to do with Sex, Drugs, or Rock and Roll (hence the clever title). It eventually becomes only about sex, naturally. You have to recite the entire list before you can add the next item, so it gets difficult. You try to stump each other. Here is our list (warning, this list is not for the faint of heart, the pregnant, the easily offended, or those who demand that their sexually atrocious fetishes be somewhat coherent):

Anal
Beavis and Butthead
Cock-blockers
Deep-Dicking
Erotica
Fingercuffs
G-string Gay Strippers
Hard-on
Inseminate
Jack off
Kwik-Stop Drug Dealer
Labia Lube-Job Licker
Mutual Men's Masturbation Meeting
Nocturnal Narcotic Nuphomaniac
Orgasmic
Pigs fucking Catholic School Girls in the Ass
Queers Quoting Queefing Queens
Rabid Rank Rug-burn
Suck the Sweat off my Sack, Sailor
Tube Top Titty Fuckers
Uh!! Uh!!! Uh!!!
Vaginal Lesbionic Sex
Wack off Wally Doll
X-Rated Rapists
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Zippy

Well, that was horrible. So naturally, we called up Greg and left it on his voicemail.

In Charlottesville, I made them stop so we could go to Liquid. Liquid is a smoothie store that has all natural ingredients. They make the best smoothies ever, and they would add ginseng or bee pollen or whatever you needed to make your day better. So hip. So fun. So out-of-business. Oh man, I was angry. I had hyped it the whole way up there, and it was competely gone. I should have known better, Murphy's law being what it is. So we went to the Fro-Yo place next door, which was fine, except the chicks who work there are soooo snotty. Have you ever been to Charlottesville? It's the worst. It's like, they all belong to this special club, and they can tell that you don't belong, so you should collectively kiss their sweet-smelling Gap-cologne scented asses.

On the way out of town, we all yelled things out the window such as "Charlottesville should kiss my ass!" It was fun. Damn them.

Also C-ville has streets like 12 1/2 Street. I hate it there. I mean, I used to like it and have reason to go, because my best friend Nicole went to UVa, and they had Liquid. Now that both of those selling points are gone, C-ville can seriously bite me. Seriously. I will never go back, NEVER! Damn you Charlottesville!!!! I shall destroy you and your Abercrombie-loving brethren!!

Okay, I'm done.

So we got back on the highway, exhausted from our adventures, and proceeded to sleep all the way to Staunton. Cash said he liked this leg of the trip much more than the first. Much more peaceful, he said.

In Staunton, they had a TV station in a strip mall. That was very quaint. There were mountains everywhere. It's kind of creepy, the whole mountains everywhere thing. Denise and I both agreed at this point that we enjoyed visiting the country, but did not want to live there. Too remote. Too far away from the ocean, and the rest of civilization. Little did we know...

We went to Food Lion and got some beverages and snacks. Back to the car for a 30 minute drive to Cash's farm. Here's the thing. They say city kids are crazy. Oh no. I've met city kids and they pale in comparison to country kids (I am neither a country kid nor a city kid, incidentally. I thought I was a country kid until this past weekend, and I now realize that I grew up in a black hole, neither city nor country. Do not hate me. Pity me and send me some money). Anyway, country kids. Yeah. Cash was FLYING around this incredibly windy twisty mountain roads as though it was nothing. We kept asking him to slow down. He was doing the speed limit (55), which is even more frightening. You could tell that he wasn't trying to freak us out, either. That's just the way country kids do it. It was scary.

So we get to the farm. We all climbed up in Cash's brother's tree house. We went out into the cow pasture and looked around. Cow poop is gross, and that's all I care to say about that. Justin played basketball with my (Fred's) theater hat, and then Denise got hurt.

She got a rope burn from Cash's dog's rope. Those suck. I know because my childhood dog Sandy had a rope too, and whenever we would play, she would run around me and give me rope burns on my ankles. Not on purpose, but it really sucked anyway.

Justin did his level best to freak out Cash's mom. Then we all piled back in the Beast for the 20 minute drive up the mountain. Have you ever driven up a mountain dirt road? Your car probably wouldn't make it. My car has balls, though.

JUSTIN
I keep waiting for there to be a smooth patch, but it never comes.

We eventually reached the cabin (not a moment too soon) and ya'll, it is beautiful It was slightly overcast but it had the coolest view. We took all our stuff inside, and then it started pouring. There are no phones up there, and the cell phones only gave an intermittant signal. The one radio plays only country music, and the reception is crackly. There's a wood stove in the sitting room. Everything in the house is made of wood. The house was built in the 40's. There are dead animal carcasses on the walls and dead ladybugs all over the place. There is a swing made out of an old bus seat. The basement and attic are extremely dirty and scary. There is no shower. There is a chandelier made of deer antlers. There is running water but it is cold and there isn't much water so we couldn't flush the toilet often. There are no doorknobs on the doors. Am I painting the right picture? I hope you are getting the sense of how cool and quaint and rustic and far removed from everything modern it is.

Cash cooked hamburgers on the grill, fresh hamburgers off the farm. They were so good. We drank a lot, bonded, played some games. Cash kept going outside to get firewood or whatever and would constantly reappear at the window holding an axe and looking scary. So that was good to get the blood flowing. Cash took me outside to show how dark and peaceful it was. It gets amazingly dark in the mountains. I know I really sound like a city brat, but it just amazed me. There was no ambient light. It was so quiet and beautiful. It made me really happy to realize that in times like these when you feel so trapped into society and all the people and hustle and so forth, it is still completely possible to get away from it all. That amazed me. I wouldn't want to be up there all the time, but it was wonderful.

Then Cash suggested that maybe we should get out the hammock and sleep on that, if it wasn't going to rain. I vetoed.

ANGELA
Umm, no, hello, I'm in an unfamiliar place, I am not trying to sleep outside next to these woods when who knows what might come out of them.

CASH
Oh no, it's all right. Worst you'd find up here would be a black bear.

ANGELA
Oh, really, is that all? And here I was worried. Silly me.

We instead slept 3-deep on the hide-a-bed, which was very cozy. The next morning all 5 of us got on the hide-a-bed and laid there for a while, listening to the Indigo Girls. I remember thinking how at peace and wonderful I felt. I didn't want to leave. Then we got up and things started getting rowdy.

Cash finally convinced Denise and I to take a walk with him. I needed to pee first, so I went to the only bathroom, which also adjoins Justin and Allison's room. They were definitely tearing the walls down, not even trying to be quiet about it. So I went right in and stood there against the wall and asked if they were having fun. I stopped 'em mid-thrust. I'm so proud.

Outside, Cash showed Denise and I how to launch clay pigeons. This was more fun than I thought possible, even though all of my pigeons got launched into the ground and crashed. Oh well. Denise and I now have a new, and relatively inexpensive, hobby. We took a walk to some of the other cabins, all of which are old and saggy and scary looking. They mostly only contain firewood, but the one other domicile is very creepy. Not the one we stayed in, but the other one. We walked around in it (Cash swears it is haunted) and then we convinced Cash to go upstairs. They made me go first. I got about halfway up and turned around and saw a large white suit hanging from a rafter. It was creepy. I booked it back down the stairs. I have the willies just thinking about it. Cash explained what it was, but I can't remember what he said, and we didn't believe him.

We took video of Justin on the toilet. Hey, we had the videocamera.

Back in the cabin, we started cleaning up. Denise and I invented the fun game of whenever Justin and Allison start screwing around we run in, jump on the bed and punch Justin in the leg until he cries. It's really fun. So we played that during clean up, and then Allison did a weird thing. She started pushing on Justin's bottom with her fist. It turned out she had put a marshmallow up there and was jamming it inside him. Okay, weird, gross, weird, and gross again. But it gets worse, as you knew it must.

Justin pulled the marshmallow out of his ass and put it on Denise's neck.

Then he got it from her and wiped it on my neck.

I picked it up, made everyone else help me hold him down, and fed it to him.

To clean himself, he squirted an entire tube of toothpaste into his mouth and then slobbered it all over me.

We ended up covered in toothpaste and had to clean off with the cold water.

I am sad to say that none of this fight ended up on video except for the aftermath of me saying "I need a towel" and Allison cleaning Justin and I off. We left a marshmallow in one of the crannies (high-up, so the mice can't get it) for the next time we go up there. Ahh, memories.

We cleaned the rest up and drove all the way up the mountain so we could see the whole valley. It was a cool view. The drive down the mountain wasn't nearly as bad as the drive up had been. I said so.

DENISE
Yeah, this is fun!

ANGELA
Well, I don't know about all that. It's not fun exactly...

DENISE
Yes it is, it's fun. Go faster. It's fun.

ANGELA
It's not your car, you whore!

DENISE
Oh yeah. Hey, don't go faster.

CASH
Thank you for the advice.

Back down the mountain, we ran into a lot of friends of Cash's dad, all of whom called him David, all of whom had the coolest accents. The funniest thing is how Cash dons his accent when he talks to them so they can understand him. He actually said (without irony) "Well doggone it" to one of them. It was grand.

Back in Staunton, we went to the best place ever, Wright's Dairy-Rite. They have amazing food and a jukebox which is FREE! Damn! All jukeboxes should be free, that's my contention. It poured rain while we ate, and then we got back in the car and headed home. Nothing eventful happened on the return trip. We did a lot of sleeping, and the sky did a lot of raining.

So we had a great couple of days. We bonded and shit. I can't wait to go back up there. I hope we get a chance to have a big party at the cabin before I leave for KY. I want to see what the night sky looks like when it's all clear. Cash says the stars are amazing. I believe him. And I want to show Fred how pretty it is; he would love it.

Denise summed it up best. "If this is how my summer is beginning, this is going to be a kick-ass summer." Amen to that.

Naked Week is next week. Everyone come to the naked party. (Um, just kidding mom. No naked week, no naked party.) (Everyone else: I'm not really kidding, come to the party.) (Mom: No, there's no party. Seriously. NO party here. Maybe just a gathering.) (Everyone else: A NAKED gathering.) (Mom: I'm just kidding!)

2002-05-04T18:49:00.000-04:00

rest

I'm done! I'm done for the semester! YAHOOO!!!!

I am so excited. What's really cool is, Fred is SO excited. It's great. He's a college graduate, now, kids. Everyone better start bowing down to him and doing what he says.

I may update more often from now on. I don't know. I probably won't, actually. I've been really busy, but it's not like I'm going to be much less busy this summer. I've got history class, I've got a senior thesis to plan and an exit exam to study for, 2 websites to design, a boyfriend to hang out with, and then once I get to Louisville, fugget about it.

Today my mother got an invitation from the Yorktown Committee. They are planning a little fancy boat and walking tour thing. So she decided it would be fun if Fred and I went, too. It's like, free food and ghost stories. Yeah, I'm up for that. She called the dude who is in charge of it, to ask if they could bring us. The guy said he didn't think so, then he said definitely not. My mother has a vendetta against him now.

MOM
Well, that's one boat tour that I'm not going on.

ANGELA
You're pissed off, huh?

MOM
You bet I am. When we start our bed and breakfast, guess who's not getting recommended by us?

ANGELA
They don't know who they're messing with.

MOM
I'll show them, boy.

Hours later:

DAD
So are we going on this walking tour thing, or not?

ANGELA
No, mom's pissed off because they didn't want Fred and I.

MOM
I'll show them.

I'm going to try to make a quiz. They have a million out there, but mine's going to be special. Just you wait.

2002-04-11T02:46:00.000-04:00

i'm super, thanks for... oh never mind.

Ya'll, I am in the best mood. The best. Such good things have happened, I'm going to have to put them in list form. I must give a disclaimer that most of this entry will sound like bragging, which it unabashedly is. Hey, I'm happy. I'm doing some good things at the moment. Suck on it.

1) The other night I was driving home from one of my many late nights. I stopped by the side of the road and there were a whole bunch of deer standing in this field. Now, you know what normally to do when there's a deer standing near your car, right? You roll down the window and yell "DEER!" as loud as you can. It's mean to the deer, but very amusing to the humans for some reason. Actually, this may only amuse County-bred humans. Moving on. The other night, I rolled down my window just to watch the deer, since they were so close. I thought it would be cool to commune with them for a bit. Most of them backed away, but the one closest to the Beast (the Jeep's new name, remember? I'm going to keep saying it until you are good and sick of it) decided that I was a foe, a mortal enemy if you will. The deer raised its tail and started breathing very heavily, and there was absolutely no mistaking that my car was about to be used for a spirited game of Deer Polo. I mean, I felt threatened. I floored it to get away from the deer. Then I thought, "Wow. How cool. I just had an instinctual moment, where that deer and I spoke a common language. We actually communicated. We understood each other. This is the coolest thing ever." Then I realized what the deer and I had actually said to each other.

DEER
Get the fuck away from me, you Nazi pinko commie pig slut whore-human.

ANGELA
Yes! Absolutely! Whatever you say! Take my money and please don't hurt me!

I am a wus. I am not Jean Claude Van Damme, or even Dennis Miller. I am, at best, Lamb Chop, in terms of pure unmitigated studliness. Oh well. Nobody's perfect.

2) Alpha Psi Omega (the CNU theater frat for those of you not in the know) is finally getting underway. I feel like we're really doing some stuff that's exciting. I actually did my duty (whenever I hear that word, I think of doody. Like you made doody, ha ha ha.) and made changes to the constitution to be handed in at the meeting today. I am really sorry that I missed our meeting, as the AFKAPs (our fancy term for "pledge") had to turn in the results of their first mission: the scavenger hunt. They didn't come up with a live squirrel, but I hear they did really well with most of the list. Oh yes, and they won't tell me how they managed to get my steering wheel cover out of my locked car, either. AFKAPs are sneaky, especially this particular batch of AFKAPs, so watch your back.

3) Call Me Madam. This is one of the shows I'm working on right now. I am just in the ensemble, but I get to sing soprano and hit my first ever career Bb. Actually, it's my first time singing a Bb on stage, period. So I'm just wetting myself over that. But also, I get to be a dancer. I mean there's a couple numbers in this show where we do some honest-to-god dancing. Like Fred could be proud of me dancing. My dance partner and I have never managed to really nail the rhumba lift, but we'll get it. Anyway, so I feel and look like a dancer for the first time in my whole life. Why am I so obsessed with needing to be a dancer? I may never know, but I am, and so I shall be.

4) What You Will. This is another show I'm working on right now. It was written by Steven and it's really fun to do. Fred and I play lovers (who break up by show's end, but oh well) which I think is appropriate to be our last CNU show together. The show is very avant-garde and involves, among other things, talking birdcages. We all love it.

5) Cowboy Mouth. The last show I am working on at the moment. This time I am directing, and ya'll? My actors rock. Justin and Ashley did an improv through of the whole show tonight and they rocked it. They were intimidated by it at first, but they jumped in feet first and discovered so much and did so many interesting things. By the end of it, they were really glad we had done it. It is so amazing to work on this show. I mean it's a great show already but it is really proving to me how much the journey is the destination and it's all about process and just do the work and so on. The two of them bring so much energy as well. I can't wait to see what happens. I love directing. I bet all experiences aren't as good as this one is so I should just consider myself lucky and shut up. Oh yeah, Fred jumped in for his cameo without having even read the show, and he was great too of course. I'm just like a little mama hen bragging on all my chickies, aren't I? I'm so proud at this moment that I don't even care.

6) Lucy Latchum liked my speech. I went and met with her today and she only had minor changes and she hugged me and gave me a Reese's cup. I'm excited and freaked about next week. I hope it goes over well. I find that you can rarely go wrong with something that's from the heart, which this very much is. So I'm not too nervous.

7) Tap dancing is the greatest. I think I just pick this up faster than I do other kinds of dance. I don't know. I find myself just wanting to tap all the time now. I have Fred and Karen showing me all this different stuff and I am just voracious with it. I want to practice until I get it perfect. I don't tire. I annoy people, I'm sure.

8) A theater school wants me. A very expensive theater school, to be sure, but a theater school nonetheless. They're located in downtown Manhattan. All of my New York friends, plus Steven, plus a whole bunch of people from Call Me Madam are telling me that I need to go there, I need to spend the money and so on. I hope the training is good, for that much money, but I mean... I spend 7 weeks in Manhattan being an intense theater student? Yes, please. I am still going to wait to hear from Actor's Theater of Louisville, because I think the training there would be better, although how do I know? I don't. I don't know anything. Anyway, I'll either be in Louisville or NYC during the last half of this summer. Can't wait.

9) (Mike, I'm sorry, but this story is too good.) On the way home from CMM rehearsal tonight, the interior lights in Mike's car started to fade. At first we were just sort of mildly amused by this; the engine and battery lights had been flickering for the whole ride, but we weren't concerned. Then the lights started visibly going away. Then the odometer flinched and died. We drove down the road like this, Bryan and I giggling wildly, when we started suddenly to slow down. Mike said, "I think we're dying," and started to pull onto the shoulder. And yes sportsfans, two minutes later we were marooned on the side of the road with nary a hope of rescue.

Well, except that we called Fred to come get us.

And the roadside assistance people.

And a tow truck.

All right, but for about 35 seconds there, it was really scary. Get this, after the roadside assistance chick showed up, she just put down some flares and left us there. Alone! What? What is that about? How is that helping us, I ask you? What if an axe murderer had showed up? What if the tow truck and Fred never came, and we starved death? What if we picked up the flares and started waving them around like a Fourth of July celebration gone awry? What then, roadside assistance lady?

The highlight of this breakdown, for me, was Fred's dramatic arrival on the scene. He pulled in front of us and started to slow, then started to drive like a maniac, pulling into the ditch, backing towards us, and all sorts of (presumably unintentional) antics.

MIKE
Is that Freddie's car?

BRYAN
Uh, is he driving like a madman? Yes, that's Fred.

Fred proceeded to come and talk car-talk with the guys, which I love. I forget that he has all this car knowledge, because it rarely comes up with me. I care naught for cars. As long as the Beast is running, I'm fine with it. But when a car breaks down, he goes all super technical (his dad taught him everything about cars, apparently) and then I get to marvel at my superman boyfriend who knows everything in the WORLD. I know, I know, I'm a dork, but seriously. There's a lot that I admire in Fred on a regular basis, but the car thing is easy to forget about, so it's fun to have it thrust on me. Yahoo for Freddie.

10) The last and possibly best thing I want to talk about: on Tuesday my buddy Adam brought me some NerdsRopes. He didn't want them, they were leftover Easter candy, but he knew I liked them and gave them to me! How cool is that? I love my friends. And you know, I gobbled them up before you could say "card shark," too.

So that's a few highlights of my week so far. It's only Wednesday, too. The thing is, I'm surprisingly chipper despite the fact that due to sucky rising gas prices (what exactly do they mean by summer gas, anyway, and why does it cost $0.50 more per gallon?) my car now costs over 20 bucks to fill up. Which means that although it is Wednesday, I have exactly 7 dollars to last me till Sunday. And a quarter tank of gas. I don't care. My week has been great. I hope the trend continues.

2002-03-30T17:52:00.000-05:00

LIVEJOURNAL HAS ARRIVED!!! Go check me out. I'm hot like a tamale, ya'll.

Sarah Gates rocks my socks, ya'll know it. Oh yeah, the last evening of one acts is tonight. You don't want to miss it, do you? Do you? Show up. Huuuuckin DO-IT!

2002-03-19T15:34:00.000-05:00

netc: part one

Ahh, NETC. I love you, NETC. Me want to marry you long time, NETC.

NETC. This stands for New England Theater Conference. I went this weekend, and such stories I have. Such stories of fame and infamy and famous inflammatory family infantry.

Okay. So a few weeks ago, Fred and I bought some tickets for a Greyhound bus to cart us up to Hartford, Connecticut for the conference. I thought, "Well, this won't be so bad. I mean, I have a padded seat on a bus. So what if I'm on there for a long time? I'll be with Fred. I'll have some good stories to tell."

As the days drew nearer for our imminent departure, my throughline of thought went more like "I'm getting on a bus. Willingly. For twelve hours. I really must have some sort of degenerative mental condition."

The day before we left, I just sat in a corner and whimpered.

Actually, the bus ride wasn't all that bad. One of the best things about riding on a bus is that the drivers are either extremely cool or extremely angry, and it's impossible to tell from looking at them, which is which. Also, they have entertaining names. We had a "Smitty" and a "Big Sarge" among our numerous courriers. I didn't want to piss Big Sarge off, no I didn't.

Riding from Hampton to DC on Friday night, Fred and I spent our only time on board the bus in separate seats. It was difficult, although it was also the only time on the bus that I got any work done. My seat mate had an enormous carry on that she had to move out of the way so I could sit down. I'm sure she resented this, and I don't blame her, as she proceeded to hold it in her lap for four hours. That was bizarre. But she was also juggling a cup half full of soda and a Discman. At one point, with all of her worldly (busly?) possessions perched precariously on her lap (and partially in my lap) she fell asleep. Fell asleep with a teetering, spillable cup of soda perched just above my lap, in prime position to fall over and soak my dance rags.

I love dance rags. I'm just saying.

Anyway, the soda didn't spill, but I was paranoid, and spent most of the ride reading Charles Dickens with one hand up in the air at the ready. I played this off by pretending I was engrossed in the book and stretching my hand and cracking my knuckles and stuff (for four hours straight... plausibility not an issue). During this leg of the trip, I also began formulating ideas for the speech I have to give at the Center for the Arts groundbreaking ceremony next month. The president's office said they want some humorous anecdotes. I thought I'd tell about the time that a bunch of us went out to a pool hall with Steven and George and we got in trouble with the owners of the place for "laughing too loudly." Unity. Togetherness. Community. Artist Bonding. Plus it's a funny story.

I told it to Fred, and he responded, "Oh, you mean teachers getting drunk with students and getting thrown out of a bar for being rowdy? Yeah, Steven'll love that." Well sure, when you put it that way...

In the station in DC, I paid $1.58 for a bottle of peach-flavored water. Exotic! Urban! Nasty! Plus I spilled it on myself!

From DC to NYC, we watched a movie. The movie was "Planet of the Apes." Fred was for some reason, very excited about seeing this movie. His excitement made absolutely no sense, since, in his words, "This movie sucks! I've seen it twice." If you figure him out, let me know.

In the NYC bus terminal, I laid down on the floor and slept on Fred's knee. At one point I got up to look at the snack machines and soda machines. I intended to buy something, but I wasn's sure what I wanted, and it was, after all, 5 in the morning. I apparently stood there for a really long time (perhaps I fell asleep) because when I returned to Fred, he said "I was afraid you were window shopping and I was going to have to go and get you." I did buy a bottle of Sprite.

There are no trash cans in the NYC bus terminal. There really aren't, except in the bathrooms. I'm not sure why. They have 425 gates. You would think trash cans would be requisite additions.

From NYC to Hartford, I listened to an Indigo Girls song on repeat for an extraordinary part of the trip. Fred and I made many valiant attempts to sleep on each other, with varying degrees of success.

Fred's grandfather picked us up in Hartford. I was so tired. I don't think I've ever been that tired. I remember looking out the window and realizing for the first time that we were in a big city.

ANGELA
Isn't Hartford the capital of Connecticut?

GRANDPA
Yes.

ANGELA
For some reason I wasn't expecting a big city.

GRANDPA
Well, this is a big city. This is our idea of a big city.

This conversation made so little sense to me at the time that I needed to just block it out and move on. Fred apologized to his grandfather that we were so groggy. I remember that Fred was bragging about the beautiful landscape and hills and cliffs and stuff that they have, but we couldn't see any of it because it was so foggy that morning. At that point I saw a nice hill like he was talking about rising along the road beside us. Grandpa pointed it out, too.

GRANDPA
Well, there's a nice piece of landscape. The city dump.

I was very glad I hadn't been the one to bring it up.

Fred's grandparents have one normal animal and one insane animal. The normal one is a very cute cat that wants all your loving, all the time. The insane one is a black cocker spaniel named Pepper. Pepper barks madly at anyone that comes in the door and refuses to come near anyone he doesn't know. You have to sneak attack him if you want to even throw his ball for him. I'm used to dogs that won't fucking well leave you alone, so it was a bit of a culture shock. The whole New England experience is a culture shock.

We slept until 1 o'clock, at which time we got up and went downstairs to find some of the family waiting to meet yours truly. Fred's parents had done nothing but warn me about this side of the family for the duration of our relationship so far, and to that end, I was unexcited about rolling out of bed and going immediately downstairs to meet them. They turned out to be perfectly nice and very funny and they didn't frighten me at all.

On our way into "town" on Saturday, we crossed over the Connecticut River, and Fred told me that when he was little, whenever they crossed a bridge, he would put his finger in the air and shout "THE CONNECTICUT RIVEEERRRRRRRR." He demonstrated. It is much the sort of thing I imagined a young Fred would do. He continued to demonstrate this for the remainder of the trip.

Fred and I ran a lot of errands that day, and I even convinced him to take me to a pet store. We cut up our resumes and stapled them, we got food and hair products, Fred got a hair cut. We walked through a department store at one point, and they had a display set up of dozens of smelly products of a brand I had never seen. I made a bee line for the display. Fred knew that I would be there for a while and took off for the hills, or wherever guys go when girls start getting all girly on them.

When I finally found him again, he was way the hell up in another part of the mall. It was lucky that we even found each other.

ANGELA
Why did you leave?

FRED
You were going to be there forever.

ANGELA
You just don't understand my need to smell stuff.

FRED
Oh, I understand it. That's why I left.

ANGELA
But you don't appreciate it.

FRED
I appreciate that I don't need to stand there while you smell every single bottle of lotion in the store.

And on and on the argument went. I argue that someday, long after we've broken up, he's going to walk past a Bath and Body Works and feel sad that there is no one around to drag him into the store and make him comment on the different lotions. He maintains that he will be happy to walk confidently past, without the least inclination to go inside and stand around looking noncommital. Only time will tell.

We went for a walk around a path behind the grandparents' house. Fred tried to convince me that there were alligators in the pond. I almost bought it until I remembered that there are alligators in Florida. No one pulls one over on me, no sir! I kept myself warm during this invigorating walk by singing showtunes, mostly showtunes from Where's Charley? just to ensure Fred's total annoyance. He responded by trying to push me into briar bushes and pretending that we were lost, and yes, the alligator story.

That night we had a huge dinner at a yummy place called Zanto's. Fred's Aunt Sue and Uncle Alan told a whole bunch of inappropriate jokes, which was excellent considering there were kids at the table. I liked Sue and Alan. I want to be them. They are so young, so vibrant, so cool and fun. The reason they are so cool and young and so on is that they don't have children. It's so obvious that kids make you old and nervous when you meet people like them. At this point in my life, I very much do not want kids.

In bed that night, I got very nervous about the auditions the next day, and the nerves manifested themselves in my desire to giggle uncontrollably about everything. Fred and I found a greeting card that day that had a whole bunch of nerdy guys on the front, and inside read "The dork club wants to wish their leader a happy birthday." I had been saying it to Fred all day long, and in bed that night, it was 3 times as funny. I could not shut up. I could not calm down.

The remainder of this story, including the fun fun audition process, will be told in NETC: Part Two. I am now accepting bets on whether or not I will actually finish the second half of this entry. Call your local bookie.

2002-02-26T16:43:00.000-05:00

i hate the post office

I've found a new candy that I'm obsessed with, and everyone else should be obsessed with it too. It's called NerdsRope and it is basically Nerds candy stuck to a gummy rope thing. It's crunchy and chewy at the same time! Guaranteed to net you weird looks when you try to buy it! It's the epitome of stupid candy and it is WONDERFUL. Last night Fred and I went to 7-11 to get some stuff, and the cashier (a man) actually sort of took my side against Fred's skepticism about the NerdsRopes:

FRED
Are you really buying six of those?

ANGELA
I'm buying them, go away.

FRED
Do you need six? Those're gonna go straight to your hips, you know.*

*(This is Fred's favorite argument. I'll tell you all about why some other time, but meanwhile, ya'll know he doesn't actually think I'm fat, right? Right.)

ANGELA
I said I was buying them, now you can't stop me.

CASHIER
Well, when a woman says she's doing something like that, she hardly ever changes her mind.

ANGELA
Ahh, the voice of experience.

CASHIER
Absolutely. Women never change their minds. Never ever. Never, buddy. Don't ever try to make a woman change her mind, cause you can't do it. Women. Boy do they never change their minds about something. Once they decide they're doing something, there's no going back, hooowee. Never change their minds, women. About anything. (pause) Besides, look. These are made by Wonka.

That was a very strange argument. Apparently strange enough that Fred couldn't argue back, because the upshot is, I got my candy and Fred had to shut up about it. It was awesome. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

We have Box Elder bugs. Have you ever seen a Box Elder bug? They're like lightning bugs, only they don't light up and they mostly crawl instead of fly. They can fly, they just don't do it often, which, I'm sorry, just looks like slovenliness. For your information, Box Elder Bugs, there are squirells around called Flying Squirrels, who can't fly but do it anyway. Maybe you could take a page out of their book.

Anyway, Box Elder bugs are really not as much like lightning bugs as I was thinking. They are both bugs, though. But anyway. We (my parents) used to have a Box Elder Tree in our (their) front yard. Box Elders are gorgeous trees. They really are. But they come with the bugs. Finally one year my parents decided it was too much, since every spring our house was literally flooded with Box Elder bugs. I mean, they don't sting and they aren't big, but still. Bugs running your house is not the premiere living situation we might all have hoped for. Plus, and this is the worst part, you can't kill them. I mean, you can, of course, but you feel bad. These bugs have no natural defenses. You just walk right up and smush them and that really doesn't seem fair. So instead we carry the bugs outside, where they just laugh in a jolly manner (inasmuch as bugs can be jolly) and come right back inside.

My parents cut the tree down. It was as bittersweet an experience as I've ever known. I was about 14. I'm now 24, which means that 10 years have passed (and you thought theater people couldn't do math. Math is easy!). This morning there was a Box Elder Bug climbing up my front door. I got sort of happy and nostalgic. There must be some remnant eggs or nests in the ground somewhere because every once in a blue moon we see them.

This morning I had to go to the post office to mail my headshot. I am post office retarded. I really am. I want to tell them what I want and have them put it in the envelope and address it and send it. I think my job should be over when I walk in the door. But ohhhh no. They expect you to know which of the 3000 envelopes you want, and which labels go with which envelope, and apparently you should know the prices by osmosis because nothing is posted anywhere. Today I went up with the right envelope and the wrong label. She handed me the right label and served someone else while I filled it out. That was embarrassing.

Then I said, "Can you stick some cardboard in here so my picture doesn't get bent?" She said "No. We have photo envelopes. They're over there." I asked if it would get there at the same time as my current envelope. No, it would take longer. Does it cost the same? No, it costs extra. What a jip! Who are they trying to kid? Damn the postal service. I said I would stick with my envelope, thank you very much just the same. We sealed the envelope, then when I went to pay, I realized I'd left something out of it. I had to get a new envelope and start all over again. She served another person while I did this. Agony, darlings.

How come everyone else knows what to do in the post office, and I'm like some sort of postal reject? Maybe I should go there every day and practice mailing stuff to myself.

I went out the other night. Here's a funny thing. I am extremely good at getting out of going out. I whine expertly. I somehow think that I've got much more work than anyone else does, and I rely on it to get me out of everything fun. No one can permeate my rock hard exterior when I set my mind to going home when I am invited out. I just dig my heels in and whine. They give up quickly.

I discovered on Sunday night that one person exists in the world who is somehow able to combat this. When I tried to pull my "I'm too busy" rap on Sarah, she simply said, "No you're not. You're going." If someone else would ask me, I would start to worm out of it, but Sarah would step in to remind me, "You're going." There was no arguing. There was no discussing. I was going. It was an interesting and sort of random discovery. I told Sarah about this revelation at the end of the night.

ANGELA
You know, you're the only person in the world who has the power to circumvent my whining about being busy to make me go out.

SARAH
Really? Why?

ANGELA
I think I'm a little bit scared of you.

SARAH
Well, I'll try not to exploit my power too often, then.

Adam told the waitress to "surprise" him with what drink he wanted. When she brought it, he took a sip and couldn't figure out what it was. It got passed around the table. No one knew for sure. When she returned, Adam asked what it was. "Surprise," she said, and wouldn't tell him. The drinks became progressively more inventive as the night wore on, and each one was passed around the table for inspection.

Other than that, it was an interesting and rather chill evening. I enjoyed myself and I'm glad I didn't puss out. Or that I wasn't allowed to puss out, I should say.

Here's the most important thing that's going on. I'm popular and cool, and to this extent, my friend Jason (or Magikjason, whatever you prefer) has decided to form a rebuttal to my page. You can see it by clicking here. He spells "rebuttal" wrong. Haha. Go make fun of him. My readers will destroy you, Linnet! Also, pay no attention to all the mean and naughty things he says about yours truly, it's only the rawest form of envy. Most of it isn't even true.

2002-02-22T14:00:00.000-05:00

a few embarassments

Oh, it's bad, it's bad. Someone in this computer lab apparently chose to bathe in cologne this morning. Gross. I hate over-cologned people. It's how I imagine it must have been back in the old days, when they didn't bathe and had to wear an assload of cologne to cover it up. I'm sure this guy is very clean and all, but he is way too spray happy.

Get this. Just now I typed something really embarassing and stupid on one of the other computers, and I read it, and then I tried to close the window, and the computer froze. It was horrible. It was one of those freezes where NOTHING works. Not clicking, not ctl-alt-delete, not anything. Gah! I panicked momentarily. Actually, I sat there giggling at the screen, thinking how typical it was, then I panicked. I thought how horrible it would be to have the computer guy come in and see it. He'd smirk, he'd look down his nose a little at me and then he'd fix whatever the problem was. No, I wasn't going to be that guy. I pulled the plug.

When I put the plug back in, the words were still on the screen. At this point I really started sweating, realizing that there was some sort of divine intervention going on that was burning these words into the very screen they appeared on. At this point I knew the words were never going to go away, the computer wanted them, loved them, even. The words were sufficient to make the computer cease to be a mindless machine and instead a willfull being.

All this I considered before I realized I'd only unplugged the monitor.

Feeling a little (okay, a lot) silly, I unplugged the computer. The words (tra-la, I'm a technical goddess) instantly disappeared.

This morning I had a most fantastic voice coaching with Dr. Fitz. I love it when the skeptical student in me gets completely proven wrong by the overarching expertise of its mentors. I have an example handy. Today in the coaching,

Just a moment. I have just had to switch computer labs. The reason for this is that I am an idiot. There I was, merrily typing away, not really paying attention to the fact that the lab had suddenly filled up with lots of people, all of whom seemed to know each other. Then I realized that there was a guy standing at the front of the room talking animatedly. I realized he'd been doing this for about 5 minutes before I ever noticed him. I turned to the guy next to me and said the painfully obvious.

ANGELA
Is this, like, a class or something?

CLASS-TAKING GUY
Um... yeah.

ANGELA
So that means... that means I should probably leave, right?

CLASS-TAKING GUY
Um, I don't know. Maybe. You probably should. I guess.

Not a master of snap decision making, this guy. What I don't understand is why, when they saw a foreign object (that would be me) sitting in their classroom, obliviously typing away when their class is getting ready to start, why didn't one of them just lean over and go, "Yo, Typey McQuickfingers, class is getting ready to start. Get out."

Why? Why?

Well anyway, so I was telling a story about Dr. Fitz. Today he was working with me on getting the vibrato in my voice and not just singing flat. He said what might help is some tension, so he had me hold his hand and release when I took a breath and then pull really hard when I was building toward the top of the phrase. I was skeptical about it, but I did the exercise anyway. When I started pulling, he started rattling my arm back and forth so I really had to concentrate on... you know what, I really don't know what happened or why. But the resistance made me hit this high note that I'd struggled with completely clearly and without much effort. It took all the struggle from my voice and put it in my hand, I guess. It was amazing. And after that, he clapped his hands and yelled "YES! That's the best I've ever heard you do it!" It was pretty awesome.

So I am writing this to say that I as a dumb student hereby defer to all my brilliant brilliant teachers. You teachers rock. I am a loser. I know nothing.

I really know nothing. But I know that I know nothing, so that's something.

I have a new keychain. I got it from a doctor's office, where I went to have an MRI done this week. The keychain is a sturdy plastic replica of a human spine. I thought it was hysterical when I saw it. I don't have any funny keychains right now, so I hung it on there excitedly. Unfortunately, it's not been very popular. Most people just pick it up, and say, in a tone of voice that they've seen it all before, "What is that? A spine? Why?" And then I have to explain. The story isn't funny. So I think I'm going to remove it.

I've had a couple of very popular keychains over the years, which I dearly long to have back. One of them was a useless furry white ball. It was awesome. People picked it up and petted it so often that it actually went bald. Another cool keychain I had was a bas-relief of the pope. My friend Nicole brought it right from the Vatican to my front door. When she saw it, she knew I had to have it. It rocked, but then it broke and I lost it.

I'm not one of those people who collects cool keychains and wears them like a cattle brand. Mostly, I don't have keychains, because I have a big wallet attached to my keys, which means they are plenty bulky. But if I find something really worth having, I'll display it. I really thought I had something with the plastic spine, but clearly, no. Maybe the keychain carrying audience has become more discerning and critical. Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough. Maybe I should stop babbling about keychains and go to class.

Yeah. Good idea. Let's have a quick recap of what we've learned today. Listen to your teachers, refuse the Cologne Movement, and never under any circumstances type anything silly or embarrassing on a computer where everyone might see it. I warned you! You'll be sorry! Then I'll laugh! And hopefully someone will trip you right after that too! That would be awesome!

2002-02-15T13:32:00.000-05:00

believe it or not

What a great song that was. Remember that? Theme to The Greatest American Hero? Well, anyway, I'm walking on air, sunshine, and some other cheesy metaphors because of yesterday.

Fred is a really wonderful person. It's the simple things in life that really matter, and he knows this. He knows I like Valentine's Day and the cheesy silliness of it. Even though he doesn't like it, he still gave me a bouquet of tulips and yummy chocolate almond candy. He's the greatest. Last night, we spent the night at Allison's (easily my most understanding and tolerant friend in the world... we don't know what we would do without her couch), and we played a little Valentine's game. We would each say a sentence and then fill in the blanks. Cheesy little relationship type sentences, such as "If you could change one thing about my past, it would be..." and "If you had amnesia, the one moment you would remember about our relationship is..." (we had the same answer for this one). It was such fun... much more meaningful than any cards or poems or whatever that might have been exchanged. Fred gets a lot of flak for being a not-so-sensitive guy sometimes from people that know him. But they don't know him like I know him, and that makes me feel very cool, because I know he doesn't normally show his mushy sentimental side.

I reccommend the Valentine game highly. I learned a lot. There's my mushy entry, to make up for my crappy bitching entry from last year on this date. Back to your regularly scheduled sarcasm at a later time. I would say tomorrow, but we all know that's a crock.

2002-02-13T13:57:00.000-05:00

my work here is done

I'm not sure what it is, but I love putting money in snack machines. I like holding the coin there and pressing on the top of it so that it spins into the slot really quickly. It feels a bit illicit, I suppose, like gambling. I guess it's the little things in life. Does anyone else feel this way about coin slots? They're fun, aren't they? You kind of want to know where your coin goes. How does the machine separate nickels from dimes from foreign currency and so on? It's the coolest. I need one of those for my bedroom. Screw zen rock gardens, get me a snack machine money slot.

While I'm on the subject of snack machines, everyone go check out prolefeed. I've written an article about The Olympics. I am so funny. Tell me I'm funny.

I need to get a job. I was thinking yesterday about a job I used to have. I was such a slacker. Such a bad employee. I would do anything not to work. I was an editor of graphic programs and army manuals and such. Kind of like a Quality Assurance thing. It was boring as hell. One morning we ran out of stuff to do, so I started tooling around with paint shop, making designs. I did this for four hours. Then my supervisor came in. She pleasantly asked what I was working on. I thought quickly for an answer that would please her:

ANGELA
Nothing.

SUPERVISOR
Nothing at all?

ANGELA
Nothing! At all!

SUPERVISOR
Okay. Hold on.

And off she went to talk to the head honcho about what a bad worker I am. My office mates were very upset with me. "Why didn't you make something up? Why didn't you lie? Why are you so retarded?" The answer was that I just didn't care. Not even a little bit. The head honcho called me into his office. This is the sentence he used to lay me off:

"Well. It's early. It's beautiful outside. Might be a nice day to go to the beach."

That's what he said. I kid you not. It was the weirdest thing. And I just remember thinking, "Okay, so I'll clean out my desk and then... I'll go to the beach, I guess. Is that allowed?"

I didn't end up going to the beach, but it's the idea of it that remains an intrigue. I hope someday that I will be fired from a job and will be edgeless enough that I can walk out the door, get in my car, and drive to the beach.

I have a new project. I'm going to paint the doors in my bedroom. I have lots of storage closets in my room, since I live on the third floor of our house, and the doors are currently painted black and white, from when I was 13 and going through my goth-parody stage. Everything I owned was black and white. Ridiculous. Anyway, these doors are ugly and they are a drain on my energy. I'm going to paint them white and put designs and quotes all over them in bright happy colors. I went to the hardware store the other day to poke around. There is nothing quite like going to a hardware store and poking around. It's one of life's last great occupances. I picked up some paint samples.

You know how there are like, 300 colors of paint you can get, and the paint names are all really interesting? Who decides those names? How do you get that job? Cause I want it. It's like they just make stuff up, but you have to agree that this exact shade of blue really does look like it should be called "Baby Booties." And we all know that "Yellow Lettuce" is a lot more descriptive than "A Kind of a Cross Between Greenish Yellow and Yellowish Green, sort of More Green than Yellow, and Bright but With a Matte Quality." Yellow Lettuce. I love it. I could so completely do that job. Color names, I got a million of them. Goldfish Cracker. Army Tank. Rat Entrails. Cell Phone Black. Cerulean.

I made that last one up. I swear I did. No, really, I did. It's so not a word.

I have a headache, I think I need to eat something. I'm sorry for this entry. Think of it like an episode of Seinfeld. You learned nothing, you got nothing out of it, it had no point, you are significantly dumber for seeing it, and yet... you're just gonna keep coming back for more. Twice a day. For the rest of your life.

2002-02-09T17:51:00.000-05:00

are you ready for stamp passion? are you?

I just got a letter that pretended to be a valentine. The outside has little replicas of candy hearts and is all pink and white, and the envelope reads "Heartwarming Message Inside." Hmm. It looks promising, but it's just a little too... perfect?

I open it up, and it's from the Alpha Phi Foundation. Alpha Phi, the sorority I joined 5 years ago and am completely alienated from at this point in my life. Yeah, that's the one. They want me to send them some money. My, that IS heartwarming.

I've had a rather bad week, and as such am actually looking forward to Valentine's Day. Give me some candy. I'll also take flowers.

I have some idea of why my week has been so bad... um, apart from all the circumstances that actually make it bad. But I've stopped writing my pages. At the risk of sounding too New-Agey, I'm in a class right now which is studying a book called "The Artist's Way." This book is designed to reawaken the artist within, and it has all kinds of wonderful exercises to stimulate and excite the reader. One of these is the "morning pages," which is exactly what it sounds like. Every morning, you wake up a half hour early and write 3 pages... of nonsense if you want to... and it drains your brain of all the bullshit that stops you from being productive all day. It actually works.

And due to bad times, I've stopped writing them. This is the worst reason to stop writing them. It is a self-propagating cycle.

Bad times.

1. My grandfather is dying of cancer. Nothing that can be said can make you understand how I feel about this. That side of my family has always been very energetic and interesting and lively and virile and wonderful... to see him weakened and powerless is a heartbreak and I hate it. One of the last things he ever said to me was "I want to live to see you make it on Broadway." He's been beyond proud of my achievements. My mother says I give him bragging rights on his grandchildren, which he hasn't really gotten from any of us in the past.

2. My mother and I are having issues. I can't really talk about this because it is broad and involves old family stuff and probably isn't interesting in the least to anyone else anyway. I'm working on it... with Fred's help, and Susan's help... and hopefully our relationship can be redefined so that it's healthy and works for both of us.

3. Acting. I've been off my game lately. I didn't get a callback to Juilliard. I also didn't get cast in the mainstage show at school. I'm sorry to say that because of these (relatively small) setbacks my parents now think I should reclaim my old dream of becoming a trial lawyer. I've no intention of this. I asked them if they would be saying these things if I'd gotten cast in the show. No response. I know that I'm a good actor. I know that I have what it takes to succeed, although my skin could have been thicker this week, as far as Fred is concerned. Maybe this experience will give me what I need to be thick-skinned. I, after all, have been fortunate in that I haven't dealt with much dissappointment in theater. I need to embrace the opportunity, I guess, to feel bad and bounce back. To lose face, to be ashamed, to be hurt and publically sorry, and then to own that and move on. Theater, more than any other profession, demands this ability. I can do it. My shell will be hardened. Fred deals with this much better than I do, and I need to take a page out of his book.

4. I hurt my back. This is actually more funny than horrible, except that it hurts sometimes. The other day I woke up with a kink in my upper back. I get these every so often and attribute them to sleeping in weird positions. So I'm in stage combat class, and I sneezed three times very enthisiastically, and after the third sneeze, I stood up, and immediately said "Uh oh."

KELLEY
What? What's wrong?

ANGELA
I think... I just hurt myself.

KELLEY
Oh my god, what happened? What were you doing?

ANGELA
I... sneezed. I sneezed, and now I'm hurt.

I went to the doctor, who prescribed physical therapy, which is YUMMY, and an MRI, which is just a precaution and is very much going to suck, and some pills which seem to make me feel better temporarily. Painkillers are a little scary, though, so I try not to take them often.

When I was in New York, I stayed with my girlfriend Nicole, and one morning, as she was getting ready for work, she pulled out this fabulous long purple sweater coat thing, and my jaw dropped.

See, several months ago Express came out with this coat. Nicole and I had both seen it in the store, and over email we drooled to each other about how great it was. It was, however, too much money for us to justify spending. So we just lamented its existence and all those rich bastards who could afford the coat and wouldn't, most likely, appreciate it the way WE would. In time, the store here sold out of them, and I forgot about it.

When I saw her wearing it, I couldn't believe it.

ANGELA
Oh my god. That's our coat, isn't it?

NICOLE
Yes! I got it on sale at this place near where I work... and that was a few months ago, and... oooh... you could get one! They're down to like 30 bucks now!

ANGELA
THIRTY DOLLARS! Are you kidding me? I have to get it!

NICOLE
Yes! We'll go there tonight! Exclamation point!

FRED AND STEPHEN, THE PENNY PINCHING BOYFRIENDS
[shaking their heads in disbelief]

So, I went and got the coat. You can't believe how gratifying it is to want something so much and not get it, and then get it when you least expect to for almost no effort. I used up the rest of my Christmas present from Fred's parents, an Express gift card, which meant I only paid like ten dollars. For the most fantastic coat in the whole world. So that was an up-note.

And yesterday, another really good thing happened. My Jeep overheated.

Sometime, I should really make a chronicle of all that goes wrong with the Beast (the Jeep's new name, christened by Fred). It would be pages and pages long, and no one would ever believe me. Anyway, I had just gotten it out of the shop, where it was having a spark plug fixed (this after being out of the shop for one day from HAVING THE ENTIRE TRANSMISSION REPLACED), when it overheated. I got it back to school, and left notes all over everywhere that said "Put water in before you drive me!" I went to class.

Later, Fred came out to examine the problem. We were soon joined by Craig, and then Amanda, who happened to be around. It's amazing how many people show up when your car is in trouble. If you're at all bored, just crack your hood and stare into your car. I guarantee someone you know will show up to help.

Anyway. We're standing there after having added water to the holding tank, trying to figure out what's wrong. Suddenly, a hose at the top of the engine starts spraying brown water.

FRED
Hmm. That could be the problem, I dunno. What do you guys think? Does that look bad?

It was at this point that I started ritually beating my head on the pavement, but Fred picked me up, brushed away the blood, and assured me that it was an easy fix. Amanda suggested electrical tape to fix the hole. A quick phone call to Dad revealed that this was a good temporary solution. After this, everyone else had somewhere to be, so I was left to fix the hole by myself. I was scared, but determined. I went inside. I got paper towels, two paper cups of water, and some electrical tape. To fix my engine. I felt very much like the world's most ghetto-fabulous mechanic. I went back outside, and realized my keys had gone missing. You all have, by this point, realized that I locked my keys in the car, but it took me significantly longer to discover this. When I did, the expletives flowed very freely and without reserve.

I called the Campy Police, who very kindly showed up and used their long metal stick to open my car. God love them. They gave me two parking tickets for 70 bucks each this week, which really sucked until I got them voided, but god love them.

I'm sitting on the hood of my car when I see Kim and Anne across the parking lot, talking. Anne points at me, and waves, and yells "Do you need a jump?" I yell that I don't, that I am fixing my car. Jama also comes by to see what's wrong. I explain that I'm okay, and as I'm bent over trying to figure out how to tape the hole, I hear another voice.

VOICE
You know, you should really learn from others' mistakes.

I look up, and see that it's Tom. He used to own a Jeep as well, and his had a similar amount of problems. He is just walking by, not stopping, just making good use of the glaring excuse to tease me. And why not, I ask you? I am appropriately salty and wounded:

ANGELA
You know what, Tom, why don't you just kiss my ass? This is all your fault.

TOM
I used to own one of these, as well.

ANGELA
Really, I wasn't aware of that.

TOM
Yes, and it sat still and did nothing like that quite often.

ANGELA
Thanks, that's sooooo helpful.

Without help from Tom (or anyone else, thank you very much) I got the Jeep fixed, and went inside to brag about it. No one was impressed, although I did manage to muscle a feeble "good job, honey bunny schnookie sweetie muffy" from Fred, but I have a feeling he was being sarcastic.

Fred and I have started calling each other "Favorite Girlfriend" and "Favorite Boyfriend." I'm not sure where this came from, but I like it.

This is an appropriately weird end to my weird week o' bullshit: A woman on TV just said she discovered a "wonderful" rubber stamp store, while she was on tour for National Arts and Crafts month, called "Stamp Passion." Stamp Passion, good lord. I think it's time to go drink heavily or shoot myself in the head. Take care of yourselves and be excellent to each other, for Stamp Passion exists in the world, and it is a VERY BAD THING.

2002-01-11T16:41:00.000-05:00

back in the swing

The past few days I've spent the night with Fred (or he with me) most of the time because we had rehearsal in Virginia Beach more often than not, and there was snow, and I didn't want to drive in it, and Fred didn't want to drive his car because MY car has 4 wheel drive (bigger balls than you, neener neener) so the upshot is, we spent lots of time together.

We sleep on couches at our parents' houses, because let's face it, this is a family weblog. No nookie. No poontang.

So I'm sleeping on the couch, and his grandfather is eating breakfast in the kitchen, and my boyfriend comes into the room and climbs on top of me to wake me up, yelling "Get up, you're lazy, get up get up get up!" This is about 8 o'clock in the morning, so naturally it made me unhappy.

I kept telling him to get off me, and he wouldn't, and ultimately Grandpa chimed in.

GRANDPA
Are you going to let him talk to you like that?

ANGELA
What? He's YOUR grandson, you obviously taught him to do this to people.

GRANDPA
Ahhhh, just tell him to go fry ice.

ANGELA
Yes! That’s beautiful! Hey you! GO FRY ICE!

Go fry ice. That's my new favorite saying. Now, Tom, you better come through with a "go fry ice" t-shirt VERY soon.

Just kidding. But you know, if you find one, by all means grab it.

For everyone else who has no idea what I'm talking about, Tom gave me the coolest t-shirt in existence over the Christmas break. It says "It's Okay, I'm With The Band." It says that so I don't have to. I‘m purposely neglecting to mention that it was a Christmas present so that I don‘t feel bad for giving him a big fat nothing. I love it. I'm just biding my time until it's warm enough to wear it.

Fred and I are in a new show. We're doing Camelot at Virginia Musical Theater in Va Beach. It's going to be good. I think. I am loving the two week rehearsal process. I really am. For a musical, it's especially fine, since there isn't quite the level of character study necessary for other plays. The stage manager is a wank, at least to me. Fred thinks he's A-OK but this is because (as I keep telling Fred) the SM has a crush on him, so is nice to Fred and Fred alone. Everyone else is nice universally. There's one girl that Fred and I especially like, but up until yesterday, we didn't know her name. We just kept saying "that girl with the short hair? I like her. She's really cool." Eventually, this was abbreviated to "that girl we like," as in "I'm gonna get my hair cut like the girl we like." Or "That girl we like is a pretty good singer." Then she told a story about her boyfriend, whose name is Jason. This resulted in us calling her "Jason's girlfriend:" "I want those shoes Jason's girlfriend has on." "Do you think Jason's girlfriend would want to go to lunch with us today?"

We learned yesterday that her name is Michelle. Damn it.

Busy life has really begun again in earnest. I have a Where's Charley? rehearsal this afternoon, and school starts next week. Looking forward to it. I have a lot of goals for this semester, not the least of which is auditioning for grad schools, summer workshops, and summer theaters. I hope to get my room placed for feng shui before then, and all my energy and life things balanced completely.

This website has been redesigned to include feng shui. If it's not working for you, move your monitor.

2002-01-01T12:29:00.000-05:00

ugh.

I'm not hungover today! The rest of you are, I hope, laid up in bed with God's own headache upon you, moaning that you will never drink again. I hope this in earnest because then you will have some slight idea of how I felt yesterday at this time.

Yes, friends, on New Year's Eve... eve, I went out and got hammered. Hammered to the point that there was no hope of going out last night and drinking. Even seeing ads for drinks made me very queasy. And Fred said he was having trouble saying "root beer." This was an absolutely idiotic thing to do, which we realize now, and by the way we're never drinking again... but at the time, it seemed like a plan.

It's nice, at least, to wake up in your house, if you have to wake up hungover. When you wake up hungover and you're away from home, the having to drive home can really kill you. Anyway, when I woke up my parents were standing over me, giggling. Fred had apparently just come in. When they woke up, they found me sleeping on the couch, and Fred on the bathroom floor. I got up (apparently) and peed, then laid on the floor next to Fred. It was at this point that they tried to take pictures of us, but couldn't figure out how to work the digital camera.

When I actually woke up, I had to explain the fact that all my clothes were in the bathroom and my hair was wet (I had to take a shower in the middle of the night). I at least had the foresight to put on other clothes, but I suspect that I only did this because I had a fresh load in the dryer waiting for me.

Anyway, so Fred and I laid miserably on the couches in the living room all day yesterday, getting absolutely nothing done and feeling quite sorry for ourselves. We actually ended up having to cancel our plans from last night, and instead played UNO and watched the ball drop and then watched Animal Planet until we fell asleep. It was, at the very least, a memorable way to spend New Year's. Parties so often blend into each other. I don't think I'll forget the year that I was too hungover to move.

I hope you guys are feeling it today. I'm a bitch, aren't I? I feel that if you're dumb enough to drink that much (as dumb as I am, for instance) then you're dumb enough to suffer the consequences. I've suffered enough for one year, so my only New Year's resolution is to not drink ever again. And, you know, if I do, to limit myself, for god's sake.

Here's to a happy and healthy and peaceful year for us all. Down some Advil for me.

2001-12-19T12:59:00.000-05:00

You guys, I promise, I'm working on a great update. Really fantastic. Exciting, even!

You'll be thrilled. You'll wonder how I ever came to be so awesome. You'll want to send me stuff.

2001-12-10T10:09:00.000-05:00

skivies is underwear, not a nautical term. you idiot.

Here's a weird thing.

Last night, Fred and I went and slept on the boat... don't you wish I meant we owned a boat? At 24 and still in undergrad, wouldn't it be great if we had our own boat? Wouldn't you all say, "Well, there go the Gatsby's." (Wait... that doesn't sound right.) Anyway, it's not our boat, it's Fred's parents' boat, but we still got to sleep on it, and ya'll? There is nothing like falling asleep on a gently rocking sailboat in December next to your sweetie poo when you have lots and lots of blankets.

Nothing at all. It was quite, quite wonderful.

So here's the weird thing. I'm laying there in the middle of the night, really half sleeping, and I was looking at Fred but I couldn't really see him because the pillow was covering his face. And my instinct was to reach out and rub his tummy or his chest or something, but somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I was thinking about my friend Allison, and I momentarily mistook him for her, and was thinking "Hey! Wait! Why would I want to rub Allison's chest? That's WEIRD!"

I actually had to kind of sit up and say to myself, "No, it's Fred. This is Fred. My boyfriend Fred. I can rub his chest, it's okay."

This morning, Fred's boss at the marina where he works (and where his parents' boat is docked; it's just all one big happy family) came to the boat and literally banged on the top of it to get us up. It was one of the scariest things I've ever gone through. It made me want to hit the deck and yell something like "Haul the boom in and tie up the skivies, Captain, we're going under!"

I'm sure that makes good nautical sense. When all else fails, hit the deck and yell something incoherent.

Anyway, so we stumble out of the boat and Jerry's standing there smiling at us, and he says, "You're gonna ride in the golf cart with me back to the clubhouse; we're gonna make Fred walk! Ha ha ha!" He's a funny guy. And he even let us have the golf cart all to ourselves.

Last night we had our first meeting for Where's Charley? It was fun, we had our read through and everyone introduced themselves and talked about their character, and we all said how CNU has great productions and we're going to uphold that tradition, and so on. I talked to the biggest pompous ass that I have ever met in my entire life, but in the interest of protecting his ego should he ever stumble across this page, I shall refrain from saying all that I want to about him. All I will say is that I wish very badly that people could get over themselves, and this goes especially for theater people, who just seem to think the world revolves around them.

I'm not like this, of course, but everyone else. Fucking divas.

Speaking of divas, during the last show (The Fifteen Minute Hamlet) I had to play a huge diva. You know, my character was that stereotypical "Everyone look at me" person. I thought I'd been typecast but everyone assured me that I wasn't. Then one night of a performance, I freaked out a bit because they wanted me out for fight call before my hair was done. Every night thus far I had been late with my hair and had held people up... this wasn't anyone's fault but mine, really, it's just that things didn't fall according to plan for me. And I was without exception, always late. So Kelly, the stage manager comes in the dressing room to talk to me.

KELLY
You need to be outside now, Steven needs to talk to everyone.

ME
Ahh! My hair's not done, what do I do? I've been late every night.

KELLY
Just get out there, and finish later.

ALLISON
Just go, we'll work it out.

ME
Well, what do they want, to hold curtain for five minutes while my stupid hair gets finished?

SOMEONE, ALLISON WOULDN'T TELL ME WHO, AFTER I LEFT THE ROOM
My goodness, someone's certainly getting into her character tonight, isn't she?

This might have been mean, but I completely deserved it for acting so spoiled. It really was silly though: I hated being late every night, and I just got frustrated. Mostly with myself. But I can see how it would have looked really bad to someone who didn't know me well. That bitch or bastard, as the case may be. I will seek him out and destroy him.

I'm so excited. Fred and I are doing our first (of many, I hope) professional show together in Camelot. This doesn't start rehearsal until after the new year, so we've got a bit of a nice break. Semester is over! Thank fucking god! I thought it would never end!

Tonight Fred and I are taking Jeffrey to see “the Harry Potato movie.” This should be interesting. Jeffrey meets Harry Potter. The world may never be the same. He’ll at least enjoy Alan Rickman. I’m going to enjoy just seeing the thing again. I can’t wait. Harry Potter for President!

Zach found a dog and named it Andre. He and his friend Sean had just been talking about how cool it would be to have a dog named Andre, and then they found one. He’s a puppy and he’s extremely cute. They say they’re going to teach it commands such as “Andre! Get your ass ova HYEAH!” and “Andre! Lemme get a shout out!” and “Andre! Raise da roof!” I’m not sure what Andre should do for “Raise the roof” but the thought of Sean’s parents yelling these commands all over their neighborhood really makes me too happy to go on living.

I got some other good news today. Juilliard sent me an envelope with my audition information. So I'm at least good enough to audition for them. I don't know how they can figure this out from an essay, but who cares? It is more exciting than I can really tell you to get a "yes" of any kind from those guys. I'm very excited, we audition for Juilliard and ACT in the first weekend in February, and Yale the first weekend in March. And we're staying with my best buddy, Nicole, which will be fantastic fun. Last time I visited Nicole in New York, we went to some tiny little dive of a bar where you wouldn't have known it was there if you didn't know it was there, and got fabulously drunk. On the walk from the cab to her apartment, I kept flinging myself (so I'm told) face first into snowdrifts and yelling "Wheeee!" or "Whoooo!" as the mood struck me. The cabby hated me, I'm also told. Then there was the bathroom incident, a story which is really better told by Nicole's boyfriend Stephen, but it involves me stripping all my clothes off and falling backwards into their bathtub, and Nicole doting on me like some sort of "drunken Florence Nightengale."

Fun times. It's really amazing we’re not dead.

Spell check thinks “Juilliard” is spelled “Julliard.” Just thought I would mention.

Fred and I have been doing the cleaning thing, and he’s been going through my room like some kind of tornado, demanding that I get rid of stuff that’s holding me back or that isn’t an expression of me. This is tough business if you’re like me and keep ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING THAT’S EVER GIVEN TO YOU. I want to change though, so I’m going through this rather difficult process. We go through a stack of pictures of friends of ours, and we come across two consecutive pictures of people kissing: one of a guy and a girl, and one of me and a girl.

FRED
See? Why would you want these? Here he is, trying not to be gay, and here you are… trying to BE gay.

ANGELA
You see, now I want them just because that’s hilarious.

We didn’t keep them. We threw them out along with a whole lot of other shit. And we’re only a third done! And that doesn’t even include my closets! And he says that you have to go back through at the end and throw MORE away! Wah!

2001-11-29T23:02:00.000-05:00

pants

I am going to try something today. Instead of my usual saavy and incisive witticisms of grand intellect and finesse, I'm going to write in the style of my 8 year old self. See, I kept a journal when I was 8, and awhile back I found it and my friend Nicole and I were in tears reading it. Ready? Wait for it.... okay, here we go.

My name is Angela. My daddys name is Rogers. Today I am wearing pants. My favorite thing for breakfast is cerael. Everyday the thing to do is learn a little something new. When I grow up I would like to be a prima balerina. My favarite country is Czeckaslavakia.

Okay, so that wasn't quite as funny as one might have hoped. Maybe it's funnier in context, when you realize that I say the exact same bloody thing almost every day, with minor variations (i.e. "My favorite thing for dinner is Jell-O.") The phrase "Today I am wearing pants" definitely appears multiple times, from which we can infer one of two things. Either I was a gut-wrenching feminist in those early days, bravely dashing down the oppresive gender-based stereotypes that were so rampant at York Elementary School, or else, I really had nothing better to talk about.

Amazingly, not much has changed in my writing in the last 14 years. Wait, no. How old am I? Sorry. That's 16 years. (Math hasn't gotten better either, apparently.) I still decide to write about things arbitrarily because I heard it that day and thought it would be cool to say (i.e. "Czechoslavakia" or "prima ballerina." I guarantee I had very little idea what either of those actually was. Still don't, actually.), and I still want to talk about my pants, although I'm going to dig a little deeper than just letting you know that I am currently wearing some.

Today I have on The Pants That My Mother Hates. I know that everyone has a pair of these. Either they're too tight on you, or too ratty, or "they make you look big as a house!" or whatever else might cause a mother to go in to a state of trouser shock. My own particular pair of these are fantastic. I get compliments whenever I wear them. This is because there is an enormous hole in the ass. I don't mean a little cute hole you can stick your finger in. I mean that if I didn't wear boxers, you'd be looking at ass cheek. They're ripped horizontally right below the back pocket from seam to seam. They rock. They don't rock because of the hole (necessarily) but they're my MOST COMFORTABLE JEANS! You can't give those up! It can take a woman several years to forge a healthy relationship with their dungarees. There are classes and certifications and all kinds of things.

Whenever I wear them, my mother tells me that people will think I'm easy, and besides, why would I want to wear clothes with holes in them? I love this. It feels quaint, kind of like I'm a rebellious 15 year old again. I suppose that whenever I move out I will miss being lectured about my clothing.

I'm sick. I'm not terribly sick, but I have a little silly head cold that doesn't want to go away. I got it from Fred, which is very funny considering that I've had three sicknesses courtesy of his germy ass in the last 6 months or so, and when we met, he told me, "I never get sick. I have great antibodies." Lies. All men lie.

Case in point: The other day I'm driving home from rehearsal, and a cop pulls me. I knew I had been speeding, but I wasn't speeding badly. I was going maybe 60 in a 50.

COP
You were speeding, weren't ya. Can I see your license and registration?

ME
Here you go.

COP
Where you coming from?

ME
Rehearsal. I'm sorry. I'm really tired and I've been at school all day and I just want to go home.

COP
School, eh? Where's school?

ME
CNU.

COP
What are you rehearsing for?

Okay. At this point, we have completely gone off topic. We are simply having ourselves a nice personal chat in the middle of the night through my car window. Okay. This seems nice. This seems innocent enough. This... actually, this seems a little weird, suddenly.

COP
I pulled you over just last week for speeding, didn't I? Yeah, a blonde in a Jeep.

ME
Um, no, I don't think so.

COP
You don't... remember me?

ME
I'm pretty sure you didn't pull me over.

COP (smugly)
Oh, I think I did. I bet I pull over people more often than you get stopped, ahahahaha. But I still remember you. Why is it that I remember you but you don't remember me?

ME
Umm...

COP
Why is that? It was you I pulled over, wasn't it?

ME
I really don't think it was.

COP
Yes, I'm sure it was. I remember it. Yeah. So... (insert a long dramatic pause here while the audience waits on tenterhooks to see if I'm going to get a ticket.) I'm gonna let you off again, but you've got to start being more careful, okay?

ME
Yes.

It was easily one of the most bizarre things that ever happened to me. I wasn't lying either, I hadn't been pulled over recently by anyone, him or otherwise. It felt sort of like when you're in a bar, and you run into someone who is like, a friend of a friend, and they remember you, but you don't know them. Embarrassing, uncomfortable, you name it. The really weird thing was that even after I had asserted once, twice, three times that it definitely wasn't me, the guy kept insisting. He was so sure he had the right person.

I'm in a new show. It's called The Fifteen Minute Hamlet. It's very funny. At first, I didn't think it would be, but it is. It's fun to be in a funny show. Fun shows are funny and fun to be in. Everyone in the show is funny, which is fun. Fun funny fun fun funniness. We opened tonight and the audience seemed to dig on it. So that's good.

Last night we did a show for the board of visitors of the university. This was a very cool thing finagled by Steven. We performed two shows and ate dinner with them in between, which meant that theater kids had to spread themselves and make conversation with a bunch of very rich old guys. That would have been horrible, except I got a table with people I knew: Steven, Emily, Mike, Dr. Dog, and Paul Trible (hereafter P-Trib), the university president. I loved watching the way P-Trib schmoozed. You can pick up a lot about schmoozing from watching a university president, especially if he also happens to be an ex-senator. However, they served us a scallop soup in some sort of cream sauce. This was the entree. Several things are wrong with this.

1) Eating before a show.
2) Eating seafood before a show.
3) Eating seafood, which you happen to be allergic to, and also find disgusting, before a show.
4) Eating something which you for some reason mistake for potato and cheese soup, then when you get it halfway down your throat and it's too late to spit out and too early to actually have it all the way swallowed, realizing that it is seafood, which you happen to be allergic to, and also find disgusting, before a show.

The dinner was not, therefore, a success for me. I did manage to choke down some water, black coffee, and half a sourdough roll. The dessert was palatable, but after the cold Scallops au Vomitre soup thing, I just wanted to roll myself into a ball and die.

I love it how they roll out all the fancy pants (again with the pants) trappings when VIPs come to campus. About halfway through the evening, I realized that there was a wet bar set up. We have a dry campus. I voiced this to some of the other actors. "Sure," they said, "didn't you know? P-Trib's got a whole case of liquor for events like this." Such hypocrisy. A wet bar? Come on. These old guys can't sit through two twenty minute shows and a dinner without their three fingers of whiskey? Apparently, no they can't.

It was an interesting evening. I had to talk to one of the higher-ups who I hate, and who hates me, and we both know it, but we smiled and shook hands and played nice. The best I can say about the event is, at least no one took off their pants at any point. Well, the one guy did, but we don't really know how he got in, or where he got all those little white mice, and I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you.

2001-11-14T23:57:00.000-05:00

with the band

The other day, I ran into my friend Tom on campus, and we were having some random discussion, then out of the blue, he throws out the following statement: "Yeah, just like you should give up on writing your blog."

WHAT? Just because I've not updated in a month? Clearly, he's challenging me. It's his way of saying "Update more, damn you."

I don't know what happened there. I think a thing happened. Yes, I'm pretty certain it was a thing. A big thing. I don't know. I did a show and for one week straight I got very little sleep and attended a total of 2 classes (out of a possible 13). Anyway, Midsummer was well received and there were high school audiences who came and shouted throughout, which was actually pretty exciting, because, well, the groundlings would have acted that way. The groundlings got all the dirty jokes and laughed when people fucked up (as far as we know. My teachers could be making that up.), JUST LIKE HIGH SCHOOLERS!

Even though the kids were rude and horrible, they really loved what was going on, and since they were so vocal about things, we could tell that the story came across. So that was all in all a very gratifying experience, although I had to get up at horrid times such as 7 am.

I've gone back to brunette, which is good because now I no longer look like a freak with dark roots, but bad because I'd gotten used to the blonde and it started to grow on me.

Get this. My phone has an option where you can record ringers, like if you want your ringer to be... say... the sound of heavy breathing (if that's what you're into, hey, I'm not judging), all you have to do is hit record and breathe heavily. If you want to get really interesting, you can have someone record a ringer, then program it to do that ring only when that person calls you. Is this not brilliant? How have I lived without this for so long?

Now, whenever Fred calls me, I get an operatic aria of "Aaaaaannnngeeeelllllaaaaa! Piiiiiiick uup the PHOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!"

The "phone" part is very high and lasts much longer than I can make you understand here. It is very funny and very loud and very startling, and it is my dearest wish that I never again forget to turn my phone off in class, for the humiliation would be grand and total.

Carson Daly is a nice dude. He congratulated Jon Stewart on his Emmy. What a guy. I saw him interview Britney Spears (Carson, not Lovely Jonny Boy) and I just kept thinking, "God, he must hate his life."

Isn't it sad that we all know how to spell "Britney?"

I have the best new catch phrase, which everyone should adopt. I stole it from a bumper sticker. Whenever anyone gives you shit about something, all you have to do to shut them up is say "Hey, hey, it's okay, I'm with the band."

Just think of the possibilities.

THE ESTABLISHMENT
Can you please stop leaving your dishes in the sink?

YOU
Hey, hey, it's okay, I'm with the band.

THE ESTABLISHMENT
Do you know how fast you were going, sir?

YOU
Hey, hey, easy man, it's okay. I'm with the band.

THE ESTABLISHMENT
Do you promise to love him, cherish him, honor and keep him, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, and keep thee only unto him for as long as you both shall live?

YOU
Whatever, I'm with the band.

I now know that I've seen Four Weddings and a Funeral too many times. Anyway, that's great isn't it?

Here's another I learned from my friend Adam. This requires a story.

Adam's roommate took a class from someone once who was asking the class to name their heroes. Just any hero they happened to think of, and the class was supposed to talk about why the hero was so great. So one guy gets up, and he says "My hero is ME, because I am the best football player in the world." The teacher says, "Sit down, Perry." Then Perry says "Shut up, Muffinhead!"

Shut up, muffinhead. Is that not the best? Actually the best is that Adam's roommate said "Yeah, and the teacher really did have a muffin shaped head, too.

Last week in tech theater class, Adam and I spent a lot of time playing with a Roto-Zip, and he made a sign for his roommate that read "SHUT UP MUFFINHEAD" in huge block letters. We then painted the sign using our fun "wet-blending" technique, which unfortunately isn't as interesting as it sounds.

All right, so I am way more obssesed with the Harry Potter movie then I really should be. I can admit that. A person of my stature and sophistication (ha!) should not be so entranced by a children's movie. That being said, DO THOSE TRAILERS NOT LOOK COOL AS HELL? I cannot wait to see this movie. I love Harry Potter. I really think that this movie is going to be one that actually lives up to its hype, too.

Oh guess what, my car needs a new transmission. Yee ha. Remember how I replaced the whole engine and it never really worked right after that? No? Well, I do. It was a real pain in the ass. Now the transmission "could be used as a boat anchor," according to the mechanic. Wonderful. Maybe I should buy a boat. It would probably be more effective, in terms of speedy highway travel.

Anyway, sorry about all the not updating. I'll try to be better, okay? Ya'll know I'm with the band, right?

2001-10-11T01:45:00.000-04:00

beautiful stranger?

Ya'll, I am blonde.

I was orange yesterday. Today I'm just blonde.

I'm having a bit of trouble with it, because you see, for 24 years now I've been wandering around as a sort of dyed in the wool (hair, in this case, but love me, love my metaphors) brunette. I mean, I'm like a 5 alarm brunette. I'm as brown as they come. I'm so dark haired I'm almost black. There is none of this "brown, but in the summer it goes kind of blondey" crap.

I'm brown. Chocolate. Burnt sienna. Brown. Always have been, always will be, that is, until I turn gray and have to start dying it interesting colors on purpose.

Everytime I see myself in the mirror, I have to really stop and think about it. I think, how are the people in my life taking me seriously right now? How are they looking at me and holding conversations when clearly I look so radically different? It isn't even that the color looks bad on me (although yesterday it definitely did), it's just that it's so damn different. It's alarming.

Maybe it's just in my head, but I imagine people are watching me more closely now that I'm a tow head. They say blondes have more fun. I think blondes just have more unnatural coloring so they stand out.

I certainly have some unnatural coloring.

There is however, a seemingly true myth about blondes being stupid. I would like to tell you that I do not play into this myth, but I do.

I forgot my PIN today.

Fuck this, I'm just going to say PIN number. I know it's wrong, and I know it's redundant, and I frankly don't give a fuck. PIN number. ATM machine. I also celebrated the new millenium when it turned 2000. Anyone who cares and thinks I am somehow subhuman because of this callous and blatant stupidity should bite me. Anality will never score high with me, unless we're being anal about grammar, in which case, bring it on. Bring on the grammar anality.

YOU
Uh... "anality" is totally not a word. You know that, right?

ME
Analness, then.

YOU
Hopeless. You're just fucking hopeless.

Again, I say, bite me, and let's get on with my story. (I have to say that I love how I always get the last word when I'm doing the writing. I choose your words, and I choose when you have to shut up and let me talk. Shut up. I'm talking.)

I forgot my PIN number. This is really amazing, as I've done it not once but twice in my miserable life. Now, realize, these are not new PIN numbers. The last time I did this, I'd been effectively using the number for some ridiculous amount of time, like a year. Long enough and often enough so that there should have been no way I could have forgotten the number if I tried. I did, though, and could not remember it for love or money. I had to eventually have it changed. I never remembered it.

Today, with a new PIN number that I have had for at least 6 months, I forgot it. I knew which 4 numbers were the ones I wanted, but I could not figure out the order they came in. It took me a dozen tries or more until I scored the right combination of same, but the really stupid part is that I neglected to notice which order I'd put them in. So immediately after my transaction was processed, I tried to recall which numbers I'd pushed and couldn't.

So much for mythology.

2001-10-07T01:11:00.000-04:00

the busy day in seven letters

Dear Pop-Tarts,

I eat one of you, and you're the greatest. I eat two of you, and you make me want to hurl. No hurling tonight, please.

Love,
Angela

Dear William Styron,

You rock. You remind me of my grandfather. You kissed me on my cheek. You made me proud to be from Newport News today, and that almost never happens. Thanks for being such a cool dude and such an amazing writer and thanks for teaching me that not all great writers are flighty and high-strung and aloof and haughty.

Love,
Peyton

Dear Starbucks,

Steven says you make me wired. He doesn't understand that he himself is perpetually wired. I love to be wired like him. I need more mocha. Me love the yummy yummy mocha.

Bzzzz,
Angela

Dear Bridget Jones,

I have really got to fucking fucking fucking well stop reading your book. You're addictive.

Number of boyfriends (1),
Angela

Dear Clunky the Jeep,

I would love to know what I did to you that makes you so fond of breaking down on me. Was it strictly necessary to break down on the way to my 9:30 am Ear Training exam the other day which I tried so desperately to be on time for? I merely require information.

Please get well soon,
Angela

Dear Fall Break,

I love you. You are much needed and much deserved. Did I mention I love you? I will buy you anything you want.

Much Love,
Angela

Dear John Cusack,

I heard this said once to another actor but it bears repeating in this case. You're allowed to say no to projects. Stop with the romantic comedies already. You're too old! Look at you! You're too OLD! And if you're going to make romantic comedies, make a cool one. And if you're going to make cookies, bring me some.

Still really think you're the greatest,
Angela

2001-10-06T01:52:00.000-04:00

sacrelicious

I was walking through Ferguson hall today with two friends from the theater department. There was Adam, who has the physical dexterity of some really cool animal (and I mean that as a great compliment - he's entirely fearless physically) and Jason, who is apparently a really fabulous magician, which intrigues me to no end.

Anyway, so we're walking, and I was telling Adam about the birthday ice cream I received from Allen and Craig in lieu of actual cake - they gave me mocha ice cream with two white taper candles stuck in it. This was all very funny, until Jason piped up,

JASON
Yeah, I heard about that - you know... those candles were from the midnight vigil they had at school a couple weeks ago.

ANGELA
Oh my god! That's sacreligious, isn't it?

JASON
Well, was the ice cream good?

ANGELA
Well, yeah.

JASON
So then it's sacrelicious.

This guy and I are going to be very good friends, I can feel it in my bones.

Anyway, so while we're on the subject of sacrilege, tonight we went to see a movie with a couple of friends, and one of them had made up a game. This is how you play.

1) Kick someone squarely in the ass.
2) Say "Taliban!"

It's pretty fun, actually. You wouldn't think it would be, but it is. Bastard taliban people. I bet they'd feel pretty retarded if they knew we were making fun of them in such a way. (I now find that it's okay to start laughing at them - hate is one way of dealing, acceptance is another. I like to believe that a) laughter is a healer, and b) if you can laugh at something, it's a good indicator that you don't care. I mean, we're supposed to CARE, of course, but we're supposed to get on with daily lives, too. Taliban can't keep me down.)

We saw a bad movie called Serendipity. There are some people out there who believe that no matter what else happens, a John Cusack romantic comedy must, by its very nature, be a great film. I have been one of those people, but tonight we all learned otherwise. Now we know that all good things must end. You know it has to be something horrible if it's a romantic comedy that actually I don't like. I cried during Aladdin, for god's sake (which I think holds the title for best Disney film ever, but no one cares what I say).

Actually though, I've enjoyed so much of his more recent stuff, the stuff that hints at the darker and more neurotic side (Being John Malkovich, Grosse Pointe Blank) that seeing him step back into the cute Lloyd Dobler-esque role at age thirtysomething is kind of disconcerting. Like finding out that the bearded lady is actually a man.

Uh, not that I ever did that.

So the movie sucks. Every plot element is so predetermined, its nauseating. It's kind of a movie about fate, though, so I don't know if they were trying to be tongue-in-cheek or what with the obvious plot devices and stuff. But I know that most of the theater just sopped it up like gangbusters. Everytime something happened that made you think John Cusack was going to get laid (I don't want to give away the movie, but that's why we're here, right?) the whole theater would gasp in surprise. Fred kept falling out of his seat in mock-surprise, which is not quite the same thing and generally louder.

Okay. I'm going to give away a plot device. Trust me, if you're the kind of person that enjoys this sort of bullshit, me telling you what it is won't lessen the thrill any for you.

At the beginning of the movie, the future Mrs. John Cusack refuses to take his name and number down, writing it instead on the back of a five dollar bill and then cashing the money. "When that five dollar bill makes its way back into my hands," she says, "then I'll know that we're meant to be together, and won't you be surprised to hear from me?"

Gee, do you think she finds the money by the movie's end? Guess you'll have to go see it to find out, won't you? (Hint: She does find it, but not with out lots of nail-biting suspense: uh oh! Her best friend has it! It's so close to her! Oh no, she has her friend's wallet! But she spent the money! Oh no, the stewardess has it! Oh no! They're not going to get together, and my life sucks!)

Anyway, the movie is full of incredibly lame fate-related setups, like ice skating and elevators and the Waldorf and Cassiopeia and Cool Hand Luke and a pair of gloves and a book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Yawn, yawn, and did I mention corny?

Molly Shannon is in it, but she isn't too annoying. She only does that SNL character once or twice.

Tomorrow I'm going to read for and meet William Styron. Anyone have any advice on what to say to a famous author whom you know next to nothing about? No? God, you guys are about as helpful as.... as.... well, something unhelpful.

2001-10-03T00:54:00.000-04:00

vote 4 me, I have cute glasses

On the way home from rehearsal tonight, I called my father to see what sort of food there was in the house that I could eat (read: steal). He told me there was tons of stuff, but when pressed, he couldn't actually tell me what specifically was ready for my immediate consumption, so I said to him, "Okay, so I'll just stop at the grocery store and pick up a box of rice on my way home."

Well. You know how it goes when you go to the store hungry. Here's what I brought to the checkout:

1 (one) box Krispy Original Saltine Crackers
5 (five) Red Delicious Apples
1 (one) Stouffer's Chicken Breast HomeStyle Entree
3 (three) packages Martha White Muffins
1 (one) box Frosted Raspberry Pop Tarts
1 (one) Can Campbell's Tomato Soup
2 (two) boxes Rice-A-Roni
5 (oh who gives a damn, really) packets of Kool-Aid

The cash register guy (who we'll call Cash Register Dave, although "Dave" may or may not be his real name) smiled at me. I should have sensed trouble right then, but I mean, come on. I just got off rehearsal, I have on yucky clothes and I smell. How appealing can I be right now? Well... plenty appealing, as it turns out. Or else the guy just has really low standards.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
So... do you have your VIP card?

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
Oh... that's that little card thing that I'm supposed to put on my keychain that saves me like 12 cents on muffins. How much of a dork would I be to carry one of those around? God.

ME
Umm... no, I don't have it with me.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
Well, I have mine. I'll just use mine.

ME
Oh... thank you.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
Hey, no problem, for a pretty girl like you.

ME
Ha ha.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
A pretty lady, I should say.

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
Someone shoot me now.

ME
Ha ha.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
A very young, young-looking, young lady.

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
I'll just impale my eye on the corner of the credit card machine, shall I?

ME
Ha.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
But something tells me you're probably married and have kids, or whatever.

ANGELA's INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
I wonder what tipped him off. Oh, it must have been my invisible wedding band.

ME
No. I'm not married, but I do have a boyfriend.

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
Or whatever.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
Well. Thanks.

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
And... I'm supposed to feel bad now because I hurt his feelings?

CASH REGISTER DAVE
I'm sure he's as nice as I am, huh?

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
Nowhere near. I mean, he's never gone so far as to save me 12 cents on muffins.

CASH REGISTER
-0.14

ANGELA'S INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
Okay, 14 cents.

ME
Umm... yes.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
You are very pretty, though. Those are cute glasses you have there.

ME
Thank you.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
I mean it. Those are really cute. They're much better than mine. I just have these little thin wire frames, and I mean, yours will last a lot longer than mine will probably, huh?

ME
Yes, well thanks. Good night.

CASH REGISTER DAVE
Okay, have a good one!

Okay. Now I'll be the first to admit I'm no peach when I get off from rehearsal (but in general, of course, I'm quite a peach. I'm so peach-like, my nickname at school is Peachy.) (Not really.). I've been running around for two hours, panting, yelling, falling, crying, laughing, and so on and so forth. I smell, and I have on sweat clothes. I do not look like a pinnacle of feminine beauty.

That being said.... he likes my GLASSES? Hello? Has this line ever worked on anyone? Not only does he like my glasses, he likes the fact that they're durable! They are not even visually appealing, necessarily, but he likes the craftsmanship! He might just as well tell me I have a great, oh I don't know, mailbox. "Say, that's some flag you got on there. It goes up, and then it also goes down. Say, is that Rubbermaid? Can I get your number?"

Complimenting someone's glasses, in my mind, is even worse than saying you have a nice personality. That means... it must mean that you've looked, and you've found the entire package so woefully unappealing and grotesque, you must now resort to the extraneous accessories I'm wearing in order to muster up anything resembling a compliment.

Unless I just got new glasses and you know me pretty well and just think my glasses are cute. (They are pretty cute glasses. I hear it all the time. But that doesn't excuse Cash Register Bob.)

I don't know why they guy was hitting on me in the first place, given my smell quotient (6.4 on a scale of 10) and my invisible wedding ring. Plus, would you hit on someone that buys tomato soup and pop tarts?

That's right, you wouldn't.

Oh hey, I'm running for Homecoming Queen.

Okay, so technically, I'm NOT running for Homecoming Queen, but I sort of want to. Only because my friend Allen is running for H.K. (Homecoming KING, duh), and he said that we could have the slogan: "Angela and Allen: Fartin' Around." This slogan makes me so happy, I want to dance and skip and do the mambo. However, I couldn't find any group to nominate me, mainly because I don't actually belong to any groups (except Alpha Psi Omega, and they're just huge slackmasters). They're missing out, because I know I would make a great Homecoming Queen. I pledge that:

1) I will continue to fart around for my entire reign as queen (that's Queen, to you).
2) I will not yell "LOSERS!" at the remainder of the homecoming court when they call my name. Maybe I won't. I probably will, actually.
3) I will accept my tiara gracefully and pretend to cry.
4) I will not shove old ladies in front of moving public transit vehicles, unless said old ladies piss me off a WHOLE lot.
5) I will eat Combos every day.

Today I had lots of work to do, so rather than going to find a nice, comfortable, quiet place on campus to study (which don't exist), I opened up the back of my Jeep and camped out in there all day. It was gorgeous weather - not too hot - and I just got to chill by myself. Very few distractions, although I did get strange looks aplenty from the people that passed by. I don't care. I mean, I say words like "aplenty," so my image can't be but so important to me.

I cannot come up with a clever end to this entry to sort of "button" the whole thing together, and I'm ass fucking tired, so I'm just going to leave you with a moment of zen. Oh no, that's been done. Um... talk amongst yourselves... DAMN IT! Here. Just, everybody pull on their ears a couple times, and let's call it a night.

"Say good night, Dick."
"Good night, Dick."

2001-09-30T23:39:00.000-04:00

unafraid to fly

I guess some of you have noticed that I have been wan to make any sort of entry since the tragedies of September 11. I've not had any personal tragedy, nor has anyone I know had any personal tragedy, so I'm not any more deeply hurt by the loss than the rest of us.

I just know that I had to keep my mouth shut.

See, I've been reading a whole host of interesting journal entries lately; watching how other people cope with the crisis has been interesting. Everyone has something to say, and they need lots of space to say it in. I've read many entries that start off, "I don't know what to say about this, except..." and they go on for many paragraphs, waxing political and poetic about the state of the nation.

I know I would do the same thing. It's not that I have nothing to say, it's that I have entirely too much to say and no way to contain it.

For me, life has gotten somewhat back to normal, so I'd rather talk about that than anything else.

Rehearsals for A Midsummer Night's Dream are going very well. It's very difficult, trying, rewarding, and exhilarating, pretty much simultaneously. I am going blond for the show, which is going to be interesting, since I'm very much a brunette. In fact, I'm on the dark side of brunette. But the script calls for "fair Helena," so fair I shall be. I'm having trouble keeping words like "shall" and "thee" out of my daily rhetoric, but I'm really working on it. I don't want people mistaking me for one of those bozos that plays dungeons and dragons religiously and challenges people to jousts in the hallways. Still, the words are fun to say, and if you don't believe me, find yourself a really good friend and stage a conversation with them in Elizabethan English.

Bonus points if you can work in the phrase "How low am I, thou painted maypole?"

Also bonus points if you can do the whole thing with a lateral lisp. If you don't know what that sounds like, please trust me that you're better off not knowing, because once you start doing it, it's absolutely impossible to stop. It's that cool.

One day last week Fred decided that what needed to happen is he needed to call, oh, EVERYONE WE KNOW and leave them extemporaneous poetry in the style of Adam Sandler from the "Do It For Your Mama" skit (you know, the one where he repeatedly implores the kids to play with their cockandballs.) I got to sit there and listen to this poetry as it was being created, and I can tell you that I've had few prouder moments during the course of this relationship. This endeavor was possibly only surpassed by his vain attempt to impersonate my behavior when a spider got into our rowboat, and his subsequent accidental flipping of said rowboat.

In March, we'll have been together for two years (If you want to get technical, it's one consecutive year in November, but two years for the whole course of the relationship in March). That's my longest ever relationship, how about them apples? As his friend Eric said last night, upon seeing us together for the first time in over a year, "What, you guys are still together? Huh. I gave it about three months, but I stand corrected."

Damn right. I don't think any of us expected it to last this long, probably least of all Fred. Still, I am really feeling blessed and lucky lately. He's such a good person. We still don't understand each other in so many ways, but in simple terms, it's just so good to be together. So nice to practice honesty. And he's a great lay, too.

Oh come on, you don't think I'd get all sappy without some semblance of a punchline, do you? Yecchh.

So. Last Wednesday was my birthday. At rehearsal that night, I was in this piss poor horrible mood. I was tired, I had a lot to do, and I wanted nothing more from the universe than to have a bed (preferably my own) to sleep in. But I had rehearsal, and I tried to put on a game face for the sake of the other actors. As we were working on one scene, I realized that I had to pee, and I had to pee NOW. It was a peemergency.

Steven was working on a blocking point with Nicha and Justin, and it looked like they would be awhile, so I snuck to the bathroom, peed as quickly as I could (dirty secret: did not even wash my hands when I left! Yeewww! But still opened the door with a paper towel, so as not to get the old germs on my hands. Go figure that one) and snuck back into rehearsal. I had only been gone for MAYBE a minute, but everyone was staring at me, looking kind of grave. Steven watched me as I approached the center of the room.

STEVEN
Where have you been?

ME
I'm sorry, Steven, I had to pee.

STEVEN
I can't have actors leaving rehearsal just whenever they want to, guys. How am I supposed to work on a scene when I don't have all my actors in the space? I need you to be here, guys. I need you to focus just a little bit.

ME
I'm sorry.

STEVEN
I can't work like this! How can I work like this? I won't work like this! And by the way,

EVERYONE (singing)
Happy birthday to you...

Talk about surprise. I really thought I'd had it. I learned a lot about how strongly Steven is capable of playing his action when he wants to. I was so relieved, I almost cried while everyone was singing. Of course I hugged everyone, so touched I was.

Afterwards, some people told me they had no idea what was going on either, until everyone started singing.

NICHA
You looked like you were about to cry. I was just about to step in and defend you and your right to pee when you need to.

Other people knew the plan all along.

AMANDA
I knew he was looking for a reason to stop rehearsal and yell at you, so when I saw you leave, I knew that was it, I thought, ohhhh, she's gonna get it!

Gosh, I felt so loved. If you've never had a roomful of people sing to you (outside of a restaurant where they make up their own song and force you to smile fixedly while wearing one of their dingy looking hats), I highly reccommend it.

It's too bad there aren't more occasions to sing to people. We should make up an anniversary song, a mother's day song, and so forth. Actually, I think we should be able to sing more frequently than that, even. I got it. We need songs for the mundane to the trivial. The Laundry Day Song. The Overdue Cell Phone Bill Song. The Half Price Video Day Song. The Car Inspection Song. The Hangover Song. That last one would be sung really quietly, preferably about 500 miles away from its intended recipient.

2001-09-07T16:41:00.000-04:00

conspiracy theorist

I'm supposed to recant my support of the presidentical IQ thingy. Salon.com has an expose of the "fraud." They're saying it was a grand internet hoax, that Garry Trudeau is very sorry for writing a comic strip dedicated to the fake survey, and that our president really is smart, gosh darn it all.

Well, I say bullshit. Garry Trudeau has a lot more to lose by dissing the president's intellectuence than I do.

I think that saying the study is a hoax is a hoax. Think about it. Dubya's brother stacked ballots for him to win an election. You think that family is going to be brought down by one measly study? No sir. The second Jeb (and probably Papa Dicky and pretty much everyone else in that whole mangled administration) got wind of the study, they released reports saying the whole thing was fabriculated.

Hasn't anyone else seen Wag The Dog? This shit happens all the time.

Anyway, so I believe it's all true. One need only look at our great leader to determine he's several apples short of a bushel. I have no intention of disavowing the study. I believe it wholefully.

2001-09-07T00:07:00.000-04:00

laugh, for i am funno the clown lady

So there's these three rabbis in a Chevy Malibu on the New Jersey Turnpike.

That's the beginning to a really horrible joke. Find out what happens when you're more concerned with the beginning of the joke than the punchline at the end of this journal entry. (That means I'll tell the whole joke. I'm warning you ahead of time, it's pretty damn bad.)

Much has happened. Much continues to happen. School has started, which means I'm already busier than I thought possible with only 6 classes. The shows have been cast, and although the audition process was more strenuous than any in recent memory (for me) I'm really happy with the overall outcome. Personally, I have nothing to complain about. I have awesome roles in 3 great projects. It is always hard, though, when you see your friends and peers being disappointed with how things turn out.

But my friends don't need me feeling sorry for them to validate the fact that they're awesome performers and so forth, so I'm just going to do the healthy self-indulgent thing and talk about me me me!

Angela's Awesome Project #1: A Midsummer Night's Dream. This was cast today. I'm playing Helena, one of the four lovers who wanders into the forest and fights with the other 3. I get to say "O spite" and "I am as ugly as a bear." This is my first time doing Shakespeare, and I'm so excited I could pee. Other interesting things about the production so far: the set will consist of a heated swimming pool and a suspension bridge. Also, the script calls for a blond Helena, so I may be going blond.

AAP #2: CNU Players. Hey, don't hate me because I'm a playa. This is a new group conceived of by our professor, Steven, and it's very cool and makes me randy just thinking about it. Basically, he wanted a company of actors who will have a show constantly ready in case someone calls and asks the department to put on a show for some event or other. There's more to it than that, of course, and the 6 of us will be responsible for mounting at least one studio show every semester. We're having hats made. Just because we can. It's lots of work and lots of eclat, and I just feel so special and wonderful, I could pee.

I should go pee. Hang on a second.

AAP #3: The Fifteen Minute Hamlet. This is the fall show for the CNU Players. It's by Tom Stoppard and is very fun and silly. I play Ophelia. Did I mention we're having hats made? Do you know I've never belonged to a group that decided to have hats made? I don't know if this makes me cool or deficient or what.

AAP #4: The Styron Project. This is a very big deal. William Styron, who wrote Sophie's Choice, is a Newport News native. The city is dedicating a piece of land to him or something, because he is a mondo very important writer. Steven is drafting a reader's theater adaptation of Styron's first novel, Lie Down In Darkness, which will be performed, before, after, or during the commemoration ceremony. I get to read for it. How excited am I, you may wonder? Words fail. I mean, I get to dress up, act, meet a famous writer, and schmooze with rich people at a fancy gathering, all in one evening. It could only be better if they served chocolate fondue and gave me free books to read.

So I've had a very successful place in the acting world lately. I'm also saying goodbye to my dinner theater, THANK GOD, and as a tribute to the amount of fun I had this summer with all those people, another list of...

~~~~Fantastic Quotes~~~~
Haunted Dinner Theater Version
"Comedy!" - Traci
"Bad times." - Katy
"You're never too cool for ghostly ectoplasm." - Jonathan
"You know, man invented tobacco, so that's why.... oh no, you know, it might have been, ah, ah, the Indians." - Dennis
"So which was it, then, man or Indians?" - Tim
"Well, there it is. The one sentence I never thought I'd hear Angela say: 'Why isn't my sperm good enough for you, Dennis?'" - Dennis
"But I don't understand, why do they put all these bananas in the banana pudding?" - Dennis
"There's two people who should never be put in a spaceship together." - Tim
"Cut hand? I don't get it!" - Jonathan
"This ain't fucking Ghandi without music, all right? I don't care if the god damned Immaculate Conception is going on back there, just get through that scene." - Jonathan
"So there's these three rabbis in a Chevy Malibu on the New Jersey Turnpike..." - Alex
"Alex, if I hear that joke ONE MORE TIME..." - Jonathan
"Goodnight everybody!" - Dennis
"Dude, what does mine say?" Dennis
"Otis Day? He loves us!" - Jonathan
"With my last breath, I will tell you that I love you. I love you." - Dennis
"Aaaaand this just in..." - Jonathan
"There was a sudden jerk at the door. It was Jonathan." - Everyone, but especially me
"Do NOT unzip my dress." - Traci
"Chicken's done, have some." - Everyone
"Ohhh, I'm telling my dad you said that." - Me
"I'M telling your dad I said that." - Jonathan
"Oh look, it's the Tammy Wynette fan club." - Katy
"Oh no. Now don't tell me one of the servers is pissed off about something." - Tim
"Sad face. Dumb face." - Dennis

I promised I'd tell the joke now. I did warn you, right? Jonathan actually placed this joke under embargo, so that after a certain date (Jun 23), no one was allowed to tell the joke anymore. That's how beaten to death it became.

There's these three Rabbis in a Chevy Malibu on the New Jersey Turnpike. They pass Freehole, New Jersey, which everyone knows is the birthplace of Bruce Springsteen. One rabbi turns to the other and he says, "Hey, isn't Bruce Springsteen Jewish?" The other rabbi replies, "Oy, with a name like Springshtein, you have to ask?"

I told you it wasn't good. It enjoyed several different incarnations, including one where Springsteen was hitchhiking and the rabbis refused to pick him up. This was interesting in terms of plot, but not really conducive to the meager punchline, such that it is. The reason this joke exists is that Alex, its main purveyor, actually saw three rabbis in a Chevy Malibu on the Turnpike, and decided that it was the beginning of a great joke. He then walked around for a month repeating just the first line, then commenting, "You know, that is a great joke just waiting to happen. We just need a punchline." Eventually the rest of the cast bonded together to create what will certainly come to be known to future generations as a gratuitous waste of racist humor, given that the joke is pretty offensive and not even that funny.

Today I saw a store called "Bath and Idea Center." I think it could be more accurately named "Ideas for Your Bathroom" or "Bath Idea Center." The way it is now sounds like you could waltz in, drop a couple grand and receive either a platinum plated free standing bathtub with adjustable nozzles, or else the construction plans for a completely solar powered automobile. Your choice.

"Ideas, get your ideas and bathtubs here!"

I was at the beach once with some friends, and we got to talking about inventions. We all said we'd like to invent something. My friend Beryl suggested a tanning dome for the winter, which you could lay under on the beach, be insulated, and still get a great tan.

My invention went like this: Everyone in the whole world wades into the ocean, and we see if the ocean level rises at all, or what.

I realize it's not so much an invention as a really stupid idea that could cost me the presidency if ever I win it, so I'd apprectiate it if we could keep the lid on my invention. Inventing is fun. Hey, this could be a great joke actually. Instead of "So this guy walks into a bar..." we have "So everyone in the whole world walks into an ocean..." Hmm. Anyone got a punchline?

2001-08-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

reason # 16 why i'm a democrat

Using psycholofgical profiles, standardized test scores, and the ability to speak effectively, a panel of psychologists and historians has determined the IQ's of each of our last twelve presidents.

It should come as a surprise to no one that our two most recent presidents rank as the highest and the lowest of the list. It may surprise you, however, what the actual scores are.

Bill Clinton is 182. George W. Bush is 91.

Now, for those of you who aren't as IQ-obsessed as I am, I should explain what these scores mean. A score of 100 is considered "average." A score of 80 or below indicates mental retardation.

Isn't it comforting to know that the guy sitting in the big house is halfway between average and retarded?

Meanwhile, Bill Clinton, whom everyone pretends to hate, is more than 50 points above what it takes to be considered "genius." I'm betting Hilary's scores would be similar. Al Gore's, too, come to think of it.

Another interesting thing that's revealed in the study is that, with the exception of Richard Nixon, the lowest democrat is higher than the highest republican.

I don't know the people who conducted this test, or whether they would purposely skew the results. It's quite ridiculously biased towards democrats, if they did. However, if it's accurate and unbiased in every way, I'm not the least bit surprised. I mean, Jimmy Carter is a great president. Kennedy, same. Franklin D. Roosevelt, yes. No one would argue that they're all superbly intelligent and charismatic and basically people you want to invite over for dinner sometime.

Bill Clinton rocks. I really think he's going to be remembered as one of the greatest presidents ever. I don't think the history books will even remember Monica Lewinsky's name. Here's hoping, anyway.

George W. scares me more than I can tell you. One need only look at the man to discover he has the mental capacity of a turnip (and it runs in the family, as you'll see). I don't believe a president should be average. I believe he should be smarter than the rest of us. I wonder how Dan Quayle stacks up. His score would probably make me cry.

Here's the full list, as it appears in Portfolio Magazine:

Bill Clinton (D) 182
Jimmy Carter (D) 175
John F. Kennedy (D) 174
Richard Nixon (R) 155
Franklin D. Roosevelt (D) 147
Harry Truman (D) 132
Lyndon B. Johnson (D) 126
Dwight D. Eisenhower (R) 122
Gerald Ford (R) 121
Ronald Reagan (R) 105
George HW Bush (R) 99
George W. Bush (R) 91

It would interest me to know what the rest of the president's scores were. It's entirely possible that we are now suffering through the dumbest president in history. Wouldn't that be something to tell your grandkids?

It's always struck me funny how presidential their names, are, too. I mean, this is something you can't predict when a baby is born, but the names George or Chester or Franklin or Theodore... okay, not so much Theodore, but all the rest of them are very official sounding and upstanding and above scrutiny.

In other words, if you name a kid Moon Unit Zappa, his presidential chances are going to be slim. His IQ is another story entirely.

2001-08-18T12:03:00.000-04:00

name game

I don't want to make a big deal about this, but I've been nominated for some awards.

Oh, who am I kidding. Of course I want to make a big deal about it. I want to run around telling people loudly, and with vehemence. I want to print up four color brochures and lob them off the clock tower in droves. I want to have t-shirts made.

"Angela Harrison, esteemed Portfolio Award nominee and self-proclaimed big-headed Best Actress."

ASTUTE READERS
Wait a second, your name's not Harrison, it's Hamilton. Um... I think.

No, no, you're right. You're not crazy. And it's not a typo, they really did nominate me under the name of Harrison. Several times. (I told you I was going to make a big deal out of this.)

I enjoy it, because it's still me that got nominated, and being nominated is cool as hell, even if they can't be bothered to learn my name. And everyone at school keeps calling me "Miss Harrison," which is very amusing.

My mother, on the other hand, does not enjoy it. She keeps asking me if I've called the guy yet to let them know they need to fix their error.

MOM
Angela, you really need to call them. You don't want them announcing you as Angela Harrison at the little party thing.

ANGELA
I know Mom, but it could be worse. I mean, Angela Harrison, that's not a bad name.

MOM
Yes, but it's not your name.

It's like when my grandmother used to live with us, and she had gone bats (I love that word. Bats. You're bats. You have bats in the belfry.) in her old age, and she always called our cat by the wrong name. His name is Tom (like a tomcat, get it? Are we clever or what?), but she called him "Timmy." Which is really a fine name for a cat, any cat, and he may even look like a Timmy, but his name is not Timmy, it is Tom. In fact, it has always been Tom except for a brief stint when we first got him and I was 9 years old and had named him "Midnight." The name "Midnight" sucks. It's a terrible name. It does not flow easily. It is supposed to be cute, since he's all black, but it is just cliched and trite, and well, sounds like a 9 year old named him. My parents figured this out quickly; I was less quick to catch on, but eventually I saw their point.

No one calls him Midnight anymore except for our next door neighbor, Mr. Sage, who knows absolutely every detail about all of our lives (and yours too, probably). In fact, if a tree falls in the forest and no one's around to hear it, you can call Mr. Sage and ask him about it, because he'll definitely know and gladly tell you. He's so intimately connected with our family that when my cousins lived with us they called him (and still do call him) "The F.B.I." Yet for some reason, Mr. Sage has not figured out that Tom's name has not been Midnight for approximately 14 years.

Poor identity-crisis ridden cat. Yesterday I thought he was dead, but it turned out he was just relaxing very intently. I scared the hell out of my mother, though, which is always fun (An accident! Sheesh! He was lying prone, absolutely still, with all four feet sticking up, what would YOU think?).

I seem to have gotten a little off my point here. All I really have left to say about the nominations is that CNU got nominated 22 times overall (I think. I just made that number up, but it's a lot, probably in the neighborhood of 22) which is fantastic and we're all very excited for each other. Party's on the 27th. Awards at 8, dinner at 6, drinking and tailgating at about 1:30. Be there.

All I have left to say about my cat is that one time, my friend Bryan came over and was studying Tom's food dish, which is a big elaborate kind of self-feeder thing. The front of the feeder reads "TOM" in great big black letters. The feeder sits on a large shelf in our kitchen, where Tom likes to eat. Bryan asked me, "So, is that where you make all your boyfriends eat when they come to dinner?"

Haha! That Bryan, he kills me. Oh wait. That story is only funny if you know that I was dating a guy named Tom at the time (Hello Tom! Bet you never heard that story, did ya?). Tom actually has naming issues himself, and calls our dogs "Happy Button" and "Original Button" respectively. But that's another story entirely.

So I had a party last week. You should have been there. Everyone I know (well not literally everyone, but a lot. Some. A few. I just dragged people in off the street.) showed up, plus a few people that no one seemed to know (but now YOU know where they came from). The power went out, so we had to bring out candles and we had no music, so someone played my guitar and everyone got in the pool because it was hot out, and when the lights finally came back on, everyone started complaining to turn them back off. Ambiance, darlings. Have a power outage at your next party, it's highly, highly reccomended.

School starts next week. Let's have a look at everything I wanted to get done before school starts:

1) Catch up on all the reading I let slip from last semester.

Yeah right. I read a lot, all right, but it was all new stuff that I wanted to read. Books read from last semester: 1.5

2) Organize my CDs

Umm... you know, it's really tedious to organize my CDs. I'm extremely anal about them, but it's a lot more fun to just put it off.

3) Clean my entire room including my eves.

I may just get this one done before Monday, minus the eves part.

4) Buy books, notebook, and other school supplies.

I haven't got my books yet. I haven't got a notebook yet. I have, however, got a pretty cool pencil case with a see-thru lime green top. It rocks. I do not need this pencil case. I stood there in Wal-Mart, trying to figure out what in sam hill (yet another great expression) I could do with it, and then figured out I could just put it in my car and see what happens. So. I plan to keep the pencil case in my car. I know it'll come in handy, I'm just not sure for what, yet.

5) Register for classes.

Okay, so technically I did this at the end of last semester, but because I didn't pay, they dropped all my classes and I had to run around frantically trying to get all my classes for this year. That sucked. Never again.

6) Start voice lessons.

Check! Yea! I got something done this summer!

7) Be nominated for very prestigious theater awards with promises of cash prizes and hookers delivered to my hotel room dressed in pink bubble wrap.

I'm waiting...

2001-08-09T12:45:00.000-04:00

the social role

Something I've wanted to discuss on this forum for quite a while is my lack of social graces.

My god, that was an awful sentence. Let's start over.

For quite some time, I've wanted to use this forum to discuss my lack of social graces.

Actually, if you wanted to (and I'm sure you do), you could use the beginning of this entry as your prime example. Okay, so I made a grammatical mistake. I corrected myself. And I do it to other people all the time, including my mother. I think that it's actually illegal in some states to issue grammar tips to your own mother, particularly if you have MY mother, who likes to do the same sort of thing herself. Hey, waaaiiit a minute...

In all seriousness, I ask myself why I like being on stage so much when I hate having to talk to people I don't know in real life (and when I ask myself this, I always have the same reply: "Stop talking to the voices in your head or people will really think you're crazy. Hey look! A nickel!"). I really don't enjoy making a spectacle of myself. At least not often. I certainly am not the cool type of person who always hangs their balls out there, especially if I think I'm going to get made fun of. For a while I thought I liked being on stage because the lines were written for me and it's safe. But then I learned how incredibly fucked up a way of thinking about stage that is (there I go again with the retarded grammar. Watch me not fixing it: ).

We started doing improv exercises in acting class. At first, those were even scarier than real life situations where you have to improv (which is all the time in real life) because you have an audience who will know if you fuck up. But gradually I got to really enjoy those exercises because there's no thinking required. Both actors agree to listen to each other, and the words take care of themselves.

Not nearly as difficult as in real life, when you are CONSTANTLY DEALING WITH PEOPLE WHO DON'T LISTEN TO YOU. I think this comes from a short attention span or a tiny brain or something. People in general can't multitask. I'm thinking right now of the people who come to see my dinner theater show, who I have to enter an improv with, but they're so apathetic, it's impossible to talk to them. I think I'M scared of hanging my balls out there? These people are so frightened to be made asses of, they don't respond even when an offer is freely given, in fact, is placed into their lap delicately with a big stupid bow and a tag that says "All Yours."

It's really sad. And it is such a difficulty for me to make offers to these people, because when they ignore me, I feel like screaming "Take my offer, damn you! Don't you see it has a big pretty bow?"

Does anyone have any clue what I'm rambling about? Too bad none of you can stop me. Haha.

The really ironic thing is that usually, you look like much more of an ass if you're scared to take the offer than if you jump up and grab it. If you jump up and grab it, people are jealous of you and want to be you because you're fearless and nervy. If you're scared, and someone inadvertantly points it out, everyone holds you in contempt (even though they'd probably do the same thing, the bastards, so don't worry about it.)

My second job ever was as a sales clerk at Victoria's Secret. I was 18 years old, and I had no idea yet that I could be considered desirable by members of the opposite sex. Therefore, I was very impressed by all the women I worked with, who were all impossibly beautiful, tastefully dressed, well-manicured perfect females who smelled like jasmine or lotus or whatever. Plus, you knew they always, always had on matching underwear. I longed to be them. I was very scared of them because they seemed to be so together. I allowed myself to be quite intimidated by their perfect female-ness.

My first day on the floor, I was ringing up a customer as my boss stood next to me. As the customer left, I tried to tell them to have a nice day, but it came out "Have so much fun."

"Have so much fun." I actually said that to someone. Mortification city. I replay that dialogue over and over in my head whenever I'm feeling down about something, because it always, without fail, makes me feel much much worse.

The really amazing thing is that my boss completely ignored it. She was standing right next to me, I know she heard it, and yet, she ignored it. Thus I learned rule numbers 1 and 2 of social situations.

1) Try to think before you speak so the words don't come out all jumbled like you're on drugs or something.

2) Ignore it when somebody does something really stupid.

Rule number 2 is very important, because if you give somebody shit about some dumb thing they do, it's going to come back and bite you in the ass. I hope. And I hope I'm there to see it, because you've been a real bastard lately.

Seriously, we've all had our "so much fun" moments, and if you jump all over someone's case, The Great Karma will show up when you least expect it and you'll make an ass of yourself at say, a party or a wedding or your indictment.

Here's an example of that last type of problem. Someone once called me out on something that I didn't really do. I was sitting outside with coworkers one fall day, and we were talking about how much we liked fall (the season), when I made mention that fall is great and romantic because of all the crunching leaves and warm woolly sweaters and crisp clear days and stuff. I thought that these were just sort of general observations and cliches, until a co-worker, Chrissy called me "Paul Reiser" and started insisting to everyone in the circle that I'd stolen what I'd just said from Paul Reiser, and she started quoting parts of the book.

The hell of it was, I totally couldn't deny it because I'd read the book too, I'd just forgotten about his bit. So I just had to sit there like a moron, thinking, "Okay, I didn't steal it, but it totally sounds like I did because I read his book. Maybe I did steal it. I'm a totally unoriginal cliche-stealer. I should be shot."

I sat there and took it. I know I should have told her to fuck off, that she's the loser for being able to quote entire passages of the book, that she sucks for calling someone out on something like that because it's a very mean thing to do, even if it's not true, she's the bad person, she's the one who needs to make herself look better by making other people look stupid. But I didn't say any of that. Partly because I'm a bit of a weenie, and partly because you have to pick your fights. If I'd denied it, people might have started saying things like "Methinks the lady doth protest too much" or something, and then we'd have all made fun of them instead, because who says stuff like that anymore?

So I hate thinking about that little interval as well. Drawing from my own experience, I detest watching someone else get picked on in this way, even if it's friends cutting on other friends. Just because someone's your friend doesn't mean they have good intentions, and you should remember that at all times. Not everyone has your back. I usually do, but other people should not be trusted. Now give me some money.

I'm proud to say, however, that if the stakes are sufficiently raised, I am able to find a clear, distinct, and unarguably steady voice for myself. I am unafraid. I am that person which all fear and envy for her sheer nerve. And I become this way for few causes, but people talking in my ear during an Indigo Girls concert is one of them.

Yes, I went to see the Girls two nights ago. This is my 11th time seeing them. We had lawn seats, so we were far away from the stage and we were unfortunately surrounded by old people who do not belong at a cool concert, and who wanted no part of getting up and dancing. People kept telling us to sit down. Sit down? At a concert? Are they real?

The women to our right, however, were the worst of all. They'd had several bottles of wine between the three of them, and they started feeling it about ten minutes into the Girls' set. They started talking. They were talking loudly and giggling. They were paying absolutely no attention to the concert, and since it was an acoustic duo tour (meaning two voices and two guitars - captivating!!!!!) utmost attention needed to be paid at all times by all people because it's my FAVORITE BAND GOSH DARN IT. They played lots of new songs, and I wanted to hear and listen and be moved, as I always am at their shows.

Instead, I heard, listened to, and was moved by these three 40-year old women who kept cat-calling at all the young guys that walked by. They staged a very loud discussion about a friend of theirs who is fucking someone else's boyfriend. One of them kept pledging that she'd do anything for the other two. During "Closer To Fine," they all stood up and tried to sing, but they didn't know any of the words.

I hated them. I truly began to wish they would die. You'd have thought they'd never gone out in public before.

I realized I was being ridiculous, that to sit there and be miserable is a piss-poor reaction to something that really irks me. I turned to them, very calmly, and told them that I would kill them with my shoelace if they didn't shut up.

No, of course I didn't say that. I simply told them it was my favorite band, I wasn't trying to be a bitch (which I knew was an okay word to use, considering they'd said "Fuck" about 834 times directly in my ear), and could they please talk more quietly.

To my total surprise, they said okay, and they shut up. Two of them even went off somewhere for most of the show, I guess to finish their scintillating conversation, and I got to listen to the rest of the concert in peace. So my advice, the next time someone bothers you, is just to try a little tenderness.

Try a little tenderness. I just made that up. All me. Man, someone should write a song about that.

~~~~~ Fun UTL Bonus Section! ~~~~~
Favorite Roadtrip Quotes

"So. How'd you guys like the show?" - Nick
"Anyone want to hear my alien noise?" - yours truly
"Um... I'm trying to party with your uncle." - Michelle
"You know, you guys could make more than one of those so you wouldn't have to share." - Nick
"I'm over the chicken pot pie." - Michelle
"Hey, maybe you could just go ask them what that song's called." - Josh
"The signs are not going to be gone, Angela!" - Allison
"I wanted to fight, but ya'll would have had to have my back." - Michelle
"I have a fun game for us to play. It's called Where Are We Staying Tonight?" - yours truly
"What, this is the only song they know?" - Michelle
"Hey, did you know it was my fault you got lost? Well, it was." - Nick
"This place is a fucking mecca. They have 147 showers in the back." - Jeffrey
"You have to pee again? Now that's just ridiculous." - Michelle
"Well, if I did piss them off... fuck 'em." - Michelle

2001-08-03T06:59:00.000-04:00

you'll have a milk

Have you ever held a gasoline pump away from a car or authorized container and shot gasoline all over the ground?

Take it from me, and I unfortunately speak from experience: it's not the coolest feeling ever.

I went to a place here in town (big city dwellers, prepare to despise me) where they sell gas for a mere $1.18/gallon. Great deal, right? Tonight, though, the gas pumps were working very strangely and pumped (I wish this was an exaggeration) about a gallon a minute. So I had an extra long time to stand there and contemplate the back of my car. I was in the middle of wondering whether I should remove one of my bumper stickers when I noticed gas gushing all over the side of my car and the ground. "Hmm," I thought, "that doesn't look right."

Great. Normally, when I set the automatic pumper thing, it does the thing where it works normally and shuts off when your tank is full. No such luck. So I grabbed the handle and squeezed to make it realease. Still the gas continued pumping. In my frenzy, I pulled the handle out of the tank. I am now essentially holding a self-propelling Super Soaker of gasoline. Gas is going all over my shoes. I am repeating the word "Fuck" over and over. I reach into the handle and manually pry the metal thing loose.

As I'm in line to pay (and people are edging quietly away, noticing the gas/feet funk that's wafting around them), I get a beep from my voice mail. The phone never rang, but the voice mail beeped. That's a nice little perk my new phone has. Anyway, the call is from Fred, who's slightly annoyed that I'm not picking up my phone, as it has been 4 days since we talked and he knows my show is over for the night and he wants to talk and where the hell am I?

And of course, it annoys me entirely that I missed the call.

I get to the front of the line and tell them pump 13 is pumping extraordinarily slowly. "We know," they tell me, "they're all slow right now." "Fine," I say, "but the pump didn't cut off in my tank and there's gas all over the ground." The man behind the counter supposes he'll go out and have a look. I wonder briefly if that means I'm supposed to wait around in case they want to yell at me for creating an environmental hazard. I figure the answer must be "no," however, because the man shows absolutely no signs of actually going outside to have a look.

I wonder how often these kinds of spillages happen. Probably pretty often. Gross. Remember when you liked the smell of gas as a little kid? I'm so over that now. Gross.

So now my car smells like gas. Actually, it smells like fish, but I'm saying it's the gas to keep myself from thinking about what fish-smelling object might be lurking in my car under all that random crap.

I got told by one of my fellow cast members at the dinner theater that I have a distinctly different persona when I'm in costume. He says when I'm in my own clothes, I'm withdrawn, I don't talk much, etc., but when I'm in costume I have an alter-ego that is very silly, outgoing, and talkative. He says it freaks him out. Huh. Never heard that before. It definitely made me stop and think, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist, I guess. So I like pretending I'm someone else. Big fucking deal, right?

Tonight I got to hang out with my friend Zach, who is moving to L.A. on Sunday. We went to high school together, so we've known each other since we were both about 5 feet tall, and now I'm 5'6 and he's considerably taller than that. One of the really great things about having old friends like this is that no matter how long it's been since you've seen each other, you can talk and talk and talk as if no time has passed in between at all. I gave him a tour of Newport News apartment complexes, accidentally driving to Kim's apartment complex thinking Nicha lived there, driving around for a bit, not really being able to find Nicha's place, then realizing, oops, we're in the wrong place entirely.

Allison called this an example of my "adorable charm." Some would call it my "ridiculous flightiness." Whatever.

We went to Jeffrey's and visited Gus the Cat. I gave Zach some Pounce to feed Gus (inexplicably, the container claims that Pounce are "Purr-fect for Winter" and it's summer, so something is wrong there), and Zach immediately said, "I'll eat one if you eat one." Fruitless, however, as Pounce contains Beef, Liver, Chicken Parts, and Tuna (apparently) and Zach does not eat meat. Later (after a two hour walk around the neighborhood and a footrace with a random automobile), at his parents' house, I saw some tomatoes on the counter, and I mentioned that I hated tomatoes, and Zach said "Me too. Hey, I'll eat it if you'll eat it." Apparently this desire to eat the undesirable is some kind of phase he's going through, but we ended up leaving the tomatoes alone as well.

I've just gotten home. It's 6:35 am and I'm not even remotely tired. I sat in my car for about 15 minutes in my driveway just now, contemplating the universe or something. It's strange, and I suppose this is what friendship (real friendship) is about, but I haven't actually talked to Zach extendedly for over a year, probably, and I'm used to not seeing him way more often than seeing him, but I'm really truly going to miss him when he goes to California. Very weird. I guess it must be the distance thing. I hate that all my friends are scattering to the four corners and such. Not that it isn't great for them to do the things they are doing, but I just remember when I see them how much I miss them. Nicole says we should just all buy an island in the Carribean and all go build little huts and live there. She tries to hardsell us all on this idea about once every 6 months. In my current frame of mind, I'd go in a heartbeat.

Speaking of internal organs, I had an amazing voice lesson today with my amazing teacher. I'm actually starting to feel how a real singer breathes. It hurts (so I don't do it too much yet - must work up to these things). I also found out that I shouldn't do situps, because tight abs = constraint for singing = bad. Hurrah! I hated doing situps anyway. Hey, what a great excuse for people not to work out. Anyone who's looking for a great cop out for their predominantly flabby tummy need only take up voice study.

2001-07-30T15:07:00.000-04:00

life lesson #421:
speak for yourself

I have something that I need to say, here, but I'm not sure how to say it. Basically, I've made an error. I'm not sure if anyone knows or cares that I made an error, but I made one.

I made the error of writing for a general audience, not keeping in mind that specific people that I know and love read this journal regularly, and in fact probably comprise its main audience. Before I get into this, I need to say that I arrived at this of my own volition without any coaching or suggestion from anyone else.

Several weeks ago, I wrote an entry about my theater professor, Jeffrey. I wrote how he'd been fired. I wrote how upset I was that the community of students and colleagues could let something like this happen. I waxed on and on about it, and that entry stemmed entirely from anger. I was letting off steam. I was not thinking anything about how my opinions might be received. In fact, that's one of very few entries here that I wrote as I might write in my own personal journal.

Today I've been thinking about some of the unfair blanket statements I made. I don't even want to refute them, I'd rather erase them entirely. I will someday (I hope) learn that nothing good ever comes of shooting from the hip about things like that. I made some gross assumptions over the whole 6 month course of this fiasco, most of which I'd like to forget about. The point is, I was brought into this situation as a friend, and I reacted as a student. I got my roles confused. I'd like to say that anyone would have done the same in my position, but I'm not sure that's true. I acted childishly and I'm sorry. I'm sure I've offended people, and I'm sorry for that too. What I really want is to put the situation behind us as we get ready for the school year.

I would not make a good politician.

I do not enjoy creating problems where there are none. I am a Libra, represented by the astrological symbol Scales. I crave balance. I adhere to anything that sounds good. I love running around barefoot. What I'm saying is that I'm typically the person who would turn her head when people are running around trying to stir others up about something. I hope that in this situation I've exercised knowledge of the thin line between ignoring gossip and standing by letting others fight battles for you. In other words, I fought the good fight and lost, but I don't think I fought in vain.

If nothing else, I've drawn the line more clearly for myself.

The most important lesson for me here is that things always work out for the best. A friend told me that I may not even realize this fact fully until many years later, but truthfully I already feel it. I know that for all concerned - the department in general, the other students, the new students, the Jeffrey-haters, myself, Fred, Allison, the faculty, and most importantly Jeffrey himself - that this is the best possible option. Great things will happen because he is leaving. I positively believe this, and I'm going to keep that in mind the next time I'm in a seemingly impossible situation with no desirable outcome.

2001-07-24T19:26:00.000-04:00

maybe you should stop all that laughing

Oeufs. Eggs. Oeufs. Eggs. Ouefs. Eggs.

I'm in such a bad mood right now, I really shouldn't be writing. It seems like all the journals I read have people that either have quit, want to quit, or are extremely pissed off or sad about something. It's just a bad time of year for journallers, I suppose.

I'm in a bad mood because of a few reasons. Recently, several of my high school girlfriends were in town, and we hung out and had a great time together, but it just made me miss seeing them. Now they're gone, and I don't know when they'll be back, and Nicole might have left New York by the time I get there, and it's just all sad. I want my high school friends back in my life for a while. Sometimes, I'll admit, it does get silly because we'll end up talking a lot about the old days, but I feel so comfortable around them it's worth it. I never worry what they think, because they've already seen the worst of me and still they put up with me.

Another really annoying thing is that Fred and I are playing phone tag. This just sucks. We haven't actually spoken in like 4 days. This annoys both of us, and we end up having 2 minute conversations that go like this:

FRED OR ANGELA
I can't talk right now. Can I call you later?

FRED OR ANGELA
Well, later I have rehearsal/I have a show/I'm going out/I need to run some errands. What about tonight?

FRED OR ANGELA
I wanted to get to bed early/I'm going to be out late. What about tomorrow?

FRED OR ANGELA
Yeah, we'll talk tomorrow.

Then one or both of us will attempt to call later, tonight, and tomorrow, leaving each other annoyed voice mails, but to no avail. I'm going to talk to him tonight, come hell or high water.

I saw a book today called "Maybe You Should Write A Book." I really loved that. My friend Golf and I decided it should be one of many in a series, with other titles such as "Maybe You Should Go To Hell," "Maybe You Should Get A Job," "Maybe You Should Kiss My Ass," "Maybe You Should Fuck Off," and the perennial favorite "Maybe You Should Eat Shit And Die." I think we're going places with this.

The great thing about it is that it leaves you options. It's not being aggresive, forcing its way into your life. It's not convinced that you should, in fact, be a writer. You won't get tons of encouragement. If you're interested in being a passive self-starter (and who isn't?), then this is the book for you. "You could write a book. Or not, whatever. We're not trying to tell you what to do, you know? If you want to write a book, go for it, that's what we think. But we're not all that worried if you don't. We probably wouldn't read it, anyway. Ernest Hemmingway never read self-help books about writing. God knows you're no Hemmingway. But if you really want to write, hell, knock yourself out. We aren't stopping you."

Last night we (a bunch of theater kids) went to a softball game. George, one of our professors, plays on a team. The theater group was the entire fan base of the team, which was understandable because as George himself puts it, "We suck." Apparently, one of the best guys was out sick or something, but we still lost 11 to 0. George was extremely distraught about this, because after the game, he came up to us and announced tragically, "Let's all go have a beer."

So we all went to shoot pool. Now, understand that there weren't many of us. Mike, Nicha, Kim, Cash, Allison, and myself were the students, and George and Steven are professors, so they're the responsible parties. We're definitely not a troublesome bunch. We aren't rowdy. We're reasonably responsible and mature. We're very friendly. We don't glower at people to make them fear us, nor do we have terrible body odor problems.

One of the employees came up to us at one point and informed us in no uncertain terms that we were being entirely too loud and we'd better keep it down or else. We were all taken quite aback, but Steven stepped in earnestly to find out what the problem was.

STEVEN
I'm sorry, what's wrong?

IVY FARMS EMPLOYEE
You're being too loud, and people are complaining. You keep screaming and laughing.

STEVEN
Let me get this straight: we're laughing too loudly?

IVY FARMS EMPLOYEE (WITH NOT A TRACE OF IRONY)
That's right, you're laughing too loudly. So keep it down.

STEVEN
All right, we'll try to stop laughing so much. (After the employee left) We're in a POOL HALL. We're not allowed to laugh? These people must be terribly sad, bitter and frustrated people.

After that, anytime anyone started laughing, Steven gave them a serious talking-to. Lowlife degenerates that we all are. In spite of the evil pool hall employees, we decided that it would be fun for the department to go out after rehearsals sometimes. I don't know if that'll actually happen, but it's a really great idea. We need some fucking unity. We need a little togetherness. We need to all find each other. (For any Ani diFranco fans: Anne Frank needs to find Jesus, and Jesus needs to find Buddha, and Ani needs to find Anne Frank.)

I need to find a way to take care of myself. That's really what my bad nasty mood is all about. In all seriousness, I had to face up to some really ugly truths because of a very serious talk I got from a good friend last night, and I apparently need to find myself soon.

2001-07-22T16:28:00.000-04:00

fucked in the head

I'm kind of in a tailspin right now, for a couple of very divergent reasons. First off, I got very sick last night and I'm still feeling dehydrated and nasty... a rather adverse reaction to usually safe substances.

Today, I went with some friends to visit my girlfriend Nikki's baby. It was very trippy. We all wished Nikki hadn't gotten married and had a baby so quickly. Not because of anything she did, but because it makes us all feel old. I know deep down that I am nowhere in the same stratosphere of being ready to actually have a child with me 24/7. But why, then, was I so fascinated by her fat little legs and her masses of brown hair and all those nonsense noises she made?

I think I know what it is. I think it's pleasing to me to be able to live vicariously through Nikki for short spurts. While I know that I don't actually want to have a baby right now, it's really great to be able to play with one and imagine that it's yours for an hour or so. Because babies are really amazing, insane little creatures, if you think about it. Fearless and uninhibited, curious and helpless.

Babies make cool noises.
They never apologize.
If one smiles at you, you'll remember it all day.

Gus The Cat (the one I'm babysitting this month) is also a rather helpless, needy little creature, but I don't have the same tug toward him as I do about my girlfriend's baby, I suppose since I've been friends with Nikki since 7th grade, when our idea of boys still consisted of words like "icky." Anyway, I love little Mo as I imagine I would love my own children, and right now, that's enough for me.

2001-07-12T15:33:00.000-04:00

don't put the extras in your mouth, you don't know where they've been

I don't have computer access, okay?

I lost my notepads and I don't have computer access.

I'm a loser, I lost my notepads, and I don't have computer access.

Enough self-aggrandization (haha, sarcasm): I'm very sorry that I have been so lax in updating. All of the above statements are true, but also ("also," as in, "the actual reason I haven't updated") Fred is in town and we've been terribly terribly busy.

Really, we've been busy. Fred bought a car. We've cleaned Jeffrey's house, or part of it. The kitchen. We actually found a rotting watermelon in the kitchen (in a bag), and when we approached Jeffrey with this, he told us, "Well, that's not that disgusting."

Not that disgusting. I won't even tell you what was in the sink. Anyway, that's the price you pay for being a genius, one supposes.

I did this film shoot out in Norfolk this week, and I ran into the really annoying girl again that I always seem to run into at auditions, only this time we were filming together, so I got subjected to more random stories of ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING. I'm sorry, but people like that just make me a little stir crazy. Anyway, my part was tiny and infinitessimal, and I didn't get paid for it, but I really wanted to do it because a) I fell in love with the script at the original audition; b) it's good to get your name out there and make connections; and c) I'm quite vain and enjoy parading around film sets pretending like I'm a big star and people are there to bring me things and dote on me endlessly. I imagine saying things like "Excuse me, Candy, I'm not feeling this scene today. Bring me some creme brulee and a glass of sherry and we'll discuss it in my trailer."

No, I really don't say stuff like that in my head. That would be really silly. In my head, the director's name is Jose, and we don't drink sherry, we drink cognac.

So no one brought me any delicious yummies to eat or drink (although they did tell me to help myself to the cookies - Keebler, the kind with chocolate stripes on top - my cup overfloweth), but I did get to play a store clerk at an ultra hip, tres chic, muy impressivo, [other foreign language phrase of your choice goes here] boutique on Rodeo Drive. They told me to dress appropriately. "Hip, but sophisticated. You know."

"Oh yes," I replied knowingly, "I know."

Dirty secret: I don't know. I have no clue, absolutely no clue at all, what people on Rodeo Drive wear. And I'm sure that even if I knew, I would not actually own any appropriate clothes. I once did a photo shoot and the guy told me to dress "Cool Euro." What? Am I a fashion model? Does everyone else but me really understand these directives?

Anyway, I showed up on set in my best eastern Virginia small town girl imitation of southern California hip chick, and they told me "Oh, that's perfect. You look fantastic."

I'm guessing they have no idea either.

I was very amused (read: vaguely annoyed) by the people, who could not be bothered to actually learn my name (first I was Laura, then Brandy, then Laura again, and finally Sibyll, which was my character name.) Also, there was one guy that called all of us "extras" (read: vermin) as in "Could you please have the extras stand over there?" and "Why are those extras all running around like crazed chimpanzees?" and "Which one of the extras made on my shoe?"

There was another woman who called us "beautiful people" instead of "extras," which was a slightly better, if sarcastic, alternative.

I enjoy doing film, but I was also kind of dismayed by the whole "same way every time" thing. The lead actors didn't really make any interesting changes as I watched, but as far as I know, they were told to do it that way. I think on the whole, the creative process is much more interesting on stage, but I haven't done enough film stuff to really make a judgement about that yet. So I'm going to do it anyway. I enjoy making value judgements about things I don't really understand. Every on-camera experience I've had has left me feeling very soap-opera-y and dirty.

Fred and I arrived on campus today like Wayne and Garth on their new TV set. "Wha? Huh? What? How did - Where? What? Huh? Whaaa?" The entire campus is torn all to pieces. They're apparently making a new residence hall and an entrance to the school, but last time either of us was there, everything was intact. So it was a real headtrip.

I'm very excited right now because I'm starting new voice lessons with a really awesome teacher tomorrow and it's going to be wonderful. Also, the buzz around school is that we're going to get to do a Shakespeare comedy this year, which will be unbelievably cool. So I'm really anxious for school to start, although in a way I'm not because I just went to the bookstore, and I'm not psyched about any of the classes I'm taking this semester. Lots of general ed silliness to finish. I may need to take an English class just to balance my chi.

Speaking of chi, I've been reading up on feng shui lately and I absolutely cannot wait to get rid of all my stuff and start over with nothing. At Jeffrey's, I'm living on approximately twenty articles of clothing total (which includes underwear and socks and all that) and it feels SO GOOD. I love it.

Fred and I are off to hang out with his mean uncle who everyone in his family hates, so it should be a fun afternoon. Try not to look directly at the extras, or you'll go blind.

2001-07-06T11:48:00.000-04:00

squatter

I'm supposed to be house sitting. For an entire month, I'm supposed to live at my theater professor's (actually, no longer a theater professor or any other sort of professor, but more about that later) house and baby-sit his cat and his fish and his house in general. This is my reward for driving him to the airport. I get a free place to live for a month.

Which sounds okay.

But I so completely don't want to do it. I already have a free place to live, which also comes with free food. And my place to live has all my things in it already. I don't need to move stuff. The worst part of the deal, though, is that my theater professor has a lot of stuff. I'm currently at a point in my life where I want and need to purge all my stuff. Clear the clutter, both physical and spiritual. Now how am I going to accomplish that by squatting in someone else's clutter for an entire month? Any which way you look at it, it just seems bad.

I'm also unmotivated to go over there because the cat doesn't really seem to need or even especially want me there. Every time I arrive, he disappears and won't come out. I search everywhere I can think of and cannot find him. I know he's there because when I open the door I look up and see his tail swishing away to wherever it is he goes. And I know he likes to hide.

So Jeffrey, the cat's owner, has been one of two teachers I've ever had in my life that truly taught me something. You know the type if you've ever had a professor like this. The people that change your life. The people that inspire you to move forward alone if you have to. The people that.... almost everyone else hates. You know, it's too bad that life isn't more like the movies, because if life were like the movies, right now myself and all of my fellow theater students would be jumping up on our desks reciting "Oh Captain My Captain" and Ethan Hawke would cry. Yum. As it is, we have a half-assed letter writing campaign and a completely freaked out administration who are getting rid (quietly, quietly) of the best teacher within 500 miles. Are they too dumb to realize what they're doing? Or too afraid of themselves not to do it?

If I were them, I'd be more afraid that they'll never have a teacher like this at their school again. It is a rare, rare gift, I'm sure of that. I mean, how many people in Newport News Virginia are so madly uncomfortable with the status quo that they lose their job over it? Many people are very good at "just going along." Here's someone who needs to do something new. Wants to create something from scratch, something you can tell stories about later. Here's someone who is going to turn the entire area completely on its ear if the area isn't too scared to let it happen.

But the area is precisely that: too scared. And I hate them all right now. I'm sorry for the ones who didn't appreciate him while they had him here. I'm sorry for the future of theater in Newport News, which once had a chance to be interesting, and now has simply to be mediocre and run-of-the-mill and go along. I'm tired of status quo. I hate status quo. I am never going to be status quo in anything I do.

So I'm very upset about his leaving. Interestingly enough, Jeffrey himself is in better spirits than I have seen him in quite a while. This has partly to do with the month-long trip (to visit his girlfriend in California) but also, I think he senses that even having lost his job and being stripped of all he's done over the past two years, he'll somehow be happier far away from Newport News. Won't we all.

I want to move. I still have a year and a half of school, which makes an even two years before I can start grad school (they don't offer grad programs in January) and I just don't feel like I can wait that long. I'm so ready to go. Maybe skill-wise I'm not ready, but disposition-wise, I definitely am. I don't move, though, because I'm focusing on the current goal of graduating school, which I know is the more important one. I still can't help feeling a bit trapped. I realize that I need to get over this and find the things I love about being here right now, rather than putting my energy into expecting a future that may never get here.

If Jeffrey had worried about the future and his career and tenure and bullshit institutions like that, he might still be here, but at what cost? He'd be a shadow of his current self, hollow, impassive, and probably too stifled artistically to be able to teach. I know which choice makes me happier.

I only hope that I'm not through finding great teachers. I'm certainly not through learning.

2001-07-01T00:57:00.000-04:00

big news in journal land

Let's see, what's bigger? Pamie quitting, or Katie's faux death?

Well, we already had one fake death this month, so I'm going to start by talking about Pamie. Not to mention that the Katie death thing seems to have been something "given" to only us insiders... namely, the people whose email addresses are available from links on Katie's website (oh you clever hacker, whoever you are). Not that I mind it one bit. Anyone else out there want to send me fake death notices of my other friends? Go right ahead. I was appropriately amused, which is to say "Not very fucking much."

Wait a second. Pamie first. Okay.

About a year before I ever visited pamie.com, I received an essay from a theater friend of mine about the dangers of dating a fellow theater person. I laughed out loud, nodding along with assertions that we don't care if you're sensitive, or funny, or interesting at a dinner party, we just want to see you do some Tony Kushner. The main thrust of the essay is that, even though two actors who date each other will drive each other completely insane, there's also no more rewarding relationship than one with someone who shares your greatest passion.

When I started reading her regularly, I realized that she had been the one who wrote that essay I'd loved so much. I scoured the archives until I found it, then printed the essay, which I think I still have somewhere. I have always loved reading her, I'm sad to see her go, and I don't think she appropriately proved that girls are weird. Sorry.

As for Katie, the only thing her website proves is that one of her readers is weird. Really weird. Two nights ago, several people who are somewhat close to Katie received an email from her "roommate" asserting that she'd committed suicide. It turned out to be a total hoax, and Katie and Eric are both at a loss to figure out who did it. I'm going to come clean and admit it was me just as soon as the rest of you pay up. I told you I wasn't scared to do it. I can hang out with the big kids now, right? I can go on the tall monkey bars, right? You said!!!! No fair!!!!

HONESTLY, who sends out fake death notices anymore? On second thought, whoever did that to begin with? At least if you're going to pull some gay stunt like that, make it interesting. "Katherine Trame of Newport News was found dead in her home this evening, the victim of an errant flying frying pan (non-stick). Sources say the frying pan was possessed by the incarnate spirit of Kaycee Nicole, and kept shouting 'If only you'd bought more coffee mugs, I'd still be alive! Bastards!' Eric the Prolefeed Guy was unavailable for comment, which is a good thing because he'd probably have said something dirty anyway."

2001-06-28T15:43:00.000-04:00

once, twice, three times ethereal

Let me tell you how a reader works it. She becomes totally, utterly, absurdly immersed in a particular book (book in question this time: Tom Robbins' ethereal classic Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) only to become, say, suddenly orgasmic at the mere sight of another book she needs (reference Helen Fieldings' sequel to Bridget Jones' Diary). She buys the latter in a fit of frenzy at a Cleveland Airport bookstore, wondering how she'll manage reading both simultaneously. Heedless, too, of the infinite queue of some half a century's worth of other literature that graces her bookshelves and bedside tables (okay - floor. Who am I kidding?) Eventually I'll get to them all, but meanwhile... the thrill of new books. There is nothing like it, except possibly the greater thrill of opening night.

A writer works it by ignoring all the books and buying an airport notepad to write out a travel recap.

This is the first time I've ever written an entry by hand, away from my computer. I'm not sure I like it, and besides it cost me $2.45 with tax (for the notepads). A laptop only costs, what, about $2997.55 more, give or take? Fear my mathematical prowess. I need a laptop.

I also purchased a Cleveland Airport shot glass for Fred. In his room, he has this whole passion of feng shui groove on, which he is extremely anal about. Every time I put something on the shelf momentarily, he would say, "That isn't part of my feng shui! Take that down!" and then he'd spend half an hour rearranging things which I'd disturbed. The feng shui, during my visit, was disturbed once or more by my phone, my phone cord, my sunglasses, the case for my sunglasses, burnt matches, condoms, and an indiscriminate piece of wax we found that we couldn't figure out where it came from. Fred considers it necessary to maintain because he is at the end of the hall, so all the negative energy from the apartment wafts ("Does Energy Waft? - on the next Montel") into his room. I can only think that the effect would be completed, the ch'i at last balanced, by a Cleveland Airport shot glass. That, or I can't wait to hear the stories about how he responds to inquiries. "Yes... uh... you see, my girlfriend, she was, she's into a... thing. Did you see my plant setup over here? Move along, please, move along."

Some might call me frivolous. Fine.

I love airports. I'm feeling slightly less than charitable towards Cleveland at the moment, however, because their Starbucks, which is an entire concourse away from where my gate is located, which I had to walk out the security gate to get to, which I embarrassed myself by fishing in my bag for something and missing the security exit to get out, only to have a security guy ask me, "Are you trying to get out?" to which I looked straight ahead and saw a whole flux of IN but no OUT whatsoever, and then sheepishly had to reply "yes" and be pointed in the right direction, the Starbucks which, when I walked by the loooooooooong line the first time, had a menu advertising that yes, they had Tazoberry and Cream Blended Juice Tea, the nectar of the gods, sweet ethereal amborsia, which after I stood in the line, had the employee who cheerfully informed me "Sorry, we're all out of the tazoberry We're waiting for the truck."

Fucking truck.

So I was sold a Grande Caramel Frappucino instead. I really hate frappucinos, but I felt like I'd stood in the line and needed to claim a reward, so I bought something. Owing to the incompetent perversities of the Starbucks employees, I was nearly given a Tall and then a Mocha, and I'm not entirely sure that I do have what I asked for. Not that it matters anyway, as I'd hate it regardless. Fucking frappucinos.

I just realized by looking out the window that I actually went underground to get to the other concourse earlier. I'd been looking across at Concourse C, and thinking, "How do I get over there? I can't walk across where the planes taxi, can I? Hmmm." In proceeding over to the other concourse, it never occurred to me that at no time during the journey was I ever what laypersons call "outside."

Some call me observant. Not true.

You know what airport rocks? Detroit. You know why? There's a Starbucks immediately across from the gate I was stationed at 3 days ago, where, I'm told, they never run out of Tazoberry and have to wait for the truck. Okay, so technically no one told me that, but I believe it to be true with all my heart.

Fucking Cleveland.

I just realized that Detroit is now the furthest west place I have ever been in my life (a prestigious honor formerly held by a city in my own state, Roanoke. But I'm well traveled up and down the eastern seaboard. I am. I am. Hey, bite me. I love oceans. I can't venture far from my oceans. Yeah, your mom.) Anyway, Detroit. Furthest west ever. That can't be good. I better rectify that soon. (Hee hee - rectify. Never mind.)

Since we're already on the captivating subject of which airports I've been to, here's a comprehensive list for you to enjoy:

Newport News (PHF)
Atlanta (ATL)
Tampa (TPA)
Norfolk (ORF)
New York La Guardia (LGA)
Richmond (RIC)
Detroit (DTW)
Syracuse (SYR)
Cleveland (CLE)

I had a wonderful time in Auburn. Strange as it may seem, I'm already missing Fred's roommates. Wandering around the airport just now, I thought to myself, "Aww, I wish I could run into Geno or Randy or someone." They're great guys. The theater is awesome. The show is awesome. Auburn is -- very churchy, but it has its awesome parts (namely being very far away from Newport News, Virginia).

And Fred. What can I possibly say about him right now that would even hint at how I feel? I don't think I can without getting incredibly sappy and mushy and spewing bad poetry from every orifice, so I'll spare you. I will say that he drives me absolutely crazy in every way. We had the most wonderful, passionate, free, fun, goofy, energetic, happy, trapped in the amber of the moment three days together. "I hear laaaaa da de da, da de da, da de da, da de daaaaa, and I'm young and in love..."

I've got a lot of new favorite songs as a result of the trip, actually. Quite apart from seeing a new show that I'd never seen, Fred's roommate Charlie has excellent and silly musical taste, so I got a sampling of that. I'm very much in love with the "Voulez vous" song now, and I never liked it that much before. The guys, however, listen to it on the way to their show each night to get themselves pumped up. Believe me, it also works if you're just going to watch the show.

I almost won at limbo. Or, I won, but I was tied three ways for the win, so I guess it doesn't count. In my head it counts, though, because I tied with dancers who kept having instructions yelled at them such as "Lauren, release that back, girl!" and I was quite at a loss to determine what that even meant. The luau was fun, although I made the unfortunate discovery that I'm becoming an old lady and no longer have a stomach for beer. At least that night, it settled very heavy. That's okay, though, because Randy made me (and helped me drink) two Malibu Baybreezes, which as far as I'm concerned are so good they should be available in vending machines. His discourse was interesting as well, both for the constant assertions (as if I didn't know this already) that Fred is "the shit" and the constant queries if the girl directly behind him "could please get off my man? What is she doing? Could she please get off him?"

my toes are candy, luminous, edible. spry pinks, shy lemons, greens, cool chocolates under a locomotive spouting violets.

glory be to god for dappled things
for toes of couple-color as a brinded cow
for rose moles all in stipple upon trout that swim
fresh firecoal chestnut-falls. finches' wings.

The above poems were written by me. Not e.e. cummings and Gerard Manley Hopkins, respectively. No sir. All me. And I didn't substitute the word "toes" for "sky" in certain places. Nope. All me, all original material.

Okay, so I'm lying. We all know that if I'd written those, I could retire immediately without passing Go, or sitting in that little jail visiting people, or collecting a shitload of money off Free Parking, if you're playing by the fun rules.

I bring these poems up and changed the words because they're two of my favorite poems, and because my toes are currently painted ten different colors, and damned if they don't look like yummy bits of candy. I love them. What happened was ("ya see, officah, wha-ha-happent was..."), on the phone with darling Frederick two nights before departure, I told him I was going to paint my nails for him, and asked him what color he would like. Fred is one of those rare males who hates what he calls "plastic" adornments for women, which includes fake nails, perfume, makeup, hairspray, nail polish, pantyhose, high heels, and jewelry. He even happily tolerates unshaven legs. Glory be to god indeed, because I hate all that fussy crap too.

Still, no one loves an occasional girly-esque indulgence more than I do (ever a contradiction), so when Fred told me "White. Clear. Don't paint your nails," I compromised by not painting my fingers, but using 10 different colors on my tows. I had to double up for the sixth toe on my left foot. (I wish!) (Not really!) (All apologies to those with extra toes.) (Wait a second, I shouldn't apologize. My great-grandmother had 11 toes, and she was cool as hell.) (Okay, so she died before I was born, but I'm sure we'd have all liked her.) (Hey, at least I'm not cracking on the Jews.) (Anti-Semitism can be fun, doo dah, doo dah) (I'm kidding again, I've been to temple and have lots of Jewish friends that I think are very cool and I have no desire to chop their heads off or anything so please don't send me fingernails in an envelope like that one guy did.) (Look away, I'm hideous.)

Anyway Fred loved all the different colors more than no polish at all, and he told me I could do my toes that way anytime I wanted. Remember the toenail painting discussion? Me either. Moving right along.

How about the name Miles? Cool, right? I met a guy named Miles in Auburn, the significant other of someone else in Fred's show. Miles and I, being the significant others, ended up hanging around behind the theater together quite a bit, waiting for our beloveds, and looking for all the world like disgruntled groupies in cute outfits. It doesn't matter. Cool guy. Musician and actor from Nashville. I liked him, but I probably won't ever see him again. Isn't that strange, how your life intersects another person's so briefly sometimes, and they make an impact on you, and then you just forget about them? That's not happening this time, though. I intend to stalk him for 5 years (6 at the most), then have 3 children (girls) by different fathers and name them all "Miles, the Actor from Nashville." In 40 years, I will hit number 8 on the bestseller list with my tortured memoir and foreign language tutorial, "Miles Away From Miles."

You can't say I don't have goals.

I met some great actors. I even managed to pick up a new catchphrase from the show that everyone is going to steal. If you've seen The Birdcage, replace Georges for Robin Williams, Albin for Nathan Lane, and Jacob for Hank Azaria. If, however, you've seen/been in La Cage Aux Folles please follow along with me in your book.

ALBIN
It's not the chicken, Georges, it's the thought behind the chicken.

GEORGES
The what?

JACOB
The thought behiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind the chicken!

"The thought behiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind the chicken" will be entering my daily vernacular, but I couldn't say in what capacity.

In addition to so many good actors and performers, I also met one very bad actor. Or, I didn't quite meet him (or maybe I did and forgot - I met lots of people), but I watched him onstage and disliked the way he made me feel about myself. I complained to Fred about him relentlessly, until once outside the apartment complex, as I was in the middle of another tortured rant about the set pieces having a more interesting rapport with the audience, Fred looked skyward and announced, "His window's open."

Clunk. I am forever doing boneheaded things like that. I spent the rest of the afternoon lamenting my guilt, shame, and failure as a human being. When I saw the show that night, I liked the guy better, but Fred says that it was just my guilt talking. Whatever. It's not the chicken, it's the thought behiiiiiiiiiiind the chicken.

This is awesome. I'm now on my flight to Richmond, and they have one-seat rows. Tiny toy plane! Yippee. I'm in a seat all by myself, all the way in the front, by the stewardess station. I have a window and an aisle seat. God, I'm the queen. I should be flying this bitch. Guess who's getting off the plane first? Uh oh, but I have no seat in front of me to store my carryon. My bag is going under my legs, not in the overhead. Haha. Illegal. Don't tell the stewardess.

I'm finding it distinctly unlikely that anyone is going to give me any food on this flight, which sucks because I'm very hungry. I love the exit doors on airplanes. Because if we go down, getting the fuck out of airplane is going to help tremendously. Certainly. Even funnier are the warnings about "In case of a water landing..." I'm sure my seat cushion will save me, yes indeed. Oh god, airplane humor. Have I sunk so low? I make it through flights (which I'm actually pretty afraid of) by either a) drinking heavily, b) constantly telling myself that more people die from soda machines to the head than plane crashes (thank you tom) or c) looking out the window and gauging how far up we are. This especially works during ascent and descent, when I tell myself, "Well, we're not as high up as we might be. I bet if we crash I'll probably make it." Then I notice how even thought the clouds are below us are moving rapidly, the shadows they cast on the ground are NOT MOVING AT ALL AND OH MY GOD IT'S US THAT'S MOVING FAST, NOT THE CLOUDS, I'M ON AN AIRPLANE OH GOD OH HELP OH GET ME THE FUCK DOWN I WANT MY MOMMY.

Actually, I've been lucky, because every time I've flown, it's been really a breeze. Non-full airplanes, no turbulence, quick flights, free first class seats finagled by my mother, nice passengers, creative flight attendants, and sober pilots. The only time I've really run into any shit was during Christmas, when en route to Florida we were laid up in Atlanta for something like nine hours due to problems at O'Hare (naturally we were affected by problems in Chicago, travelling from Virginia to Florida by way of Georgia.) Even through that ordeal, though, there was a punchy, silly, five in the morning and still awake, we're all in this together kind of groove. One fellow passenger stole some airplane cookies from somewhere and proceeded to lob them around the waiting area for all to share like some sort of modern day airport Santa Claus. Christmas spirit, touche.

When Fred met me at the airport in Syracuse (he tried for the gate, but was running late as always, bless his widdle heart), he handed me a rose. White, he told me, because he knows I like the color white and red's too corny. He doesn't know that white roses are my favorite flower, though. Amazing, isn't he? I left the rose for him, as we liked its membership in the feng shui love nest, and I hated to see it die carting it from airport to airport.

At the airport this morning, the two of us were so busy goofing around that we managed to miss all but the final boarding call for my flight. This caused a slight frenzy, so I was in a hurry to hand the guy my boarding passes and say goodbye to Fred at the same time. I only handed him one pass, so as I went to kiss Fred goodbye, I saw the guy reach for the other pass. Rather than break the kiss, I held my book out for the airport guy, who gingerly removed the pass. I'm sure that wasn't uncomfortable for him at all. The guy motions me through the door, but there's a closed door in front of me, stairs to my right. I'm flustered, what with almost missing the plane and making the airport guy feel awkward. I've never been on a plane that didn't have one of those foldy hallways leading out to it. Hmm. Door or stairs? Both are formidable, and I was forced to swallow my pride and go back out to ask the guy where to go. He motioned down the stairs. Fred, standing behind him, was extremely amused by this momentary lapse in reason, so I'm sure I'll be hearing about it.

My friends Blair and Cherise (pageant directors from last year) have always called me the "little fucking exhibitionist" because of my ease, nay, enjoyment, of being naked. This name was actually put to the test during the trip, because Fred's bed lies alongside his window. Lights on. Night time. I suppose I do have it in me after all, and here all along I've thought it was an act of necessity, changing clothes in front of whoever happened to be wherever I was.

I guess all that remains to be said is the obvious: "I had a wonderful time, can't wait to go back, love my boyfriend ridiculously, am going to suffer from separation anxiety, sorry this is so much about flying, but I spent a lot of time in Auburn doing things you probably don't want to hear about" and the not so obvious: "Explanation of Title of This Entry: I have now flown (trips, not separate flights) three times. The double entendre (of course there's a double entendre) is that I use the word 'ethereal' three times (including that one) in this entry, and never in reference to flying or things heavenward. God I'm clever. Aren't I terribly terribly clever?"

Some say I'm modest. I just tell them it's the thought behiiiiiiiiiiiiind the chicken.

2001-06-22T21:18:00.000-04:00

Oh god, this world we live in.

2001-06-21T12:14:00.000-04:00

i'm not a sleep expert, i just play one on tv

The human mind is really incredible. Last night, I had one of those awake dreams (or dreaming consciousness) where you're dreaming, but you know you're dreaming, and you're still thinking in conscious terms. I was really tired last night, and while I was dreaming, I was remembering something my friend Kim told me about the night terrors she has, and how they are derived from being totally exhausted. Paranoid as I am, I was quite convinced that I was going to have one last night.

Night terrors, as Kim explained to me, are awful hallucinations that you have when you're in a conscious state where you see some being of pure evil and fright. You can scream, and you're awake, and you just see this evil scary thing standing in front of you, which manifests itself differently for different people.

So I was lying there, dreaming my dream, and I thought, "Boy, wouldn't it be scary if I had one of those night terrors?" And immediately, just at my suggestion, something evil turned up. There was also really loud, scary music playing. The evil being, as best I can remember, was a guy dressed in a long white coat, goose-stepping and carrying a meat cleaver. So apparently for me, the most scariest thing in the whole wide world would be a Nazi butcher. I never knew.

I don't think it was a night terror I had, because it was really nothing like Kim described it. Actually, I just clenched my eyes shut so I couldn't see the thing, and then went into my own version of scary night-time happenings: sleep paralysis. Sleep paralysis occurs when you abruptly wake up from REM sleep but your body hasn't caught up with your mind yet. Therefore, your mind is awake but your body lies there unable to move. (Ya'll knew that your body is in temporary paralysis during REM sleep, right?) Anyway, it's very scary the first few times it happens to you. You have to just lie there and let it pass, because if you try to strain against it, it seems much worse, or maybe it actually takes longer to pass. There's not much research available on it (which I know because I did a report on it once); I suppose because it's hard to say what triggers it so it's hard to reproduce those effects in a lab. It's linked to a whole bunch of other sleep disorders, like apnea, narcolepsy, and cataplexy. A lot of people I have talked to about it also have paralysis but didn't know it was actually a condition of some sort. They just thought it was a weird thing with them. That's how little information is available about it.

What really sucks about paralysis is that once you can move again, you have to get up and do some stretching and moving around, because if you just shut your eyes and try to sleep again, your body goes right back to being paralyzed. I learned this the hard way.

If you believe in the paranormal, sleep paralysis is also linked to astral projection and OBE's (out of body experiences), which I've always been too freaked out to really experiment with. Astral projection is a condition wherein you can (supposedly) project yourself forward from your body in a conscious state and you can go anywhere in the universe in a matter of seconds, basically. And the state that you get into during sleep paralysis is the first stage of this process.

I've tried maybe 5 times to do some visualizing and try to move somewhere else, but so far I've just gotten really scared and stopped. OBE's are similar to astral projection, in that they involve you being separated from your body, but with OBE's, you don't control what happens. I had one OBE while I was paralyzed, and I barely remember it at all. All I really remember was the constant feeling that I was swooping beyond my control and that I was going to fall. I do find it amazing that the human mind is capable of making us believe in such sensations, even if they aren't real in the physical sense (which I believe they are, but I have to be objective). They say that anyone who experiences an OBE believes adamantly in life after death after their experience, and that's true for me. I don't have any ideas about the form it takes, but I know beyond all doubt that the energy has to go somewhere.

I feel that I am getting a little too ethereal and trippy. I'll stop with the guru talk. I feel like a guy I met once who owned a metaphysical bookstore in Nags Head, NC. I loved that bookstore more than I can explain, and the guy who ran it was probably psychotic, but at age 17, he seemed like the coolest motherfucker on the planet. His name was Strider. He regaled us with stories about sticking his face into another dimension. He gave unsolicited tarot and aura readings. He had really unnatural blue eyes, which I thought were magical but were actually probably just the result of too much acid. He told us that everyone should take ecstasy at least once a month, and the world would be a better place. Yeah. I feel like that guy right now. You have a yellow aura. You need to get laid immediately.

2001-06-21T01:13:00.000-04:00

the common criminal

Fucking policemen. I got pulled over tonight. I was speeding. 47 in a 35. Doesn't that suck? It's really amusing, too, in a way, because I was on my way home from a show, and as many times as I have intentionally sped down that road, late to a rehearsal, I can't believe I got stopped on the way home when I wasn't even trying to speed. I was just in a good, good mood. I had my foot up on the dash, the windows open, my current favorite song (Uncle Kracker's "Follow Me") on the radio, and I was leaving Fred a voice mail. Then I saw the lights. I have no idea how long he followed me. I do remember zipping past him, thinking "Whew - thank god I'm not speeding or anything."

Fucking speeding ticket. I didn't try to get out of it. I find it weird that some people break down and cry over tickets. I just chill. No policeman is going to get his rocks off by watching me freak out and crumble before him, damn it. I gave him my license and all, and turned the radio back up while he went back to his little car to do whatever it is they do in their little cars. As I sat there, I was noticing a guy across the street who was working in the lobby of a hotel. He was staring intently at me and the flashing lights. How interesting can this be for him, to watch someone being pulled over? I'm guessing "not very." I felt sort of sorry for him, if you want the truth.

I waved at him, if it made him feel better. Apparently it didn't, because he didn't wave back, but he did keep staring. Every now and then I would look over and smile or give him a thumbs up. It pissed me off a little, because what was he, hoping I was getting arrested for arms trading or drug smuggling or some such? I noticed though, that everyone who walked by on the sidewalk was also staring at me. As if to say, I wonder who this degenerate criminal is, and what she's done to cause the wrath of the Willliamsburg Police Department to be brought upon her head.

I'm sure if stoning were legal, these people would be all about it. Lord, please never let me be so bored that I stare at police cars pulling someone over.

Anyway, so when the cop came back to me, he was talking bla bla bla court date, citation, call this number, whatever. A group of teenagers in a Jeep drives by and yells something really loud (and unintelligible) at the policeman. This was the last straw for me.

ANGELA
Excuse me, can I ask you something? I'm not trying to be funny, but does this always happen? With the yelling and the staring?

COP
Oh sure, it's part of the routine.

ANGELA
I mean, look at the guy across the street. He's been glued to that window for ten solid minutes. Don't you find that weird?

COP
All part of the job... nosy people, always wanting to see what's going on.

I feel maybe like I should have done more than wave. Huh. I suppose a roadside striptease could be in order. I'll save it for next time.

Truly, and I mean this, all I ever want is an audience. One of my favorite games is called "Sing In Public And Make People Uncomfortable." I just gave it that name. Here's how you play. You walk around a public place (this evening's round was played at Food Lion) and you sing whatever happens to be your internal theme song of the moment (tonight it was the Uncle Kracker song, natch.)* Anyway, you sing loudly and watch people get uncomfortable and try to let you know that they're there so you don't further embarrass yourself by singing in front of them. I was walking tonight and the guy walking behind me kept clearing his throat and whatever to make sure I knew he was there. It was such great fun. People will go to great lengths to get you to stop singing in front of them.

But that's because you sing bad.

My show opened tonight. We had a wonderful opening night audience. The show is possibly the most tiring show I've ever been in. Constant running, dancing, shrieking, for 3 hours. More about that later, of course, but I will say that it's very fun to be involved in a sort of theater hybrid, because almost everything we do is an improv. If you fuck up, no one cares or even notices. You don't have to be perfect, you just have to have fun. A fine way to earn my living this summer (supplanted, of course, by my table-waiting). The kids were great tonight. Kids love to be a) scared and b) grossed out. This show has plenty of both.

Since the show is supposedly a wedding, I get to do a lot of traditional wedding type things. I toss the bouquet. I get my picture taken. I get told I make a beautiful bride. I piss everyone off by making them do the chicken dance. I whine incessantly about my special day being ruined. And I fuck with my shoes. Any plans I had on eventually hosting a nice traditional wedding will be completely gone after this run. Playing bride for a night is very fun, but I have a feeling it'll get exhausting. That's nothing, of course, compared to the monster that is "actually being married to someone." I'm glad that, for right now anyway, every night after I take my bows, I take my ring off and give it right back to my new hubby.

* (Oh good god, I did the "natch" thing the right way, didn't I, Golf? God, this is a great day for me.)

2001-06-20T11:35:00.000-04:00

a place to park

I've had an extremely busy couple of days. You may remember me talking about locking my keys in my car once. I topped this on Monday night, when I locked them in with the ignition running.

Lord love me, I am the ding-dongiest person there ever was. I was running late to rehearsal, which the director hates, and I was in such a hurry to get out of the car, I just hopped out with all my stuff in my hands and slammed the door. After I did it, I looked with disbelief at what I'd just done. I knew I was already in trouble for being late, but when I walked in telling them I'd locked my keys in, they were pretty annoyed. Luckily, someone at the restaurant had one of those long metal sticks that cops use to unlock you. So I got my keys, and we had a crappy rehearsal, and that was that.

Yesterday morning, I had an audition over in Virginia Beach (absolutely moot, since even if I got cast, I couldn't do the shoot - I'll be out of town.) I had some directions, and rolled up to the little area where the offices are. I was looking for Suite 204. At the parking lot they told me to pull in, the suite numbers were like 237, 239, etc. No problem, I figure. I'll drive back the other way to the lower numbers. Fine, except that the suite numbers are all odd. Huh. Oh, the evens are on the other building. Gotcha. Oh, and they're low! 210, 206, 200. Well, that's weird. Nobody said anything about 204. Must have missed it. Are those extra doors? Oh, no, those are what we call windows. Maybe the suite isn't numbered. No, it just goes from 200 to 206. Man, that's weird. I know. I'll go in and ask. The 206 people have gotta know something.

SUITE 206 LADY
May I help you?

ANGELA
Yes, I was wondering if you can tell me where Suite 204 is.

SUITE 206 LADY
{snicker snicker} Well, as best we can figure, {snicker snicker} it must be down at the end of this other building. {snicker snicker} Not this building, but the next building.

ANGELA'S INNER MONOLOUGE
Oh yes, you mean the building that I first drove up to, where the numbers are 237 and 239 and so on? That makes sense. 204 will be right between 237 and 239, I'm sure. Thanks ever so much for all the fucking help.

ANGELA
Great! Thanks a lot!

So I drive down to the end of the building, where the suite numbers are still 237 and 239 and things you might expect to find around 237 and 239 (e.g. 235, 241... apparently, the people who did this part of the complex were not using alien counting to determine the suite numbers). Frantically, now, as it's 10 minutes till my audition, I call my agent. No one is in the office. Fuck it, I decide. I'll drive around this whole complex. I drove in back, near the Dimpsty Dumpsters. I drove out on the road. I circled all the buildings. I finally found Suite 204. It was in a completely unrelated building, around the side, and the door itself was actually in a little alcove. It was all by itself. I don't know what it did to get itself shunned from numerical order, but whatever. I went in, and found out they were running about an hour behind. Great sigh of relief. No problem.

But I was sitting next to the biggest mouth since Joan Rivers. This girl was unbelievable. And she wasn't just loud, she was boisterous and energetic and OH MY GOD PLEASE MAKE HER STOP TALKING. The worst of it, though, was that she was rambling about completely unneccessary things. I actually know that her brother wears a size 12 shoe. I shouldn't know that! That isn't fair! I don't know my own boyfriend's shoe size. But I know this girl's (8 1/2) and her brother's, and she told me the sizes of several other members of her family as well. This was during the discussion on How Big Her Feet Are. As if simply showing us her feet wasn't proof enough that her feet are big. Have you ever met people who just constantly let their mouths flop open, and whatever comes out, comes out? They don't make any attempt to censor themselves, and whatever random instinct triggers something in their pea sized brain comes barrelling out of their mouth as soon as they've thought of it.

That was this girl. So I made a practice of watching her and observing the way the other auditioners reacted to her blatherings. It was very interesting. Most everyone seemed to try to maintain a hesitant kind of distance. You know, nodding politely, but certainly not leaning forward or trying to engage the conversation further. One guy was continually looking toward the front door, as if he was expecting someone to walk him and save him further torment.

I did the audition, bing bang boom, and got out of there. My friend Blair is visiting Virginia Beach with her family, so I wanted to spend some time on the beach with her. On the way out there, I called her, and she asked me to stop at a 7-11 and pick her up some cigarettes. I agreed, but reluctantly, since smoking is dirty and nasty and death-inducing.

Once I got to the beach, I passed two 7-11's, but they were on the left side of the road. I made the dumb assumption that there would be 7-11's further ahead that would be on the right, and I could stop at one of those. By the time I got into the residential area, I knew there would be no more 7-11's, and I also knew that turning around would cost me another 20 minutes. Then I passed the Edgar Cayce museum/college or whatever it is. There was a sign that said bookstore, so I figured that would be like a normal college bookstore, and would sell junk food, soda, and cigarettes. Of course, all of you are smarter than me and realize that the Edgar Cayce store only sells whole grain organic fruit composts and books on Aromatherapeutic Accupuncture for Water Signs. I walked in, and immediately knew I wasn't going to get anywhere close to anything that didn't include wheat germ as one of the main ingredients. I did wander around for a bit, since stores like that are right up my alley. I wandered around the building, too, looking at ads for feng shui and tai chi and lots of other things that rhyme with "pee" until I remembered that I had to. Pee, that is.

So I found a bathroom. The liquid soap they had was so yummy, and there was a little sign on it that said something like "Edgar Cayce's Lemon Grass Magic Sage Wheat Uncircumcized Cucumber Soybean Extract Mild Exfoliating Lotion Cleansing Agent." Then the sign indicated that you could buy some downstairs in the bookstore. For a modest price of 44.95 a bottle, I'm sure.

I had to really tear myself away from that place. I mean, it's a college, but they teach you about astrology and acupuncture and massotherapy and psychic phenomena and whatever. I'm sorry, and call me a liberal arts idiot, but that is cool as hell.

So I finally got to the beach, and Blair and I dished for awhile about pageants and people we know in common and all that. The beach was perfect, and I wanted to sit there forever. A really interesting thing happened with her son, though. Blair's stepbrother, who is 13, got bitten by a crab and his foot started bleeding insanely. Not wishing to be outdone, Blair's son, who is 6, also got "bitten by a crab." He was whining and upset, as kids can do. Blair handled it in a very cool, no-nonsense kind of way, by telling him casually, "Madison, you did not, now go play in the water."

I was very interested in the dynamic of it all, because of course, children copy what they see older children doing. Actually, children by nature copy everything they see anyone doing, which is how they're socialized. So if this kid idolizes his cousin, he's going to do everything the cousin does. But he doesn't realize he's doing it. In Madison's mind, he really got bitten by a crab. I remember having those feelings: being so totally certain something had happened and being so frustrated when adults didn't believe me. And I wonder which is better: to completely void out kid's fantasies when they vent them in an unhealthy way (copycatting off an older, more influential child), or to indulge their fantasy and let them figure out for themselves that they invented it. The thing is, it's such a beautiful thing that kids can do this. In acting class, we would call that committing to the circumstances. I guarantee that if you indulged Madison in his story, asking him for specific details (what did the crab look like? where did it bite you? what happened when it bit you?) he would give them eagerly and without hesitation.

Try that with an adult the next time you suspect he's lying. Adults simply don't have the same ability to invent on the spot with such abandon as kids do. Probably because adults are worried about their story being plausible or interesting or a hundred other things that cause us to censor ourselves. Kids don't worry about whether they have a captive or a skeptical audience. They just tell their story, and they tell it truthfully, because for them it is truth. Adults often wonder why kids are such good liars. What they don't realize is that the kids aren't telling lies. If they thought they were lying, they would most likely collapse under the same weight and strain that adults experience when they lie. Kids are just telling their version of truth, which sometimes has no basis in reality.

In fact, we all still do this, every day. We remember how. We tell our version of truth every day. I'm doing it right now. It's the only thing we know. Is it totally 100% factually accurate? Never. But our mind records it a certain way, and we relate it. Kids' minds just happen to record things in very unusual ways, and children are open to their minds' suggestions. For example, I am not open to my minds' suggestion that maybe my house is built on top of quicksand, but when I was a kid, I believed it completely, and had constant visions of my house sinking slowly into a pit.

I think that rather than fully disavowing what the kids are saying (e.g. "You did not, now go play") or committing and playing along (e.g. "You got hurt? Oh noooooo! We need to go to the emergency room!"), I think there must be some happy medium somewhere. Something that indulges the kid's active imagination and rewards him for it, but then teaches them not to make stuff up. For instance, the mother could totally buy into what the kid is saying, and freak out, and then the father can come up and say, "Oh no, Johnny is just playing a joke on you, mommy! Boy, he got you! Johnny, you fooled mommy! You are the funniest kid in the world! You better not do that too often, though, or she'll catch on."

Why am I philosophizing about the child/parent dynamic? I don't know. I'm sure it's a lot harder to actually put these things into practice than it is to sit here and think about how situations could be handled, but I guess I believe there has to be a certain playfulness and allowance for bad behavior taking place. It seems like a bit of a waste of a learning experience to just cast off everything they say as bullshit.

2001-06-15T17:56:00.000-04:00

shop till you kill someone

Y'all, I just hate shopping. Okay. That's not exactly true. But right now, I'm having very nasty feelings toward shopping. In normal circumstances, I'm not a huge fan of shopping. When I had money, I liked to just walk around buying whatever was cute without trying it on. Then when I got it home, if I hated it, I would just focus lots of energy into hating it and ignore the fact that I'd actually spent money on it.

Well, I don't have that luxury (read: stupidity) anymore, so I have to try things on in the store. I. HATE. TRYING. THINGS. ON. I really hate watching other people try things on. That's shopping hell for me, so all you guys that hate shopping with your girlfriend while she tries on everything in the store in 3 sizes and 8 colors? Man, I feel for ya. Drop that high-maintenance bitch like a hot potato, brother.

Oh. Just kidding.

I know there are some women who get a great charge out of getting up at ungodly hours and tirelessly attacking shopping like it's a sport, tag teaming stores and bargain hunting. I am not one of these women. I can think of few worse ways to spend a day. My motto: Know, going in, exactly what you want, get it, and move on to more interesting things. (Of course, if you see something along the way that you didn't know you wanted but absolutely must have, you should buy it, or suffer shopper's regret for the rest of your life. Just ask my mother and I about last year's gold-detail black Cache halter suit. Just try it. It isn't pretty.)

But I have a task. I have to find a costume for this show I'm in. The requirements:

1) Must be a business suit, since I play a business woman.
2) Must be fancy enough to resemble a wedding dress, since I'm getting married that day. (It's a gag, see: I'm so business like, I even get married in business attire. Comedy! Gotta love comedy.)
3) Owing to the fact that it should look wedding-y, must be white.
4) Must be expensive looking, as I play a millionaire.
5) Must have long sleeves, because there's a gag with a fake hand (of COURSE there's a gag with a fake hand.)
6) Must be a size 2 or 4 at the largest.
7) Must not cost more than 50 dollars.

The more seasoned shoppers among you are rolling around on the floor in hysterics at the moment. For the rest of you (boys), I will clue you in.

1) White business suits are extremely hard to come by. The typical business suit nowadays are in "power" colors: black, red, navy, lime. Even in summer, you get lots of pastels and creams, but not much white. Back in the days of "Dynasty," then you had some white suits. They were also ass-ugly, but whatever.

2) Cocktail suits always, ALWAYS look like mother-of-the-bride outfits, because those are the only people who want to wear cocktail suits. And mothers-of-the-bride generally don't wear white, unless they're a real evil bitch. Even if I manage to find one of these monstrosities in white, I god damned better not look like a mother-of-the-bride in it, or someone's loosing an eye.

3) This is spring. Nothing has long sleeves, including ski jackets.

4) Wait, it's summer. Fuck.

5) Expensive clothes don't come for 50 dollars. Well, I guess expensive tank tops come for 50 dollars, but expensive suits? Expensive fancy suits? Those come for about... you know... 300 dollars. That's why people call them expensive.

6) No one in Newport News is under a size 10, apparently. That's what the stores think anyway, because I literally couldn't find ANYTHING that fit me.

So this is a call to arms. If anyone has a white, long sleeved cocktail suit that you got for 50 dollars... please throw it away, because I bet it's ugly.

2001-06-14T23:53:00.000-04:00

Go outside. Noses in the air, everyone. Good, everyone got that? Now, face Virginia (if you're in Virginia, face the County, and if you're in the County, face my house, and if you're in my house, face the refrigerator, and if you're in the refrigerator, face the spaghetti, just cause that would be fun.)

Okay darlings. You're either outside or in my refrigerator. Now. Inhale deeply. Smell that? Yes, that's right, your powers of olfactory intuition have sensed... a stupid fight, starring Fred and Angela.

"Congratulations. Johnny, tell them what they've won!"

Honestly, we had the most retarded fight ever tonight. He called me but couldn't stay on the phone. I was hurt because I had a lot to say and he couldn't talk. So I made him feel guilty, a la my mother, his mother, probably your mother... Then he got mad because he felt like an asshole. Then I got mad because he made me feel like I was being a nag.

All I'm saying is that it sucks to have fights like this when we live so far apart and we can't do anything nice for each other tomorrow to make it up. Phone fights are literally the worst. And you guys all know how much I love talking on the phone anyway. Well. I feel okay hashing out this stupid fight for all of you, because I'm pretty confident that it's a stupid fight and we're just going to apologize and then laugh about it tomorrow. I hope so, anyway.

Today was moving day for my friend Allison. Moving Day is great fun, I have to say, even if she does live on the third floor and have TONS AND TONS OF STUFF! All I have to say is, I don't even want to be in the same stratosphere when she tries to move that boxspring back down those steps, whenever she moves out.

You should have been there when Mikey G. broke her headboard, too. He was holding one piece of it, and she saw him out of the corner of her eye.

ALLISON
Oh no! That's not supposed to do that! It doesn't come apart!

MIKEY
Hmm. It does now.

Also very amusing was the fact that she couldn't find towels for us to wet down and cool our faces with, so she dug some socks out of one of her bags, saying "Here you go, they're clean." After running them under the tap, we could freeze them for 15 minutes while we worked and then they'd be nice and cold during breaks. Wonderful, glorious, frozen socks. I love you, socks.

When Cash called, to say he was on his way over to help us, Allison told him, "Okay, and we'll have a sock on ice for you." We did, too, not that he appreciated it any.

I have a little bit of an issue with my Mikey's. You see, I have two friends named Mikey (and many others named just Mike, but they don't come up much) and I find that calling them Mikey G. and Mikey D. is very boring and unoriginal. From now on, then, Mikey G. (who is always happy and usually hyper) will be Happy Mikey, and Mikey D. (who gets a lot of flak from yours truly for being grouchy and cantankerous, which he vehemently denies) will be Cranky Mikey. These nicknames will only go into effect if I remember to do it, which I hope I will, cause it's been bugging me for a while now.

My dinner theater show... well, it's funny. We're extremely supportive and objective toward the script, as can plainly be seen through comments such as the one tonight from the director: "Oh my god. This is retarded. This writing is just SO RETARDED." It's going to be a funny, albeit retarded, show. It'll at least be funny to the actors, because we'll get to make fun of all the poor saps who plunked down 30 bucks to see it.

I got offered a bit part (not the part I auditioned for) in a short film in Virginia Beach. I'm going to do it if I can, just to get my name out there. The funny part is, when the casting director called me, I was telling her I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it, and she was all, "Oh I know, you're professional aren't you? Yes, I know, they always want to cast people who are professionals, and it's like 'Yeah, hello, they're professionals, they're working.'" I really appreciated the sentiment, but it made me feel a bit fraudulent. I mean, I'm a theater student who happens to be working at a dinner theater this summer. It's not like I've had my nose to the industry grindstone for 30 years. But instead, I just gave a sort of long-suffering sigh, and said "Yes, well I'd love to do it if I can, so please put me down. Have your people call my people. And get me a sandwich. Bitch!"

I didn't say those last parts, but man, I'd be cool if I had. Anyway, I'm excited about (possibly) doing the film, but I'm also a little pissed, because they offered me this bit part, and I'm just thinking... I was so close, what might have happened if I'd actually been able to stay for the callbacks? I'll know better next time though: if they call you back, you stay, no matter what. Lesson learned, so it's a good experience.

I had an audition yesterday where I had to memorize a side before going in. The audition was for Colonial Williamsburg, so I memorized it with a Colonial accent, which sounds very much like British to the untrained ear (that would be my ear). I figured that's what they wanted because the script was chock full of "Tis" and "thy" and crap like that. After the first reading, one of the director guys actually said to me (this is the proudest moment in the history of my acting career except possibly the time I fell flat on my ass but pretended I'd meant to do it in A Doll House), "Can we try this one more time... Are you actually British?"

He wanted me to do it without the accent. The dude totally thought I might be British. Now, possibly he was just being polite and thought my accent sucked and wanted me to stop or his ears would bleed. But who cares! He asked me if I was actually British. I'm just thrilled. Next dialect to tackle and conquer: Russian. If people start mistaking me for Russian, that will be a beautiful day. Imagine all the cool things I could do with a Russian accent. I could waltz into a liquor store and demand my money back on a bottle of Bowman's Virginia Vodka (A.K.A.: what college kids buy for a mixer because it's cheap, even though it's actually just clear Drano), and haugtily assert that "back in Mother Russia, we haff a name for this, and it is WATER, little cute ABC store worker man."

2001-06-14T00:12:00.000-04:00

teenage girly crush

Drool, darlings. Totally drool.

No. Not the yucky kind when you fall asleep in class and everyone laughs at your stupid ass. This is more of a virtual drool, like what I might do if I were sitting on Jon Stewart's desk the day they filmed tonight's show, because his guest was DAVID DUCHOVNY.

Okay. Jon Stewart on one side, David Duchovny on the other. I'm sorry, and they're old, but that's just great. They are so damn sexy. They are also extremely funny. I get the idea that they're really good buddies in real life or something, because they picked on each other mercilessly. They also had a really great discussion about poop resembling family members. David got Jon to admit that he was happy enough to see "a crazy uncle down there, as long as it's someone he recognizes."

Jeeeez.... I'm in love. Sign me up. They're both on my list. I'm sure Fred would agree, so no qualms there.

David Duchovny still looks like my cousin, but he's HOT (Cousin is not hot, merely cousin-like). Okay, and I am totally going to see Evolution, because Duchovny is there, plus that Seann guy with the two N's from Road Trip, who's also mucho guapo, yes sir. (For those who don't remember him, just think: "Whoa whoa whoa STOP! NNNGgggah, okay, keep doing it! Ah! That was AWESOME!") Then, there's Julianne Moore. Okay. She's gorgeous. Unbelievably so. Last of course, we have Orlando Jones, who isn't quite hot, but he's damn funny, and that tends to make people about 7 times more attractive.

I wonder why people fall for celebrities that way. I suppose it's okay to talk about how hot they are because they're so very unattainable. The concept of having a "list" (as endorsed by the "Friends" characters) of celebrities you're allowed to sleep with is equally flawed. Consider this: if your boyfriend actually had the chance to sleep with Angelina Jolie, or your girlfriend got to sleep with Ewan McGregor, would you really be okay with that? Cause chances are, your loved one, no matter how devoted to you they are, is going to choose the hot movie star. And if they don't choose the hot movie star, if they really do just sleep with them one time and that's it, well, you're going to have to hear about it for the next several eons. And do you really want to be subjected to an intimate description of Ewan McGregor's nether regions?

Take it from someone who's been there: you don't. Oh wait. Just kidding or something.

Anyway, the ideal thing is if both you and your significant other can agree on celebrities you both want to sleep with. For instance, Fred and I both have a HUGE STUPID INSANELY SILLY crush on Alan Cumming. We also both love Winona Ryder. Colin Firth, yes. Renee Zellweger. The lead singer guy from That Thing You Do! Liv Tyler, too, for that matter. So basically, it's much more fun to pick people you both like, rather than rub it in that you like someone if it pisses the other person off. But really, don't get pissed off about celebrity crushes. There' no point. As Rachel from "Friends" so aptly puts it, "Honey, he's about to go hit on Isabella Rosselini. I'm just sorry we don't have popcorn."

2001-06-12T23:49:00.000-04:00

into the lair

I'm a person who believes in symbols, patterns, and a logical order to things. I am constantly trying to draw conclusions about the nature of events in my life by examining past events. I feel that if certain things are different about similar situations, the outcome is able to be predicted. Let me be a little less obtuse. I'm talking about sex.

Here's the deal. Fred and I are both more than usually sexually frustrated right now. Can't believe it's actually only been one week since he's been gone. Feels like many more. Read "Bridget Jones' Diary" this afternoon, and as such have lost my pronouns. Think that stylistically, her writing is unparalelled by any. Laughed til cried this afternoon. Want to be Bridget when grow up.

Carried away and off subject. V. sorry.

Anyway, Fred and I are dealing in various ways with the frustration. He may or may not cut his dick and balls off, may or may not cut a hole in his bed and fuck that.

ANGELA
But... well, that doesn't sound so good. Beds are not very wet, are they? Or yielding?

FRED
Oh, they have lubricants for that, don't you worry.

I still don't know if he was kidding. My method of dealing (aside from the usual methods we all know and love) has been going to Barnes and Noble to peruse the naughty books section. The huge tomes containing the full translations of the Kama Sutra are very interesting, yes, but daunting as all hell. Same for the books on tantric love and accupressure. They all seem too textbooky and hard. I wouldn't know where to begin.

I also looked at a book called "Erotic Games" that seemed very interesting and hipster, but when I opened it to the chapter called "Games for Perverse Couples" I almost laughed out loud, and not from embarrassment over the perversity. No, it was just strange. It was like the most prudish person in the world had decided to write a book on eroticism. Not only prudish, no, but also anal-retentive. The kind of person that, you know, arranges their pens by color from lightest to darkest and can instantly locate the right size batteries. The author gave full out scripts for sexual scenes, the most nauseating of which contained lines like, "Do you want me to put your dirty thing in my dirty thing?" and "Have you been naughty? Why are you so naughty? Do you need to be punished?"

Oh, gag. I would get more turned on reading a cookbook. Actually, cooking is very sexy (very) but that's another discussion entirely.

The worst by far, though, was the mother-son/father-daughter scene, during which the participants played a child caught in the act of masturbating by the parent. The "child" then continues to masturbate under the parent's eye, all the while eliciting compliments about penis-size or technique. ("That's a very GOOD penis you have there, honey" was actually one line of dialogue.) The book cautions against proceeding to actual sexual activity, because THAT would be incestuous and detrimental to whatever goal this particular excercise presumed to accomplish.

I don't know what's worse: that someone is out there proferring this drivel as healthy sexual activity, or that someone looks at it and goes, "Yeah, that's what we need to try."

What I ended up buying was a book called "The Loving Dominant," which is about exactly what you think it's about. I didn't get too far into it, only far enough to know that a) the author is funny and b) there are things about sex I had never even contemplated. When a book does that to you, any book, I feel it's a book worth having. I'm excited about reading it, but I'm especially excited about seeing Fred again after having read it, which brings me back to my original point about being able to predict certain outcomes of things.

See, last year, the night before he left for summer stock, we had the most wonderfully passionate and fantastic sex imaginable. I actually cried after. It was fabulous. Then we broke up before the summer was over.

This year, we had horrible sex the night before. I mean, really really bad. Neither of us even really wanted to do it (we both had headcolds), so it was an obligatory sort of, "okay, I won't see you again for who knows how long, so here we go." I think this horrible sex the night before leaving thing is a sign the relationship will last.

Okay, so there are lots of other factors in there, but like I said, I'm a believer in symbol. So if good sex=breakup, then bad sex=stay together. If the theory proves true, then I can finally put to rest my fears that the world is, in fact, random and chaotic.

(sidenote for the less astute among you: I'm being a little tongue-in-cheek here, as I very much believe in a chaotic universe, and also would not make cracks about the stability of our relationship if i wasn't pretty sure it was stable, so please don't write me off as an idiot just yet.)

So I'm hoping that the theory is true. It's sentimentalism, I suppose, or (what's worse) superstition, but it makes for an interesting question, and one that I don't want to analyze too much for fear that its already unstable logic will dissolve entirely. Regardless, I'm left with a feeling of guilt and annoyance that our most recent sexual endeavor wasn't more exciting, even if it does prove to be the saving grace of our relationship. I'm resolving to fix that feeling during my visit in two weeks. My friend Nicole has a former housemate who would retreat into his bedroom with his girlfriend whenever she visited, and neither of them would surface all weekend except when they went out for food. Nicole and her friends starting referring to his bedroom as "the lair." I'm thinking along similar lines for my visit to Fred, not caring one iota what his roommates think of me or if they concoct clever euphemisms to make fun of us.

All due apologies to people who know me and read this and think, "Yuck, this is more information than I needed." But you did read this far, so really, it's your own fault. Also talking about sex is a natural, healthy, honest means of expression and all that bullshit.

2001-06-11T16:43:00.000-04:00

if i were a great writer, something brilliant would grace this space

I saw a couple of cool signs on the way home today. The first said "OAK BARRELS 39.99." I never knew I wanted an oak barrel. But I do. I don't have a clue what I would do with it, but seeing all those oak barrels piled up beside each other, it was just so quaint and rustic and nice. There are some really wonderful things about living in a somewhat rural Southern town, and the ability to buy oak barrells on the roadside is one of them.

The other sign was at the hoity-toity Antique store. Their sign said "MAGIC CARPETS - LAMPS SOLD SEPARATELY." Dude. Dude. I want a magic carpet. Wouldn't it be wonderful to just drive by and pick up a magic flying carpet?

Well, it's a very hot day, and even though it's still overcast, it isn't raining, and that makes me happy. I feel bad for the trees, though. They're all slooped over and wilting and I kind of feel bad that I was praying for warmer weather. Trees hate me.

I was thinking on the way home about how fabulous some book/play titles are, and how really genius leads to their creation. Some titles just work like poetry all by themselves. These titles have a palpable magic of their own. I hear the titles, and I think, okay, well, that's it. There's no way I'll ever come up with anything comparable. I should just pack up and go home. A partial list (of books I may or may not have read, but that fact holds no bearing on how great the title is):

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn*
The Sun Also Rises*
Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters*
For Whom The Bell Tolls
Cat On A Hot Tin Roof*
Sorrow Floats*
The Bridges Of Madison County*
The Bluest Eye
Tender Is The Night*
The Iceman Cometh
The Catcher In The Rye*
Atlas Shrugged
The Play's The Thing
Brighton Beach Memoirs*
As You Like It
Through The Looking Glass
All's Quiet On The Western Front
The God Of Small Things
Of Mice And Men*
Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil*

I could go on indefinitely, so I will just end it. I put little asterisks next to the books I have actually read, which could be like a double testimony, in that I think the title works well as a preface to the book it's about. Except in the case of "The Bridges Of Madison County," which was strictly written for stay-at-home moms. That book sucks. I probably cried reading it, but it still sucks.

Last night I went walking on the battlefields with Cash, Mikey G, Jim, Kim, and Greg. We got into a near-calamity with a group of drunken adolescents who couldn't leave us alone, even after we'd given up returning their taunting and chosen to ignore them. These kids kept driving by us in their van, yelling indiscriminately at us. We're pretty sure we were being insulted, but not entirely positive, since most of what they said sounded like "Aaaahahahhhhhhsaaauuuuurrrrrrraa". We would then spend minutes trying to discern if they'd said "Asshole," or "Bite me," or what. Finally, Kim mistook something Mikey said for "You should flash them," whereupon she flashed them. After that, they left us alone. Put your boobies where your mouth is, I always say.

Oh wait. Not literally. Not in public, anyway.

There was a moment where a car came driving up slowly behind us, and Mikey, thinking it was the teenagers come back to annoy us, considered flashing them again, but it was a good thing he didn't, because it turned out to be an exceptionally bored County Mounty, there with the news that we were being too loud and causing a disturbance. My goodness. As Tom would say, if it isn't one thing, it's your mother.

We got back to my house relatively unscathed, but I proceeded to find 4 (count em, 4) tics on my person. Yuck! I have specific pheremones, says Mikey, which makes tics attracted to me like oh, I don't know, depressed and drunken teenagers to Prozac, perhaps?

Extraneous favored quote of the evening:

CASH
Kim, you have got to get the stick out of your ass.

KIM
You are the stick up my ass.

2001-06-10T22:30:00.000-04:00

right vs. right

Did it ever occur to you that it's cool to hate Christians lately? It's actually en-vogue to be anti-religion. I guess it's kind of like being anti-establishment. "Yeah, fuck the religious people! They're keeping us DOWN, man!"

Very original.

One might read that and determine that I have strong affiliations to some Christian-based religion. I don't.

But I went to a family event this evening, and I had a very bad experience with one of my aunts. This particular aunt (not a blood relative; actually just my uncle's wife) has always been a pain in the ass about her religion, and it's only been in the last few years that I've gotten to see it firsthand. See, Aunt Lucy is one of those super-Christians that just make your stomach turn. As if it weren't enough for her to be super-Christian, she also represents the absolute worst of the hypocrisy that sometimes accompanies very religious people. She's mean and arrogant. And if you take the Christian definition of the word "christian" (one who does good deeds, or something along those lines), she's about the least Christian person I've ever met.

I asked her tonight why her son hadn't applied for any scholarships for college, and she said to me, without missing a beat, "Well, he's not the right color, is he?"

Sigh.

No wonder people hate Southerners. I mean, the whole moment just completely epitomized that whole enigmatic small-minded Southern religious bigot tiny woman with big hoop earrings and cute outfits bought from Walmart "thing." You know exactly what I mean. I nearly gagged, I really did. Not just because she made a racial slur and I have black friends. I can't get too mad about that, because I'm not black. I can only shake my head and try not to be like her.

What really drove me crazy was the fact that she felt perfectly okay saying it. There were no qualms. No hesitation about what I might think of it. No worries that maybe I had a different opinion.

You see, in her world, there are no different opinions. In her world, she is absolute and right. It just about makes my stomach turn. So I thought to myself, I can write about this. About how much I hate the Bible Belt and its incredibly narrow worldviews. About how much I don't want to be that way.

But then I realized, everyone will agree with me. Christians are mocked widely for their insane devotions to their various ridiculous dogmas and their completely hypcritical actions. I'm not saying anything new, here. However, it does set you back a few decades when you see it played out in front of you, and by your own family, no less. It's easy to pretend that if people like her didn't exist, the world would be a better place, but maybe the problem is actually in people like me, the people that constantly question what is right or wrong. If no one had any doubts ever, there would probably be peace in all things. Conflict over religion (or anything else) only arises when someone feels that their territory has been impinged on and their feeling of being "right" is threatened.

That whole grey area thing is where we get in trouble.

2001-06-08T23:29:00.000-04:00

forgetful, paranoid, AND hard of hearing

Made a great discovery today. I'm going to talk about Elton John again, but don't anyone get scared, because this time I plan to make fun of him.

Elton John has a song: "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me."

Today I learned that this song can be changed into a rather raunchy song about erotica by changing one word. A guy I work with was singing today as follows: "...don't let your son go down on me..."

I'm not sure if he did it on purpose to be funny, or if he got the words wrong by accident and I just had a moment of perversion. But it is interesting. Think for a moment, if you will, about a nuclear family whose parents have the authority to determine who their son will and will not go down on. Now imagine going to those parents and asking them to prevent their son from performing oral sex on you. That wouldn't be a comfortable conversation, would it? Oh my, no, no fun at all. Suppose they argued with you. Suppose they demanded that their son be allowed to continue performing oral sex on you. Think how weird that would be! Then suppose the son heard you went to his parents, and decided to... you know what? Suppose I find something else to talk about.

Ah yes, I do have some rather wonderful news. I am going to see Fred in a couple of weeks. Actually two weeks from Sunday. I'm pretty excited, although I have to fly. Flying always freaks me out. I always think about those commercials where the guy has a psychic experience that tells him not to get on the plane, and so he doesn't get on, and the plane crashes. Well, my ass is so paranoid, I have those psychic feelings every time I get on a plane. No crashes yet. I keep hoping that if I go around telling people, "Okay, this is it, I'm going to die in a plane crash, and I mean it this time, I'm a goner," then the cosmic forces of the world will deem that I'll look a whole lot stupider if I made a fuss over absolutely nothing, and my plane won't crash.

I don't know why I worry so much. I suppose everyone needs a hobby.

I'm very excited about going to see him though. The only thing is, I have a layover in Detroit. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Detroit still sucks, right? Just checking. At least I'm not going to Newark (a.k.a. "The Land of Permanent Frowny Faces"). A guy that I was on a flight to Tampa with once told me a very amusing story about Newark's airport, but I'm not going to retell it here because I don't think it would be applicaple. We're talking about Detroit, after all, not Newark.

I DO remember the story. I do. I just don't want to tell it right now. Oh sure, I could easily tell it if I wanted to. But I don't. The problem is not that I don't remember the story. I just don't feel like telling you the whole thing. It's long, and complicated with nuance. You'd need to speak Cantonese to really get the sense of it. If you don't, I need not waste my time, that's how I feel. Call me sentimental, but that's how I feel.

2001-06-08T00:03:00.000-04:00

four things i love and four things i hate
the cop out entry

Angela Loves

Calla lilies. We have a few sitting on the kitchen counter right now. So smelly, and so pretty. I sort of just want to sit on the floor and wait for the rest of them to open up, but then that feeling when you come downstairs in the morning and they're all open... that would be gone. Plus I would miss sleep, and I miss sleep for NOTHING! (well, that's not true. I'd miss it for sex. But right now... NOTHING!)

Mixtapes. Tom has been writing about this mixtape he made. I have to agree with his sentiments. There's nothing more therapeutic than putting all your thoughts to music and playing them over and over. I have a brand new They Might Be Giants mixtape, and it's wonderful for summer driving. Crank it, baby.

Farley's Fruit Snacks. You can't know how completely addicted to these things I am. It's insane. All the vending machines at school have them, which provides a little extra incentive to get to the gym on the days I don't really want to. "Okay... it's going to suck, but you can just go fuck around for an hour, and then you can have Fruit Snacks on the way home. Let's go!" My friend Scott got me hooked on these things during musical rehearsals. Damn you, Scott, damn you to hell.

Air Traffic Control People How do you get this job? Because I want it. I could totally do it, watch me. (Note: Please insert your own road names if you don't live around here.)

"Thanks, MB. We have an accident working in Portsmouth at the downtown tunnel and High Street and that's with injuries. Midtown tunnel has minor delays as well, so give yourself an extra 5 minutes this morning. On your interstates, a minor carfire on 64 westbound has traffic backed up to the Granby Street exit. Best bet this morning is the Monitor Merrimac. Traffic at the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel is at a standstill in both directions. On your secondaries, over at the beach, Indian River at Virginia Beach Boulevard, traffic is stopped, and First Colonial at Witchduck, that's been moved off to the side and traffic there is slow but steady. All's clear at the JRB and Coleman Bridge, and that's Point to Point Traffic. I'm Jackson Taylor for 94.9, The Point."

I have no life, you can tell. But I just love the way they talk, I swear I do. One of these days, I'm either going to be an Air Traffic Control person (if they're even called that), or else maybe an auctioneer. Any job where you have to use a highly stylized method of speech, that's what I want. Actors do that, to some extent. Say, that's an idea...

Angela Hates

Long Distance Relationships. No comment necessary. It's okay. I'm dealing. I have great friends who tell me really nice things that make me happy and feel great about the whole thing. But darlings, I have my moments, yes indeed.

Licorice. I don't think I'm alone in this, either. You know what's worse than licorice? Liquor that tastes like licorice. I don't know anyone who likes the stuff. Well, I know people who like Jagermeister, but they're sick and twisted individuals who really should be considered second class citizens in my opinion. GOOD LORD that stuff is foul. I remember on my 20th birthday, I was at a bar and my friends kept buying me shots of Jager, and I kept drinking them, because what the hell, I was in a bar and I was only 20. People will drink anything you set in front of them, if they're 20 and they're in a bar illegally. That's a fact. I don't even think I barfed the next day. I can't imagine doing that now. I think if someone held a glass of Jager under my nose, I would barf immediately. Ditto for Goldschlager.

Going To Plays Alone. Not that I really hate this all that much, it's just another excuse for me to complain about my boyfriend being gone. Actually, I kind of enjoyed going alone, to be quite perfectly honest. I mean yes, it's more fun to critique when you have another person doing it with you, but when you go to a play alone, you don't feel any obligation to laugh quietly or touch someone's knee or any number of things you have to keep in mind when you're with someone. It's just a different animal. Not better, not worse, just different. Given the choice, I'm sure I'd rather have Fred along, but the thing that tips the scales in his favor is that I know, right now, he would be doing dead-on impersonations of all the actors and it would be amusing. As it is, I'm stuck with my own impersonations of them, which are only about half as amusing.

Rain. This weather, lately. I don't know. Does anyone else on the Eastern seaboard feel like we're stuck in Seattle, only it's super fucking hot and humid? I swear to you, I have been more alternately hot-and-cold the past few weeks than I have ever been in my life. Virginia weather always sucks during the summer, but it's monstrous right now. Sometimes I'm hot and cold at the same time. I don't know how that works. I think it's the drugs.

2001-06-07T01:17:00.000-04:00

dancing queen

I want to DANCE!

Dahlings, I am in the mood for dance class. I am charged up and rarin' to go. But I have a problem. I'm entirely too damn busy.

No, that's not it exactly. Here's what it really is. I'm lazy enough to have just attempted to find a dance school for the summer TODAY for the first time. Hear that. I've had about a month free since school got out (or relatively free, work and rehearsal and auditions notwithstanding). Still. Plenty of time to be researching schools.

Today, I found out that, at my first choice school, there's only one class that I could actually enroll in. And I'm reticent, because I'm not an accomplished dancer (hence the need for classes) and I would have to miss two classes out of the six total. I can't deal with that. What I really want is for someone to decide to take me under their wing and let me do some intense, 5-hours daily training kind of thing for the next couple of months. Of course I'd pay them, and then when I'm a famous ballerina, I'll make a movie about them or something.

I really need to be able to dance. What little training I've had is basically lost and covered up by years of moving like a human animal. I have boatlike feet, also, so that's really not going to help me as far as that whole "graceful" thing is concerned. I always tell my mother (who is a dancer) that someday I'm going to be a world-famous ballerina. She doesn't agree. But you have to understand something. My mother's faith and belief in my abilities is such that she wholly feels that I excel at everything that there is to be done. She thinks I am the prettiest, most in shape, smartest, best writer/singer/actor that ever roamed the planet earth. She thinks I am all of this, combined into one uberhuman.

And I am, actually. The rest of you just haven't figured it out yet.

No really, my mother does have a sometimes-comical-but-really-very-nice belief in me, but she draws the line at dancing. She doesn't think I can be a world-famous ballerina at all. She hasn't even considered the idea. Which I think is just unfair. I mean, even though I'm starting my studies about twenty years too late and have feet the size of train platforms, I think I "have what it takes."

At least until school starts and I start having other stuff I need to focus on again.

I've recently made the discovery that I like Elton John. I saw he and Billy Joel on some talk show recently, and he screwed up the words to "Piano Man" in the most wonderful way. Then after bumbling his way through it and giggling the last few lines of the verse, Billy Joel just shrugged and said "Okay." I've got to catch one of their tours. I really do. I've always loved Billy Joel, but I reserved Elton John for old people music. Now, I'm faced with the reality that I've always liked "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" and never knew it was him singing. Elton John, people! I might as well just commission some retirement property in Florida and complain about inflation.

I did say I wasn't going to address your petty concerns of language anymore, didn't I? I did say I wasn't going to give two pence whether you guys had your foreign adverbs stuck in the right places, did I not? I did say I was entirely through with catering to your every whim, didn't I?

Which just goes to show you, that even the most virtuous and upstanding people among us must sometimes go back on their word. Or else that I'm a sucker for dirty French phrases. Anyway, courtesy of Mikey D, I in fact had the phrase wrong. Don't blame me, blame the internet translator.

I wouldn't bother to correct myself, but I like Mike's translation much better. And it is: "Will you sleep with me tonight?"

So now we know. I think an even closer approximation might be "Oh, fuck me silly."

You know that Coors Light commercial they have now where the bartender goes "Sorry fellas, we don't serve miners in here," and the group of miners leaves all sad, and the little one goes "That seems unfair,"? Well, I love that commercial. I love that guy. If I don't end up marrying Jon Stewart, I'm going to marry that guy. Or, you know, not, but he's pretty cool.

2001-06-05T21:57:00.000-04:00

chapter two

And so it begins: a period of intense reflection. I've just returned from the Greyhound terminal, and Fred's safely off to New York. I feel stuck in a Neil Simon play, only I don't have a best friend named Faye hanging around to offer me clever moral platitudes about life, sex, and the differences between Mars and Venus.

Okay, so Simon predates the Mars/Venus guy by about 20 years, but it's the same general idea. I think. Never having read the Mars/Venus book(s), I couldn't say for sure.

Anyway, I'm pretty certain that this is going to be a good chapter in my life. I think my journals are going to get a little more frequently updated. I'm planning to rely on it a lot for the next few weeks, months, or whatever.

Before I get too far into this entry, I need to do some teaching. I've been getting a lot of searchengine referrals asking the meaning of the phrase "voulez vous coucher avec moir, ce soir." I can only trust that the recent movie blockbuster Moulin Rouge has caused this resurgence of interest in the song. Now I get to help all of you out. It means "please lie down with me, it is evening."

For all of you that have foreign language questions in the future, don't come here. Go here. Seriously, don't come here.

Unless you want to know how to say "Olaf flushed his head down Inge's toilet." ("Olaf leerte seine Toilette Inge des Kopfes unten"). That should come in handy.

But other than that, stay away with all your piddly language questions. I don't have time to look up every single thing for you. What do I look like, a fuckin' world traveller? (Major points to whichever of you can Name That Movie.)

By the way, I saw Moulin Rouge on Saturday night, and I'm not sure what to say about it. As weird as you may think it's going to be, it's actually weirder. I didn't know, walking out of the theater, exactly what I thought about it. I still don't. If you liked The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or Oklahoma!, or Pulp Fiction, or It's A Wonderful Life, well, you might like this. But, you know, maybe not, too. And yes, by the way, I know that those 4 movies are extremely dissimilar. That's just how Moulin Rouge is. Dissimilar. I get mad thinking that some people will embrace it just because it's so damn weird and avant-garde, but on the other hand, it's weird, and it's someone's idea, so you have to get behind that. Change is good.

So I had to say goodbye to Fred today. To tell the truth, it was almost harder to say goodbye to his family. Of course, I'm still going to see them, in fact, I'm supposed to go over there later on this week for a cookout. I hate saying goodbye. I'm already an emotional person, but goodbyes just destroy me. And I really love his family. His brother Dan, when he saw me, called me "gorgeous." His grandpa offered to go with me and keep me company all summer. Mom told me to keep in touch. I didn't cry in front of them, but as soon as I got in the car, the dam broke. I got it under control, but I swear to you, I've been threatening tears for the last several days. Of course, part of this has to do with my period. But today especially, I've been quite teary, off and on. I expected to make a big scene at the terminal and then cry all the way home.

I didn't make a scene. I didn't cry once on the way home. I feel an intense sense of relief. You know how when you worry about something, then it finally happens, and even though it's upsetting, a great weight is lifted because now you don't have to think about it anymore? That's how I feel. Very happy, and much more free. I feel like, okay, now there's not a thing I can do about anything. Life goes on.

My life always goes on. I will lay down and die for no man. Or woman, for that matter. But aside from that, no good ever came out of worrying. None. And Fred wouldn't want me sitting around moping, anyway. Plus, moping makes you fat and ugly.

Yesterday I had a film audition at Regent University (aka "Pat Robertson's Home of God, Jesus, More God, and Chicken Fried Steak Since 1972") and my mother had some advice.

MOM
Oh no. No, you can't audition for them.

ANGELA
Why not?

MOM
Oh, they'll make you sign something that you don't want to sign... saying you're a good and devout and practicing Christian.

ANGELA
Mom, it's a film audition.

MOM
You know how they are, though.

They didn't make me sign anything. They did give me a Jesus-On-Crucifix branding, on my left ass cheek, but that's just standard film audition procedure.

Kidding aside, the audition was AWESOME. Not because I was so good, but because the material was so good. I loved reading it. I knew that character. I never feel this way about film sides. Plays, sure. You get somebody like Mamet or Albee in your hands, and you can't wait to start speaking the lines. But in my meager experience, dialogue in film sides is always stilted and silly sounding. Not this time, boy. They asked me for a callback, which they were holding directly after the auditions, but I couldn't stay because I had rehearsal. I'm still kicking myself. I should have called the rehearsal, but I didn't feel right about it, as they'd already moved it back a half hour to accomodate my audition.

God I hope I get it, as they say.

I forgot to tell about our fight this afternoon. Fred and I were hungry, so we decided to cook some Bagel Bites. There was an incident, which I don't like to talk about, and all 20 Bagel Bites wound up... well, what we in the culinary arts like to call "blackened". We left them on the oven top, and when his mom came home, she waltzed into Fred's room, looking for someone to make fun of.

FRED'S MOM
Let me ask you, how did you manage to burn Bagel Bites? It couldn't be any easier.

FRED
Talk to Angela, Mom.

ANGELA
Oh no, don't you pin this on me, you know it's your fault.

FRED
You were the one cooking them.

ANGELA
You turned the buzzer off and left them in the oven, though.

FRED
That's your fault for not hearing the buzzer.

ANGELA
That's no reason for you to leave the Bagel Bites in the oven.

FRED
Oh, bullshit! You should have been watching them more carefully. You can't leave your Bagel Bites unattended.

ANGELA
At least I set the buzzer.

FRED'S MOM
Isn't this cute, they're fighting.

FRED'S GRANDPA
What'd he do?

FRED'S MOM
No, no, she burned Bagel Bites. Can you believe that? I mean, they couldn't be easier.

ANGELA
He burned them! It's your son's fault! Do not pin this on me!

DANIEL, FRED'S BROTHER
Hey, are you guys gonna eat these Bagel Bites or what? (off everyone's looks) What? I'm STARVING.

So the Bagel Bites didn't go to waste, which was good. But then, food never goes to waste with 4 boys hanging around.

Fred took a Greyhound bus to New York. Actually, I should say he is in the process of taking it. He called me from the Richmond terminal about an hour ago. The reason this is significant is that our friend Camper Jeff (who's really just Jeff when we're with him, but has to be Camper Jeff when I talk to Fred about him because we know several people named Jeff) loves taking Greyhounds. They're extremely romantic things. So when Camper Jeff goes on the road, he always cranks out these great narratives about the people he meets and the experiences he has, sort of like a modern day Kerouac. I love reading them, so I tried to convince Fred to do something similar during his travels.

My father had the unenviable task of taking our terminally grouchy dog, Button, and our terminally indifferent cat, Tom, to the vet today. Normally I hate animal stories, but this one's pretty good. He brought out the cat carrier and set it on the couch in the den. Immediately when they saw the carrier, the animals were in motion. Tom hid under the couch, and Button left the room. (Our terminally stupid dog, Happy, stayed put, not recognizing the carrier as the Evil Transport of Death that it is.) My dad gets on all fours and drags the cat from under the couch and struggles him into the carrier. Tom begins yowling incessantly. My father then stands up and walks off in search of Button. She is nowhere to be found. Finally, he finds her under my bed and against the wall. He gets her out of there and carries her downstairs, to make her go to the bathroom before leaving. He puts her down to go out, where she proceeds to poop on the carpet. When Button returns, he picks her up in one hand and the cat carrier in the other, and manages to get out the door into the garage. Of course, Happy, the one animal who isn't going, desperately wants to, and follows my father into the car, excitedly, and cannot be coaxed out. My father stands there with a pooping dog in one hand, a yowling cat in the other, yelling at a dog so stupid that she barely knows her own name, and certainly doesn't understand complex English sentences, such as "God damn it, Happy, you aren't going, now get the fuck out of the car!"

My mother, who relayed this entire story to me, likened it to a three ring circus. She would have helped my dad, I'm sure, but for all her broken bones and things. Then again, maybe not.

I better close with my horoscope. It's the coolest today:

"Poetry alert! If lyrical flights of fancy make you nervous, please don't read any further. In fact, maybe you shouldn't even go out of the house the rest of the week, given the likelihood that you will be consistently roused to a state of throbbing exaltation by the world's secret beauty. But if you've read this far, here are your instructions: On a leaf from your favorite tree, write a wish that's difficult for you to ask for. Bury it in the soil as you visualize your wish having already come true. Then leap into the air three times, kick your heels together, and kiss the sky."

Yeeeeeee! How great is that? I want to go outside and practice kissing the sky. I love it. And I'm going to do exactly what it says tomorrow. My favorite tree is a short hike from school. It's on a hill in the woods, and Fred and I once made love against it while rain poured down on us. We carved our initials in its trunk right after. Sappy, but sweet anyway. Several months ago, we went back to see if the initials were still there. They were, but they'd faded some, so he recarved them, then turned to me and said, very softly, "There. That's not going anywhere."

Symbolic and gooey and wonderful. Tomorrow I'm going there, and I'm making my wishes. A whole hatful of 'em, if I feel like it.

2001-06-02T14:26:00.000-04:00

imminent

Thank God for my friends. Come Tuesday, I'm going to need all the ones I can scare up. For instance, I've been plagued by these dreams lately. Dreams about things that aren't actually happening in real life, but could be.

For instance, last night the plot of the featured presentation was: Fred opted to take his ex to a Christmas party instead of me, despite the fact that we had learned an entire production number to be presented at the Christmas party, which was in fact being held in my garage. Nevertheless, his date was to be his ex-girlfriend. An insecurity complex, I believe it's called.

The problem is that last year when he was going away, I got all excited about the prospect of sending letters and having a long-distance boyfriend. I romanticized it, as in, "Oh boy, I can make him cookies and send him reminders of home and it'll be just like WWII-era romances where the home-town hero returns bruised and changed, but a better man for it."

I read too many books, you can tell.

Anyway, my way of dealing with anything difficult is just to romanticize it. This time, however, I'm not going to do that. I won't assume that he will meet a future ex-girlfriend in New York, and I won't assume that he won't. I'm just going to do my best to hold my shit together. I'm not going to indulge superficial fantasties about what our reunion will be like, nor will I obsess about the idea of him falling for some other girl and taking her to poetry readings. I'm going to hold onto my friends. I'm going to work. I'm going to plan trips up north. I'm going to rehearse. I'm going to go to voice lessons. I'm going to work out.

Things I did last summer that I WILL NOT be doing this year:

1) Get ready for Miss VA
2) Work at a tanning salon, getting an impossibly dark (and unnatural) tan along the way
3) Try to learn sign language
4) Go to the same two nightspots every single Friday and Saturday night without fail
5) Hang out with a certain group of friends who don't know Fred and therefore don't like him
6) Swallow my true feelings
7) Wait around, moping or feeling sorry for myself
8) Eat entirely too much candy

I'm sick right now, too, so I'm just feeling a general sense of malaise. However, I did find out a funny little tidbit from Fred: at the theater, whenever one of the guys gets laid, he brings in a box of doughnuts the next morning. I don't know if this is just central to Busch Gardens, or whether all places of employment have this little ritual. It makes me wonder about all those times people brought doughnuts in when I worked my office job. Were they being nice, or were they bragging to the rest of us? And if it is a widely practiced ritual, if people occasionally don't know what it means and just happen to bring in doughnuts one day, and it's someone really unlikely, like the old-lady receptionist whose husband croaked in '82 and who lives alone with 7 cats and two parakeets. And everyone goes around all day going "Oh my god... Evelyn got LAID? Is that possible? GROSS! She's older than my grandmother!"

2001-05-31T16:52:00.000-04:00

the last two weeks
OR
barnum's animal crackers

side note: i asked fred for a good title for this entry, after telling him that it was basically about the last two weeks or so. he came up with the first title. i then told him that title was boring. "dare to be ordinary," he told me. then he gave me the second title, which, far from being ordinary, has nothing to do with anything. polar opposition. juxtaposition. paradox. gotta love it.

The spelling bee national finals are on. Man, those kids are really amazing. At first I thought it was funny that they put it on ESPN, because people are going to tune in trying to see their basketball or their racing cars or what have you, and instead there will be a bunch of preadolescents spelling long words verrrrrrry slooooowly... scribbling in the air or on the back of their placards, looking for all the world like the social inepts that they are, while paid professionals comment on each speller's particular spelling "style".

Did you know that there are different styles of spelling?

Still. These kids are a lot more entertaining than, say, NASCAR. Any racing fans out there, just stay the hell away from me, because I don't care what you say. I've watched plenty of races in my life, and while I understand completely the desire to compete as a racecar driver, I DO NOT understand the mentality of people who want to watch it. I understand watching dog races, horse races, foot races, and basically any other kind of race you care to dream up, but car races are boring, monotonous, annoying, loud, uninteresting, did I mention annoying, and populated by rednecks.

Not you, of course, but all the rest of them are rednecks.

Fred and I had the brilliant idea once of going to Langley Speedway (a race track near home... nearer to his home than mine, thank god) or to a monster truck relay dressed up as rednecks. Not to make fun of them, but to actually immerse ourselves in the culture to see what it would be like. I think it would be a pretty good acting exercise, actually. We haven't done it yet, but when we do, I'll let you know how it turns out.

Fred's show at Busch Gardens is hilarious. I won't bother you with the ins and outs of the whole thing, but he plays this guy in an Irish castle who interacts with a leprachaun and a bunch of really nutty special effects. Now, in my experience with watching him, Fred is very good at being the one on stage that people are drawn to watch, but it's hard to compete with the insane onslaught of pyrotechnic spectacle that is this show. He's great regardless. One of the Castle Keepers told me he's the best one (there are six actors who rotate in the role). I blushed and thanked him, but didn't really harbor any humility about it. He's always the best.

He also wears a skintight little leprachaun suit, and I want him to take it when he goes. It rocks. It's very sexy, but unintentionally so.

Oh yeah. Fred's leaving. Next week. He got a gig in upstate New York. I'm happy for him. I'm happy about it. I really am. I want him to go. I want him to move along in his career. But I'm also selfish and mean about it because I am really going to miss him this summer. Moreover, there were issues last year when he went away to summerstock that I don't want to repeat. But we've talked (and talked and talked) about it, and I feel fairly confident that nothing bad will happen. It would be naive to assume, as I did last year, that nothing will happen, because there are no guarantees. Anyway, he's performing at a theater in Auburn, in their productions of La Cage Aux Follies and Cabaret. He's skipping Camelot so he can come home for a week and a half to spend time with yours truly. Which is a good thing, because truly I don't think I could last the whole summer if you know what I mean (wink wink).

I'm also going to try to get up there a couple of times, once I figure out what the least costly (or least time consuming) mode of transportation will be: bus, train, plane, or auto. I've almost definitely ruled out train (expensive and not time efficient) and bus (smelly and not time efficient), so now I just have to decide what's worse: the risk of a twenty hour round trip in my car, which likes to break down, or sinking all my money into plane tickets.

Ben and Jerry have sucked down too many vats of milkfat, and it's made them delusional. For those of you who haven't visited your local dairy case lately, their newest push is combining two of their favorite flavors into some not-from-this-world amalgamation of cream and sugar and frozen crack. I've only tried one of these monstrosities so far, From Russia With Buzz. It sounded good. Coffee and chocolate to excess. Hey, I love coffee and chocolate as much as the next guy, but when I say excess, I mean excess. It's really an almost unfair combination. I don't imagine that expectant mothers or people with heart conditions or a history of mental illness should eat the stuff. It defies description. I can't even finish my pint, and I'm not itching to try another one anytime soon.

My mom is in dire straits lately: she fell off her bike and broke an elbow and a hip. She's going to be just fine, the breaks are hairline fractures from what I understand, but she's still laid up in the bed and unable to do much. Therefore, the brunt of coddling and mollifying her SPOILED ROTTEN dogs has fallen largely on me. I find out just how much my mother does to/for the dogs every day. Every time one of them wants to get on the bed, it's up to me to pick the dog up, because of course the dog is incapable of jumping itself. The dogs are not USED to having to do any strenuous physical activity, you see. I'm also responsible for doling out dog treats like some sort of turbo-powered Milk Bone machine.

The dogs are poodles. Toy poodles. I suppose nothing more needs to be said.

Fred and I have been playing matchmaker lately, with two friends of ours named Tom and Katy. Tom is a friend of mine from high school, and Katy is a friend of Fred's from high school. I've gotten to know Katy a little bit through Fred, but Tom and Fred have become good buddies lately. And it was, I admit, Fred's idea to hook them up. But I was excited about it too. The four of us went bowling (bowling! yeeha!) two nights ago, and it was great fun and much beer (swill) was consumed. We have a great time together. It's like being the Gatsby's. ("Wait... THAT doesn't sound right.") It's all bad because next week Fred is leaving for the summer, and the week after, Katy is leaving for a permanent position up in Hoboken, never to be seen again.

Well, not never, because I'm sure we'll be up there often to stay with her and go on auditions and see shows and just fuck around in the city. And I'm sure Tom will find his own excuses to be in Hoboken. But we won't be all together, it won't be the same. Nothing ever stays the same, does it? Part of the excitement of life, though. You never know where anything is going.

I went to Barnes and Noble the other night, and they have this fabulously wonderful display up called "Summer Reading." I wanted every book, or at least every one that I didn't already own. Actually, I kind of wanted new copies of ones that I did own. They were so pretty. But I only bought one, Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. It's pretty strange, but I found out where one of my favorite bands (Billy Pilgrim) got its name. Very good book, regardless. The guy talks about being "unstuck" in time and aliens who view the world in four dimensions. I'm hoping that by the time I finish it, I'll have gained some semblance of a clue about what he's talking about.

Fred just called. After giving me the title for this entry (see above) he got off the phone, calling me "darling baby huggy" as he did so. Is that not insane? Of course, he was being rather facetious when he said it, but still, the words came out of his mouth, directed at me. At first I thought he was saying hoggy, but no, it's huggy, which makes almost as much sense. This from the guy who HATES petnames. I think he might have gotten into a pint of Ben and Jerry's today.

2001-05-27T17:35:00.000-04:00

whose blogspotting ass do I have to kick?

I'm moving soon. I'm sorry for all the waiting around and not having anything to read, lately, but it's not my fault. Fricking blogspot. I bet I lost every single one of my readers, didn't I? All 4 of them.

Damn it all. I'll write more soon, but forgive the unintentional freaking hiatus, please.

2001-05-18T01:16:00.000-04:00

a few disgressions

I've had a strange week. It ain't over, either.

First for the good. Remember that dinner theater audition that I talked about? Well, I got cast in it. I don't know what part I have yet, nor who else is in the cast with me, nor what I'll be making. However, it's a paid acting gig, and the fact that the script contains the line "Oh bosom, prepare thyself!" should just roll right off my back. My first real paid acting gig as an adult! In the words of Ed Grimley, I couldn't be more excited, I must say.

It's still a possibility that I will actually get to say the bosom line. Five nights a week for 18 weeks. If that turns out to be the case, believe me, you will hear about it.

My other job (waiting tables) is still going well. It's a funny thing to have to come to terms with, but the last time I waited tables, I hated it. This time, I love it. Last time I thought the manager was a dick. Now I think he's really cool. I have no other answer but: it's me! I was the jerk, all along! I was the mean one. A friend of mine told me they used to place bets on whether they'd seen me smile that day or not. Amazing.

Last time I worked, one of my tables told me I had an amazing Julia Roberts smile. I just love that. And people keep telling me how much weight I've lost. It's bugging me, because I never knew I was fat.

A digression: I love it when the newsguy tells you the arrival times for a rain storm. You know, they put up that little box that has times next to county names. I think that's great. It makes it seem like a national emergency or something. "Paul, the rain is coming! The raiiiiiin! The rain'll be here at 12:03! Do we have any hatches to batten or anything?"

So, I'm loving my table waiting. I'm good at it, and I love it. I have money. The most amazing thing about having money, though, is that I'm not inclined to spend it. I realize that this is Fred's doing. He's not cheap, exactly, but he's much more money-conscious than I historically have been. Anyway, my first day of working, I walked around, thinking I should want to go spend my money, but not actually wanting to. This has been the case every day. I just want to horde and save it all. How weird is that? I'm sure I'll have lapses, but to not want to just go and piss money everywhere is just totally alien to me. I told him this, and his reaction was typical. "Great," he said, "You can save it and then later you can buy yourself something that you really want, and you can feel good about it."

Sadly, I can't even think of something that I would be okay splurging for. I don't know about this whole growing up thing. Maybe it's a phase I'm going through.

I had a really amazing conversation with this guy that I work with named Chet. Chet and I used to "talk," and I'm guessing you all know what I mean by "talk." I had always kind of pegged him as just another person from my past, a person that I would never have contact with again. When I got rehired at Ruby's, I couldn't believe he was still working there. Not only is he still there, he's now a manager. We discussed everything that was going on around us at the time we knew each other, and the ways both of us have managed to sort of rise above that. He's quit drinking. He's getting married.

Me, well, I have a career path and a wonderful boyfriend. It was great to talk to him because I was able to see the larger picture of everything that went on between us. I lost any residual anger or confusion that I was still harboring. It's wonderful to be able to let go of that. I feel extremely healthy about the whole ordeal. To get the chance to renegotiate a relationship like that is really freeing.

Did you hear how Clinton got egged in Poland? How fucked up is that? Someone threw an egg at him. I'm actually sort of thrilled about this, though. I mean, yes it sucks, because people should have respect for world leaders, and plus I like Clinton, but at least it's not a gun! After all the violence going around, throwing an egg at someone seems almost wholesome and cute. Plus, now people can truthfully say "Hey Bill, you have egg on your face!"

Last night, Mike and Tom and I went out to eat, and I spilled an entire glass of raspberry lemonade in Mike's lap. We hadn't even been there 5 minutes when this happened. He reacted just as you might expect: cursed, yelled, hopped around, gave me dirty looks, tried to make my head explode, the usual. In the end though, he resolved to "sit and be wet," which I think does him credit. Most guys, after receiving a glass of liquid in their lap, will want to go home and change into clothes that don't look like they peed themselves. Mike, however, agreed to stay. I think only because it gave him ample room to taunt and tease me, and he knew I had to sit there and take it.

Time for another digression. This popped into my head while I was in the shower today. About 3 years ago, my friends Zach and Nicole came to see a play that I was in. After the play, we were standing outside talking when one of my fellow actors emerged. I had a box of blueberry bagel knots in my hands, which are the world's most wonderful food, and if you've never had them, you're really missing out. Anyway, so I have these knots, and I'm talking to my friends, and one of my fellow actors comes outside and she asks what's in the box. "Bagel knots," I tell her. She's confused, so I open the box for her to take a look at them.

ANGELA
You want one?

OTHER ACTRESS
Oh, no thanks, I'm allergic.

NICOLE
You're allergic to bagels?

ZACH
You're allergic to knots?

I have no reason to tell this story other than I thought it would amuse you. Hey, I do it all for you.

On Sunday night, we had a rather memorable trip to Paul's Delly. We were going to go to the Greenleafe for Mug Night, where they sell large mugs of beer for relatively cheap, but there was a line out the door like crazy. I had mentioned earlier that I bet it would be crowded, as it is always crowded whenever I've been there, but the guys pointed out that graduation was this past weekend, and the college kids would already have gone home by now.

When we saw the line out the door, I got to gloat to Tom. "I TOLD you it would be busy," I said. "Yes," said Tom, "but that was just you talking. You didn't actually know what you were saying."

Lines being what they are, we headed next door to Paul's and drank ourselves silly, and a good time was had by all. Well, a mostly good time. We had a time, anyway. There was a really awkward moment toward the end, where a guy named Ed that I know tried to insult Fred by insinuating that he's gay. It sort of stopped all conversation, and although both Tom and Mike tried to save the situation, I couldn't really respond to it because it wasn't really an insult. Certainly it's not the first time this has ever come up in his life, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Anyway, Fred wasn't at the table at the time, and I'm sorry, because he handles himself in situations like that a lot better than I do. All I did was just sort of stare at Ed in disbelief, whereas Fred probably would have lept across the table and grabbed his dick or something equally designed to enrage him.

People are people, I guess, and you must accept them and move on or live lonely. Tom said my response should have been something like, "Well, Ed, he's at least bi, because I'm sleeping with him." Talk about your conversation stoppers.

Speaking of Fred, we had the most wonderful discussion last night. I won't go into detail about it, because it's mushy and would probably bore you, but I will say that we have a feeling that we're going to be together for some time, and we're really happy (and a little freaked out) about that.

2001-05-15T12:34:00.000-04:00

the dialectizer
most fun ever. Go play yourself, or see what it does to my webpage. Not that anyone cares about that but me, but I thought it was right funny, guvnor.

Redneck
Billy Bob Jones University
Shet mah mouth!

Jive
Leroy Jones University
Slap mah fro!

Cockney
Yer can't 'ave a knees-up wivout a joanna.
Cor blimey guv, would I lie to you?

Elmer Fudd
Oh, dat scwewy wabbit!
I'm weawwy amused by the iwony of this situation, uh-hah-hah-hah.

Swedish Chef
Ohhhh yes. Um gesh dee bork, bork!.. I'fe-a heerd ooff it. Um de hur de hur de hur.
A Leettle-a Neeght Mooseec.

Moron
uh uh uh, 'n Frid real doesn't habe dat corny little moustache in real life
Loud kids, duuhhhh, mean customehs, duuhhhh, long tickets, duuhhhh, the, uh, the works.

Pig Latin
Anywayyay, Iyay otgay ehiredray atyay ethay estarauntray Iyay

Hacker
i never know if i ahve yeh/\/\ right!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111~~~~~~ tQND TEHRE TEHY ARE SIDe BY SIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!1~~~~~~ HACJK YOUUUUUUU the shamne, the hror0r!!!!!!!!!!!111~~~~~~~ OOLOLOLOLOLOOLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!~~~~~~~ YUO ALL THiNK IM WEAK, NOW, DONT Y0U???????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEIR UIS A RaTIO DONT RIP EME OFF

2001-05-13T13:39:00.000-04:00

cliche

They say you can never go home again. In the case of the restaraunt business, however, this is simply not true.

side note: "restaraunt" and "business" are two of the hardest words for me to spell. i never learned how. i have phonetic tricks for connecticut and february and loads of other words, but those two still confound me. i never know if i have them right. and there they are side by side. the shame, the horror. you all think i'm weak, now, don't you?

Anyway, I got rehired at the restaraunt I worked at two years ago, and you would not believe how much things have not changed. I mean, sure, some people have switched positions, and people have come and gone, but on the whole, it's the same old thing. So many people that were there then are still there now. I worked my first shift on the floor yesterday, a double, and I felt like I'd never been gone. Unbelievable.

I was reminded of something yesterday that I knew then and had forgotten. I am going to unleash a dirty secret on those of you who have never worked food service: Everyone in the restaraunt is on drugs.

I'm not talking about mom-and-pop places or gourmet restaraunts. I wouldn't know about those, but I do have my suspiscions about them. I'm talking about all those funny little quasi-European themed restaraunts with cool posters and rusty musical instruments and sporting equipment hanging on the walls. You know, the ones that are all replicas of themselves. And another thing, those cool little rare looking artifacts they have? Those are bulk ordered. I once fell in love with a wacky poster in my restaraunt that depicted a French bike race from like 1920, and I WANTED IT BAD. I begged the manager for it. He said I couldn't have that one, but he would order me another one.

Suddenly, all the magic was gone. But I digress.

Restaraunts are full of illicit substances. I'm not saying it's everyone in the restaraunt. But I am saying this. A few years ago, when I worked at Ruby's, there was one particularly grueling Saturday where everything went wrong. Everything. Loud kids, mean customers, long tickets, the works. Our manager was sitting in a chair at the expo line (this is unheard of) and calling out orders. He had worked all day and was dead on his feet.

An hour later, he's not only standing, but he's whipping orders out at record pace, and wiping his nose compulsively.

And this is management. I'm not condoning or condemning him for it, I'm just saying.

Another time, a cook sent out a mushroom topped burger that was topped with magic mushrooms. I'm not kidding. He said he just did it to be funny and because he was quitting the next day. He said "Hopefully they were cool and knew what was up. Then it was like a nice little surprise for them."

I'm really amused by the irony of this situation. This restaraunt is supposedly geared toward family and kids and just a happy, good-clean-fun kind of atmosphere. But you have people serving food who have to have a line just to get through their shift. Something is weird there. What is it about this business? Is the pressure so high that people have to resort to drugs? I think it must also be the age group, because waiting tables is sort of an ideal college age occupation (statistically, it falls between binge drinking and surfing the internet). But there's more to it than that. I think it involves a certain degree of risk. Waiting tables is a risky business: always has been, always will be. This is why it's also enticing to actors: it's always an improv. You never know what's going to be thrown at you. You have to have strategy. You have to keep your head in the game. And these are high-stakes pressures. And they are very real pressures, because if you drop the ball, it's possible to piss off the entire restaraunt at once. It's scary, but they say if you can't take the heat you should stay out of the kitchen. Truer words were never spoken.

2001-05-07T23:08:00.000-04:00

here a jon, there a john

Guess what I did from 9:21pm to 9:48 pm this evening.

I sat on the curb at a closed Western Sizzlin' restaraunt, contemplating all that is wrong with the universe. Namely: my car.

My car is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. My car is so wrong it should ONLY drive backwards. And actually, that might be an improvement over what it currently does.

We're very unhappy because we (my parents) just paid a whole lot of money for a new engine for the Jeep. We got it back yesterday. The Jeep decided today, while I was driving it, that it wasn't too happy with either a) the new engine b) me driving it again c) still being intact after so many concentrated attempts to break down or explode. It broke down. Again.

So I called my mother, who elected to come get me. To wile away the time, I made up a game. This is how you play.

1) Find a curb to sit on.
2) Shoot paranoid glances left and right to make sure there are no axe murderers coming to get you.
3) Check the temperature at the bank clock. Still 52°.
4) Wonder if the car's going to explode.
5) Shift weight on ass cheeks.
6) Send hate rays to the guys who still haven't fixed your car.
7) Examine shoelaces.
8) Look at all the entries in your phone memory. Notice you know 4 different people named Jeff. Huh.
9) Realize the restaraunt isn't open and no one will come out to help you when the axe murderers arrive.
10) How can it be closed? It's not even 10 o clock!
11) Oh wait. It's the County.
12) Listen for axe murderers.
13) Repeat until help arrives.

Guess how many County Mounties drove by while I was sitting there? Two did! That's right boys and girls, two of the County Mounties who were so eager to pull me over to let me know I had a headlight missing a couple weeks ago drove right by my car while I was sitting forlornly about 50 yards away. Guess how many of them stopped?

Oh, that would be none. But it's because both my headlights were working, see.

So eventually, my mom came, and we made jokes all the way home about how mad my dad was going to get, and we arrived home safe and sound.

Another really interesting thing happened at Barnes and Noble. I got hit on by a guy who graduated from Bob Jones University. His name was John.

JOHN
I went to Bob Jones University... you've heard of that?

ANGELA
Ohhhh yes... I've heard of it.

INSIDE ANGELA'S HEAD
Oh my god. This is really not happening.

It did happen, though. In the end, he was very nice, but I do have a boyfriend, and anyway, I've already reached the quota for number of Johns a person can legally have in their life. I have my brother John, an ex-boyfriend John, another ex-boyfriend Jon, 4 friends named Jon, a friend's father named Jon, 2 friends named Jonathan, 7 friends named John, 2 former professors names John, and a friend of a friend named Johnny.

Plus, there's Jon Stewart, who should be calling me up any day now; John Madden, Johnny Appleseed, Trapper John, M.D... and the list goes on.

2001-05-01T00:06:00.000-04:00

songs you may or may not know by heart
Tra-la, it's May, and the great paradox of the college student is about to be realized.

No. Not the one about how it's easy to stay up all night and party but impossible to stay up all night and write a good paper for American Drama.

Nor the one about how frat boys are real people, yet they are actually robots with dyed blond hair. (Cheers, Tommy, you non-typical frat boy, you.)

No, the paradox is this: For 9 months, we complain unequivocally about how much our lives suck: we're busy, we're tired, we're overworked, we're stressed, we don't have time to eat, we don't have time to bathe, we have to sleep in our cars, we scavenge food out of trash cans, people throw stuff at us, we pee on streetcorners and shout obscenities for a living, we're mistakenly referred to as Francisco.

All of that, during the course of a typical school year. "I can't wait for summer," we tell each other. "It'll be warm, and pretty, and I'm not doing a god damn thing all day but sleep and lay out and shout obscenities."

Then summer actually approaches. Suddenly, the world slows down, and the great break doesn't seem like so much fun anymore. Suddenly, we're facing three monotonous months of Nothing, which we know will satisfy us for exactly a week and a half, after which we'll be so insanely bored we will resort to listening to our parents' old record albums in alphabetical order, and will hurl ourselves collectively out the window when we get to ABBA.

ABBA has inspired many suicides. There are statistics on it. Honest. They're even higher for Rupert Holmes' "Escape."

Oh, sure you've heard it. You know it. Yes you do. Don't make me type the lyrics out. For the love of god, don't make me do it.

All right. I warned you. But get ready to hate me, because you really hate this song, and you will not be able to get it out of your head:

THE BASTARD RUPERT HOLMES, AND NOW YOU FOR THE REST OF THE DAY
If you like pina coladas, and gettin' caught in the rain. If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain. If you like making love at midnight, and the taste of champagne. I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me and escape."

Anyway, so it's summer, and we know that we've waited too long to plan an archeological dig to Sudan or anything cool. Of course, I still do have options. For instance, there's a carnival in town. I could always join ranks with them. Become a carnie. Eat funnel cake every day for the rest of the summer.

I could also walk into the river with an anvil tied around my ankles, all the while singing Rupert Holmes (just in case you'd managed to forget it in the last eight seconds).

I actually did something today that's quite as bad as joining a carnival, only mine is slightly less likely to hurl people 80 feet to their death. I downloaded a computer game.

This might not be so bad if not for the fact that this game was written in 1981. And I'm obsessed with it. Yes. I'm obsessed with a computer game that I used to play when I was a very little girl. It's called Rogue's Quest and it's horrible and banal and ridiculous and cheesy and I cannot stop playing it. I was at an audition tonight, and I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to get home and play my (MS-DOS based) game.

Of course, the audition was no great shakes, either. I tried out for a spot with a haunted dinner theater. The thing about dinner theater shows is that they're corny, but they know they're corny, so it should be okay. When stuff is so corny that it knows how corny it is, it becomes funny again. Presumably. But there's a place you can go that's so over the top, so above and beyond the boundaries of theatrical taste, that it becomes corny again. Corny to the corny power. So corny that audience members, unless they've had key brain lobes removed, will just sit there and groan and hold their foreheads in agony/disgust.

Apparently, though, there's a great niche for these dinner theater things in Colonial Williamsburg. I don't know. I would never go on vacation and tell my husband, "Hey, you know what? Instead of having sex/getting drunk/sleeping, let's go watch a bunch of semi-professional actors fuck around and mutilate an already godawful script that contains lines like 'Oh bosom, prepare thyself.'" I despise the local tourists. They're somehow much worse than I know I would be if I were a tourist. I don't drive slowly in front of people who have to get somewhere. I don't take pictures of "wild" animals, such as deer. I don't own a fanny pack, for Christ's sake.

In spite of my all-encompassing dislike of tourists, I did the audition, because if I got the part it would be goooooood money for not much work. But I didn't like doing it one bit, no sir. I'm sure no one actually likes doing it, and the reason is that it feels like making fun of the art of acting. You may think that this is corny to the corny power, but I feel very protective of my art at the moment. I feel like it's vulnerable. I think that's because I just discovered it. You know how when you're a little kid, and you get a really breakable little statuette or a new puppy or something, and it seems so fragile, so delicate, and so precious, you have to carry it around all the time? It has to be on your person or you know that tragic things will happen? This is kind of the same deal for me. I have to carry around my "serious actor" persona or maybe it will break. And I'll just be left with haunted dinner theater.

Of course, to buy into this theory, you have to ignore the fact that kids who do carry crap around with them generally break whatever it is inside of a week. Or else they irritate the dog so much that the dog never forgives them and grows up to bite people at random and hide under tables, snarling. But that's with kids. I know better. Really I do.

All that ceases to matter, though, because I'll easily sell out for money. Would I far rather be doing juicy serious stuff? You bet. But kids, it's a known fact that serious theater doesn't sell. Poorly written Agatha Christie satires sell. That doesn't say much for our country's mentality toward art (it's tourists ruining everything, I'm telling you) but then, look at who gets to be president.

Fred and I rented Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and watched it last night. It was required reading for a class this semester, but we decided to revert to high school and just watch the movie. And just save your platitudes, punky, about how the movie's not as good, and the movie's not the same as the play, and how can we cheat ourselves that way? You don't understand how bad this class is. No. Honestly. You may think you feel our pain, but you so don't. Anyway, so the people in the movie have these wonderful, hardly intelligible Southern accents, so for the last 24 hours or so, I've been practicin mah suthehn drahl, Big Daddeh. People are getting annoyed, but I don't care.

I have an audition for a national spot on Thursday. I play a newlywed going through a hope chest and being sad. It's a commercial for furniture. I don't know how good of an ad concept it is, though. "Buy our furniture; it makes grown women cry." There's no panache. No je ne sais quois. No voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir.

YOU FOR THE REST OF THE DAY
Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir. Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir. Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir. Oh, god DAMNIT! When I find Angela, her ass is MINE!

2001-04-24T12:59:00.000-04:00

sick! (really!)

Sorry for that rather confusing entry yesterday. I enjoyed Mike's new forum topic on it, and that could be a very interesting discussion if you people would ever GO POST.

Don't make me tell you again.

I was trying to figure out a way to stick a picture of Fred and I in my entry, and I've finally figured it out, so here it is:

This is during the last show, A Little Night Music. We look all fancy and strange, and Fred really doesn't have that corny little moustache in real life (duh) but I still think it's a good picture of us both. I'm really going to get the hang of this HTML thing.

Today I created a Yahoo! Group for my group of friends from high school. We were members of eCircles before eCircles went to the great 404 page in the sky, so we found ourselves in need of a new place to post our idiotic ramblings. Yahoo! is interesting because they make you list your group under a category name. How can you categorize a group of friends that just wants to fuck around and talk nonsense? You really can't. So I decided to put us under Sex and Romance.

Then there are sub-categories. God damn it, this is complicated. Adult seemed a little anachronous, but I didn't want to put us under Relationships or Advice, either. So I chose Singles. I was thinking of that old Steve Martin/Dan Akroyd bit about swingin' American Foxes. Now that's a category name I'd like to see.

Fuck all, but there are actually sub-sub-categories. And while all of them are potentially funny for us, like Gay Male (no gays, no men) or Married and Flirting (2 married and not flirting, 4 in monogamous relationships and not flirting) the one that I ultimately had to go with was Big Beautiful Women. That's just the greatest.

So. Yahoo! rocks. Don't you love when titles have exclamation points? I should do nothing but write about Oklahoma! and Oh, Calcutta! and Rice-A-Roni! from now on.

Okay, so Rice-A-Roni doesn't technically carry an exclamation point. But it should, it should.

Did you guys know that there is actually a skin affliction called Black Hairy Tongue? How weird is that? Yet, for all the strangeness I would associate with something called Black Hairy Tongue, it's actually not as gross as it could be. I'm afraid to look at any of the other skin afflictions on there, so if you find any other funny ones, let me know.

You may ask why I'm looking up skin conditions in the first place. Well, I have a scab on my chin that I don't remember getting. So of course, I'm convinced that it's a skin lesion and I'm now just trying to figure out which horrible disease I'm going to die from on account of lesions. I am a horribly ridiculous hypochondriac in that way. I get the least little abnormality and I'm convinced it's deadly.

For instance, a few weeks ago I was rehearsing the chair dance for the Shoebox Follies, and my chair tipped over and I fell directly on my tailbone. It hurt a little at the time, but I got a really bad headache about 30 minutes later. Naturally, I was certain that the shock had travelled up my spinal cord and I was going to have an aneurysm and drop dead at any moment.

And don't even ask me about my monthly bout with breast cancer.

Anyway, so I have all these confrontations with certain death, but apparently my certainty is not such that I will ever go visit a doctor for any of them. I take that as a good sign. It means I haven't fallen completely off the deep end. And my diseases are nothing that a little creme brulee wouldn't take care of, I'm sure.

2001-04-23T18:43:00.000-04:00

Don't eat babies.

2001-04-20T13:08:00.000-04:00

where i left off

I made a boo-boo yesterday. I was writing an entry, and I stopped writing in the middle of it because I knew I was going to come right back to it and no one would see that I stopped in the middle of a story.

But there was a carnival on campus, and they were giving out free sno-cones and cotton candy, and there was a bouncy thing and a velcro race and jousting and Fat Elvis played, and well... I forgot all about you. Mea culpa.

Actually, I don't feel bad about it in the least. The carnival was fun, and everyone says that they're willing to pay more tuition if we can have bouncy things everyday. That would be the greatest way to relieve stress, I swear. It should totally happen.

I had three sno cones.

Before the show last night, we had the best warmup ever. Since Emily said (and everyone agreed) that our warmups had gotten stale and we needed to energize them, we ran outside on the Great Lawn and played with this yellow balloon that we found, which was left over from the carnival. There were a whole bunch of frats and their minions out there too, giving us weird looks (jealousy, obviously) which was funny. We're going to play the balloon game every night from now on, just because we can. It turned out to be a good run last night, also. I'm bugged about this show, though. I thought I would feel more of a sense of "Hooray, I did it" once it finally opened. But I don't. I feel like I'm still climbing, still struggling with it. Still thinking of a million things I could do better. Still hating whatever barricades lie between me and Nora. I'm ready for a break from her. I have loved the learning, and I love the cast and the director and the process and the opportunity, and I have nothing but positive things to say about the whole experience, but I am really ready for a break from her. She's still difficult for me. She confounds me. She's taken quite a bit from me, or rather I've given her quite a lot of myself and I'm going to be ready to have it back.

If anyone cares, the rest of the story from yesterday is that in the middle of breaking the big rule of the computer lab by printing 5 times as much as I'm allowed to, I spilled an entire cup of water on the rug. And the monitor guy didn't even care. I turned to him and I said, "Is this a big deal? It's just water." And he hardly looks at me, shrugs, and mutters "Not MY carpet."

Classic. I love computer people.

We had the greatest voice class this morning. Everyone is giddy, I guess partly for the show opening, or maybe the shows that are opening next week, and it's Friday, and it's nice out. We were discussing onomatopoeia in Shakespeare, which is a fairly interesting and active topic anyway, so Steven asked us to come up with (and yell out) words that are onomatopoeiac.

side note: That word sucks to try to spell. Not looking it up. Deal.

Anyway, so we're yelling out every word we can think of, and Nicha comes up with "Snake." Only she says it very evil-like, drawing out the 's' sound.

NICHA
'Ssssssssnake!'

STEVEN
Good! What about 'Hissssss?'

NICHA
Or 'Ssssssssatan.'

MIKE
'Ssssssssantaaaaaaaa!'

I am here to tell you, I didn't think we were ever going to stop laughing, ever. Maybe you had to be there, but just imagine, if you will, a whole roomful of people trying to make the word "Santa" sound as evil as "Satan" and "snake." Voice class rocks.

We also learned that English is mundane as languages go, that words beginning with the hard 'k' sound are amusing, and that everyone in America is sick of alliteration. It's true. Everywhere you look, there's alliteration. We can't stop doing it. We're annoying ourselves. We're annoying our fellow man. For the love of god, marketing reps, please stop with the alliterative names. We can take no more.

Hey, anyone like a cappella music? We're going to start a group, and if you'd want to sing with it, please send me some email: ideas, criticisms, hate mail, whatever. I'm too lazy to make a link, so just look at the bottom of the page for the link. Oh, like anyone's going to email me anyway. Katie all but demanded that I start a forum, and she hasn't even used it! Mon dieu, you guys suck royally. My new tactic, by the way: alienate the readers and tell them you hate them all. It's going to work. You'll be coming to me in droves now, just you wait.

Quote of the Week:
"You guys look like Hamilton and Arsenault, Attorneys at Law."
~ Amy Player, on mine and Fred's formal business attire. We've since decided to become lawyers instead of actors. Not a big stretch, is it?

2001-04-19T12:21:00.000-04:00

Sportsfans, I've hit the big time.

For a while now, I've watched as my list of searchengine queries grew and got weirder and more random. I've always loved it when other websites posted their favorites of all the weird search items that brought poor misguided websurfers to their domains. And now I have them too. The fools, the fools! Or, as Cash would say, "BUA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!"

So. Here's my list. Here's what the web at large knows me for.

sexy ma's
poems about unicorns
sit unpack
moby gwen photos
george carlin shit routine
love shampooing
body lotion Victoria Secret's
george carlin
george carlin uses of the word fuck
gwenn moby
cunt competing with each other
"poems about unicorns"
song, tootsie roll
gwenn stefani
+tie +unpack
Difference of massage oil cream and talc

I feel like I should write a poem which incorporates all those ideas so that the searchengine users will feel validated, because I don't think any of them got what they were looking for by coming here.

Except possibly the "cunt competing with each other" person.

What the hell does that mean? I don't even have a guess.

So the whole search engine thing kind of makes me wonder what weird shit I've typed into search engines that's led me horribly awry. How many times have you gone searching, clicked on something, seen right away that it isn't what you want, and left immediately? Yes. All the time.

But that doesn't make it less funny when I'm on the other side of it. It's a riot. "Love shampooing?" I actually have that phrase on my site. I didn't know that! And like, okay. I do like shampoo, as I discussed. But who out there actually feels so strongly about shampooing that they go searching for other people who feel the same way? Does that reek of "kinky fetish" to anyone else? I feel a little dirty having it on here. I feel like I should qualify it. "Hey, I love shampooing, but in a completely non-threatening, unsexual kind of way. Stop looking at me."

The poems about unicorns thing is also amusing, as I didn't really realize that that was a viable literary genre. I thought Tim was just being cheeky. So now I'm planning to talk to my professors about some inclusion of poems about unicorns into the curriculum. I feel a little cheated by my education. I'm embarrassed to call myself an English major. Oh wait, I'm NOT an English major anymore! I'm only Theater now! Well, what the hell, theater people are stupid anyway!

Let me not forget all the poor misguided souls that want information on George Carlin and Gwen Stefani. I'm sorry to all of you. I really am. I'm so stupid about George Carlin, I actually thought he was Dennis Miller. But we don't need to go through that whole argument again. (Eric, just sit your natch down and shut up.)

Anyway, so I did want to write an epic poem that included all of those themes, but when I sat down to do it, I realized I'm just not that good. Fuck it, Ernest HEMMINGWAY'S not that good. Although I hear he had a thing for Victoria's Secret body lotion.

This morning during my voice class, Ms. Scott was telling me to stop grabbing with my ab muscles when I sing. She explained all about the musculature and support and how there are muscles that push out and in at the same time but I don't need to grab to make that happen. Then she said, "There are only two times in life that we actually need to clench those muscles in like that: defecation and childbirth."

I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. I'm supposed to be a grown up. Words like defecation really should not bother me anymore. But I reverted to about five years old when she said it. And she was so serious about it, too. It was like the two of them would be events of equal importance and gravity. I suppose to classically trained singers, they are, because she continued to say that there is actually a style of music in German called "Pot-Singing."

You should have been there. Then she wanted me to go right on singing! After all that! Now. In all my voice classes, when I'm singing or speaking, I'm working on using imagery to get ideas across. But the only image I could think of was "Poooooooooop."

Needless to say, I didn't do very well.

Okay. Someone in this room literally smells like fish. I am not lying. It smells like the inside of those rooms at the grocery store where they have all the raw fish laid out in buckets of ice. Oh, this is bad. I wish I were dead.

I have to tell this story about the last time I was in the computer lab. I was running late for a class. I had to print up ten copies of a 6-page play I have for this class. It was an important class not to miss, and I hadn't had time to copy the plays earlier. I felt really bad about it because you really aren't supposed to print more than 15 pages. I printed 60....

2001-04-17T14:32:00.000-04:00

raining cats and chaise lounges

My parents are out of town at the moment, visiting my Aunt Linda and her boyfriend. I assume my parents are having a grand old time, because I have yet to hear from them. And I am also having a great time, playing house with Fred. It's a really great time for it, too, since we have the show opening this week and we would otherwise not get to see each other very much.

Last night we had our first dress rehearsal. Actually, it was a dress cue-to-cue, and it was very long and very tiring, for all involved I'm sure. I got to learn my Norweigian Christmas Carol, though, which pretty much makes it all worthwhile. The chorus goes like this: "Heisanog, Hopsanog, fa la la la la, Om jeule skvelden daskalale samen vaere glad" Please allow for spelling mistakes, I only know phoenetically how to say it. I'm not even sure what it even means, other than it's about a little mouse who gets into stuff during Christmas, and it's maddeningly fun to sing. Norway rocks. I hope that at least one person in the audience gets freaked out by us singing in Norweigian at the top of the show, and fears that the whole show is going to be done in a foreign language. That would be cool.

I wonder if other directors do stuff like that. Like Jeffrey has these carolers deciding to sing a song just for me about a little mouse at Christmas, which is thematically relevant to the show, since people go around calling me little names like squirrel, skylark, pixie, and so on. The only people that this info will actually matter to, though, are myself and Jeffrey, and potentially any audience members who are fluent in Norweigian.

So basically just me and Jeffrey. But I think it's great. It's so cool to have something like that to play with. I wish there more of that around among other directors.

Another exciting thing happened during tech last night. At the top of the show, all the furniture is up in the air, and then it gets flown down manually by stagehands and I unhook everything and put it in place (all the while singing my mouse song). Last night, the chaise, which is operated by two people, slipped and almost fell, and I guess to the audience it looked like it was going to fall on me. I was fine, but it freaked everyone out and Fred came running down the aisle. Like, the thing hadn't even finished falling and he was down there to make sure I was okay. He's the best. Anyway, after that he sat in the second row so he could be there just in case. Don't know what he plans to do on show nights, but I don't think that will happen again anyway. Beth was very sorry about it. And I was just as scared she'd hurt herself when the rope slipped, but she was okay too.

Greg, who lowers the other big chair, told me I better not stand under his chair ever, to which I replied that he would probably drop it on me on purpose. When he denied it, I told him I knew he'd do it if someone paid him enough.

"Well," he said, "everyone's got a price."

This is what I'm working with, people. You should be frightened for me.

Seriously, the show is going well. It's going to be absolutely beautiful. So bravo to Jeffrey and George and Laurel. Laurel dressed me to match the furniture on purpose. How cool is that? And Fred looks amazing in his costume. He's very yummy.

I really don't have anything else to talk about at the moment. The show is basically consuming most of my efforts during my waking hours. I do have another thing to talk about, about the state of the theater department, but it would only piss me off to talk about it, and those of you who don't go to CNU probably wouldn't care, and those who do go to CNU have already heard enough yammering from me about it to last you for awhile I'm sure. Let me just say that I hate the provost. I really do. Very easy to blame this whole thing on him. He can bite me. He should bite me.

My mother and I have a thing about the phrase "bite me." Once after I told her to bite me, she replied that it wasn't really an effective insult:

MOM
See, because if I bite you, that only hurts you. It's not really going to bother me.

ANGELA
You're right, you know, we should change the saying. Maybe instead of bite me, it should be, "Hey, buy me something cool."

MOM
Right, and then you bite them.

2001-04-05T18:25:00.000-04:00

buzzed

My second date with Fred was a trip to Jeffrey's house. I'm sure this is rare when you first start seeing someone you're interested in. I've always liked the way it happened: we met (after not having seen each other for four years) on a Saturday night, and stayed up all night talking and drinking wine and making up songs on my guitar.

On Sunday night, we were sitting at his theater professor's house for hours on end listening to Bob Dylan and Laura Nyro and talking poetry and higher education.

That happened to me, and I remember the exact date. March 5, 2000. It's now been exactly one year and one month since that night at Jeffrey's (which I didn't realize when I started writing this entry).

In that time, Fred and I have broken up and gotten back together once. We've laughed, we've cried, we've recited poetry. We've drunk more wine, made up more songs, watched each other on stage a lot, and been on stage together once. We've made friends and lost friends, stayed up all night cramming for finals, and hit golf balls on a beach. We've developed a tacit understanding of some things about each other. We've understood how much there still is to learn, and how much we will never really learn. We've played. We've learned hard, laughed hard, loved hard. Overall, it's been a really fantastic year and a month.

Last year around this time, Fred and Jeffrey and I started a poetry group. It's the time of year when the weather is thinking about getting warm and staying that way. Everything in the world is green and new. I love this time, and its promise of things to come, more than any other time of year. The world buzzes, and I buzz right along with it.

Our poetry group met on Sunday mornings at 11am. We met for however long we felt like. We ate good food. Sometimes we ate bad food. We discussed things like voice, scansion, and historical context of poetry. It didn't feel anything like a class, but then you don't need a class in how to read poetry. If anything can or should be self-taught, poetry can. As a result of that group, I eat up new poetry like dogs do with people food. I'm crazy for poetry. I have dozens of lines of it memorized, and don't think I can forget it even if I tried.

When I started writing this afternoon, this was going to be an extremely amusing essay about how much crap I've taken from the two of them over the past year for being gullible. I was going to go on to tell an anecdote how I recently was able to get Fred back for it. But my mushy side is taking over, and I'm going to indulge it.

I once described the three of us as "a powerful triumvirate."

This was an extremely bullshit, elitist, self-aggrandizing thing to say. I know this now. I'm embarrased about it now. I had just learned the word triumvirate, and wanted to use it in a sentence.

But you know what? I was right. They're powerful. And when I'm around them, I have power, too.

I feel obliged to say (for the benefit of my feminist friends) that I don't lack powers of my very own. Sure I have power. Oodles of it. We all do. But around either Fred or Jeffrey, I buzz with a different kind of energy. I'm alive in a different way. I look for different things.

I watch turtles.

Fred and I have started noticing the little ways we connect in life. He looks out the window in class, and sees my car go by. I know when he's walked into a room, and I don't have to look up. We don't need to talk to each other when we're together. I don't think of it as comfortable, I think of it as intimate and free.

It's spring, and school is almost out. I still don't know what I'm doing this summer. It's up in the air. But I have a feeling that when this show closes, I'm going to have changed again. I'll have become a different person again. I think this past year and a month has been about the culmination and fruition of that change. It's funny to realize how you don't know where a journey is going until it's over. This journey may end, but others will follow.

And I look forward to the next one.
I love you.

2001-04-03T15:22:00.000-04:00

please mr. postman

ripping off more popular websites like Nikki's sister's arms since about 2 months ago.

Dear Henrik Ibsen:

Why did you have to go and make your play so difficult? It's as if you wanted people to learn something. I wonder what you'd have thought of our little production. Not much, if you'd seen last night's rehearsal. I'll do better, I promise.

Love,
Angela

Dear Chick-Sitting-Next-To-Me,

It's cold in here. It's FUCKING COLD. I realize that it's April, but that doesn't mean the weather knows what it's doing. You have on short sleeves. I have on two sweaters. Please close the window. It's cold. God damn you. It's COLD. I hate you. I hate everyone.

No love,
Angela

Dear Woody Allen:

"Loveborg's Women Considered" is the funniest thing I've ever read. Especially the part about favoring certain hens over other hens. And the part about forging a penguin's signature on a mortgage.

Write more parodies of people. They rock.
Your biggest fan,
Angela

Dear Hennyrik,

Sorry for writing again so soon. I just wanted to say, no disrespect about the Lovborg's Women thing. I'm sure Woody loves you. It really is funny, though. You should check it out. You'll like the pauses.

Love,
Angela

Dear CNU,

For over a year now, you've had a posted advertisement for the Writing Center that reads "Two roads diverged in a snowy wood." Snowy? SNOWY? Do you mean a snowy evening? Or perhaps a yellow wood? You should be taken out back and shot.

Angela

Dear Chick-Sitting-Next-To-Me,

What? You saw fit to close the window? What did it, the icicles on the monitor? Or was it that your fingers turned blue and stopped moving? Could it possibly have been those penguins that have taken up residence under the printer table?

Still no love,
Angela

Dear Woody Allen,

I have penguins on the brain. Your fault.

Love,
Angela

Dear Mr. Sondheim:

How come every show that I want to do that's any good was written by you? Now we can't do anymore of your stuff while I'm here because we just did one this year. What a bummer. You should have used pen names.

Love,
Angela

Dear Captain's Log,

You guys should do more stories about ostriches. Also more about how faculty members are actually robots. I know your readership would increase tenfold. Also, you should change your name officially to "CLOG." That'd help, too.

Just doing my part to help out my favorite school paper.
Angela

Dear Jeep,

I'm sorry I ran you so many times with not very much oil. You'll like your new engine. It'll be shiny and pretty and my dad will definitely lecture me about giving you lots of oil from now on. Remember when we broke down in Bumfucknowhere, Virginia? That won't happen again. At least not from lack of oil.

Love,
Angela

Dear God,

Is it true that the modern representation of you is actually society? When we talk about the eyes of god, don't we really mean the eyes of our fellow man?

Love,
Angela

Dear London,

Isn't Big Ben actually a little creepy?

Just wondering,
Angela

Dear France,

The joke is, you would surrender if someone threw a muffin at you because the last war you won was your own revolution. I didn't get it at first, but now I do. Ha, ha. I love your desserts, by the way.

Love,
Angela

Dear Underpants,

I don't have anything to say, but this joke was too damn good to pass up. I see you, I see you, I see you.

Love,
Angela

Dear Post Office,

If I wanted to send a letter from here to Australia, how would it get there? On a plane, or a boat, or what? Would it have to go to Chicago or somewhere first? What about Newark? What if I sent something to Antarctica? Are there still people down there, researching stuff? Do you think, eventually, I could send stuff to the moon via the postal service? Because right now I have to use NASA. I really woke up thinking about this last night.

Need an answer quick,
Angela

Dear Forum,

How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad, trying hard not to smile though I feel bad? I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral. Can't understand what I mean? Well, you soon will.

Love,
Ed, Steve, Tyler, Jim, and Kevin

2001-04-02T06:42:00.000-04:00

you're wise, all right.

Dude. Did anyone else notice what month it is?

Hello, where has the time gone? I absolutely cannot believe it's already April. My name is Angela, and I am here to make you feel like time is slipping away from you. It is, kids, it is. So if you have a crush on someone, or a book you want to read, or a place within 40 miles you really want to go, get moving. Tell them. Read it. Start driving. The time is now.

I didn't die. I simply lost track of things. It's like, 3 weeks went by and I didn't even notice. Here comes some unnecessary information for those of you who don't live with or date me: I realized the other day that my boobs were sore. I make this discovery every month or so, say, about a week before my period arrives. It's amazing that I always manage to forget why they hurt, though, until my period shows up. Then I'm amazed:

INSIDE ANGELA'S HEAD
Oh, so that's why I've been achy and bitchy and non-communicative and basically an emotional roller coaster all week. Right. I forgot from last time.

For 6 years, though, people. It's not an infrequent occurence. You'd think I'd have learned by now. Anyway, I haven't, and this weekend, I complained to Fred about the breast hurting, and he said, "Well, it's that time again, isn't it?" It really seemed like I'd just gotten off of it, but he was right. 3 weeks had passed.

Can you believe I had to tell a story about my period to explain that 3 weeks can sometimes pass very quickly? Well, to be quite honest, I didn't have to, but I like to watch you squirm. Of course I can see you. Through my computer. You've got stuff on your face, by the way. Not there... a little to the left. There ya go.

Every time I'm at ADH rehearsal, I have to laugh inside because the group of people on stage is so strange and I know them all from different places. I should have met all of them at the start of this school year, but I have known them all... well, just look. Kelley, I went to high school with and have known for like 8 years. Fred I did a show with 5 years ago at PCT. Emily I did a show with 2 years ago at Williamsburg Players. Roman, I saw in a show at PCT... umm... a year ago. Then there's Mike, who I heard tell of through our various mutual friends but never actually formally met until... umm... I don't know. I don't think we did ever actually formally meet. Hi, Mike. I'm Angela. Anyway, being onstage with all of them, if I stop to think about it, is really sort of unlikely and weird. Life works in such mysterious ways.

My last wisdom tooth is in. This means I'm wise now, and you guys have to start doing whatever I say.

Yesterday Fred and I went to Best Buy. I wanted to buy The Sims game, even though everyone says that if I start playing it, I will never again pay attention to my own life. But the game is 50 bucks! What a rip off! If anyone wants to pirate the software and send it to me, please feel free. Meantime, I'll continue to sleep and eat and wear clothes, myself. We also played with the keyboards, which I absolutely love doing, and looked at the Indigo Girls CDs. I keep hoping that they'll have released a new CD that I won't have heard about, and it will be there. But it never happens. I always just end up looking at a bunch of CDs I already own. This may be obsessive compulsive behavior. Then again, it's the Indigo Girls. You're allowed to act stupid if it's your favorite band.

Our waiter at dinner could carry stuff on his head. Plates of food, I mean. I think Fred had a crush on him. This was the conversation everytime the waiter walked by:

FRED
He is so cool. Look at him.

ANGELA
You like him.

FRED
I do not. But look at him. He's the coolest. Have you ever seen a waiter that can do that?

ANGELA
You want the waiter, you want the waiter.

FRED
It's just that he carries stuff on his head. That's the coolest thing I've ever seen.

Oh, I have something I need to share with you. This morning, I was dozing peacefully when my cell phone rang. It was my friend Nicole, and since I was sleeping, I let the voice mail get it. As soon as the voice mail beeped, though, I listened to it, and this is the monologue I was treated to, first thing this morning:

NICOLE

Smashingla, It is I... the Nadsy. Or something. I am at a shoot for this independent film, and it's like, so dumb, and I... I mean, I don't know if the film is dumb, but I am dumb, because I have this little stupid bit part, and I'm... Okay, okay, I'm doing the broom trick, Angela. I don't have any lines, but I'm doing the broom trick. And I've been sitting here for hours and hours and hours and hours waiting to start, and nothing is happening. And I'm in Jersey somewhere at a nursing home, and I have makeup on my face to look like I'm ill. And I really, I feel like I need to escape this mental institution. But your... the phone lady, on your phone, when she says "Please leave a message," she sounds really manic. And that was scary. But I'm gonna go now, cause this is a really long message. But you can call me on my cell phone. Okay bye.

Great, isn't it? Wish you had cooler friends, don't you?

She is a working actor, obviously, and this could be considered a testament to what lengths working actors will go for their craft, or to put it another way, how crazy they are. Incidentally, the broom trick she refers to is a contortionist thing that was taught to both of us about ten years ago by my mother, and if you see it done once, you'll never forget it. I'm really glad she mentioned it, actually, because I needed something cool to put on my resume under "Special Skills." Fred has "Really Loud T-Rex Impression," and frankly, I'm a bit jealous. He also does a great Gilbert Gottfried, but his Jimmy Stewart is sorely lacking. Do you have any stupid talents? Tell these guys about it.

I only say that about Jimmy Stewart because his version of Jimmy Stewart is old-man-Jimmy-Stewart, and this is only because he knows I have a crush on young-stud-Jimmy-Stewart. So he gets into this whole geriatric groove that is extremely off-putting and not at all what you want to see when "It's A Wonderful Life" is your favorite movie ever.

Incidentally, "It's A Wonderful Life" should be everyone's favorite movie ever. I wish I was Donna Reed. I wish I had that house and those cute kids. I wish my future husband would say stuff like "Isn't it wonderful? I'm going to jail! Merry Christmas, Mr. Bank Examiner!"

2001-03-27T12:16:00.000-05:00

cryptogram

I've recently been made aware that I belong to a generation that has an axe to grind. I learned this in Playwriting class, when every single student's long play (our culminating project) revolves around some sort of political discourse. We all have a point to prove. We all have views.

And we all have a distinct propensity for getting involved in situations that god knows we shouldn't be in. Things that don't concern us. Things that, if they did concern us, we still wouldn't want to be a part of. How DOES that happen?

The Too-Much Irony Department:
I'm downloading the old Ren & Stimpy song "Happy Happy Joy Joy."

"Iffen you ain't the granddaddy of all liars! Little critters of nature, they don't know that they're ugly. That's very funny. A fly marrying a bumblebee. I TOLD YOU I'D SHOOT, BUT YOU DIDN'T BELIEVE ME! WHY DIDN'T YOU BELIEVE ME?"

Wow. That's classic songwriting, that. I can't believe I don't remember that part.

Last night I was listening to Joni Mitchell in my car, and I discovered a particular position I can get in where the resonation is really awesome. I lean forward and put my forehead on the steering wheel, and I sing into the dashboard. I sound just like Joni when I do this.

I do it while driving, oh yes, I do.

Nikki and Sabrina and I are off to lunch, which is great because we never see each other anymore. Also great because I don't have to listen to school bullshit for a couple of hours. I love school, but not when it's silly. Then it's just silly. I withdrew from British Lit! That is both good and bad. Good because now I won't fail it. Bad because it feels like a failure anyway.

2001-03-22T13:12:00.000-05:00

gripey girl

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him give you good grades.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't go to rehearsal without knowing their lines.

If you can't say something nice, don't write a paper on a book you haven't read.

You can't make a silk purse out of 3 hours' sleep.

Look both ways before injuring your foot.

Don't count your chickens before you blow off going to the gym for the 3rd day in a row.

I'm extremely stressed, so I thought that rather than solve any of my problems, I'd write a couple of cute cliches about them. Did I miss any? Let the forum know about it. I'm no closer to having a solution, but at least I know what my problems are. I need to wait until AFTER I blow off the gym to count my chickens, for instance. Makes sense.

Honestly, everything seems to be falling apart for me. Monday is the last day to withdraw from a class, and I'm really considering doing it, which I can't even believe. But I am. I'm just so far over my head. And I had a long talk with Dr. Schwarze (whom I like and respect very much) and she told me that withdrawing from a course isn't the same as admitting failure. I'm not entirely sure I believe it, but I appreciated the sentiment. I really hate the feeling of having to come from behind to make a course even passable. That's really terrible. But I guess I'm going to try to do it. I really don't want to drop anything.

ADH rehearsals are extremely frustrating to me right now, too. Fred keeps saying it's about to get a whole lot better (when we get off book, which is happening Sunday) and I really hope that's true. I have a problem in that I don't seem to be able to find the places in the scenes where something is happening that isn't in the text or stage directions. Jeffrey says I'm bad at seeking out non-verbal elements of a story. I feel pretty retarded, because sometimes it takes doing a particular line 3 or 4 times before I even understand what it means. It's very frustrating to feel like there's something I'm not good at. I hope it comes together. I need to learn my lines.

As for my foot, I hurt it. I really don't know how it happened, which makes it even more annoying. I was walking along yesterday, and suddenly it was like a great big sharp pointy hot metal thing was jabbed through my ankle bone. Not my favorite experience. Fred looked at it for me. He massaged it and put ice on it. He gets an A+ for putting up with all my stressed-out crap this week. I think the foot strain comes from stress, too, I really do. I've also had headaches and tummy aches and all sorts of aches.

We're still unsure what we're doing this summer, but it's looking more and more like we're going to spend it together somehow. Unless Fred gets the gig at the equity theater in Dallas, which would be really great (for him. I'd be jealous as all hell). We're talking about a couple of summer theaters: one in the western part of the state, and one in New Hampshire.

I wish I had something funny to talk about, but I'm just really not in a funny mood. It's spring, which is about the only good thing that's happened recently. Well, Fred's also really good, but he didn't happen recently. I'm sorry about this. This entry has been terrible. It's really really bad. I should put this sentence at the top of the entry, but then no one would read it, and I want you all to be involved in my misery with me. That's the only reason I make this journal. Someone bring me some ice cream.

2001-03-20T10:17:00.000-05:00

all i really want to say

i'm in love. i'm so in love, people. i'll have more to say about this (and other things) later, but it is just the best, to be in love and to be 100% sure it's right for you.

also, it makes everyone sick, which is cool.

2001-03-18T11:41:00.000-05:00

because i'm good enough... i'm smart enough...
Isn't it boring when people talk about their dreams? Yeah, I know.

Okay, but this one's really amusing. Actually, it's not so much amusing as it is incredibly obvious. Last night I dreamed that the cast of ADH was in some other state and we did something illegal that would have gotten us arrested. I don't remember what that was except that it had to do with the bathroom. Bathroom shenanigans. So we had to leave town.

I got in my car and led the caravan to Virginia. When I got out of my car in Virginia, I realized that Fred, Emily, Mike, and Roman had all ridden together and I was separated from them, and I proceeded to start crying.

ANGELA'S DREAM SELF-ANALYSIS: I feel like I don't belong because everyone else knows what they're doing and I don't.

Also, I'm afraid of bathrooms.

Here's something cool. My little cousins Mallory and Haley (ages 6 and 4) are staying with us right now, and they're fascinated by my guitar and mandolin. I have a little box that has like 7 or 8 picks in it, which are all different colors, and the girls have to try all the different color picks to see what different noises they'll make.

Kids are great. Adults never come up with stuff like that.

I decided to stop doing beauty pageants. The really sad thing about beauty pageants is that there are these online message boards where people go and complain about all the different girls, and the people can say whatever the hell they want to without fear because it's all anonymous. I feel kind of bad about this because it hurts my mom whenever they trash me. She really hates it, because she can't jump through the computer and yell at them like she wants to. But the people on the boards are hilarious. They really, like really actively care about the most retarded things, like what a girl's swimsuit body looks like. They have these long drawn out discussions about whose boobs are too big, who has thick legs, who isn't pretty, etc. To listen to them, you would think they were the most objective, reasonable people in the world, discussing something that has a qualitative system of measurement, because they are SO SURE that they're right. But when you see the people that are involved with the pageant, the women are mostly old, usually fat, and always bitter as hell because the girls look better than they do. These are the women doing all the complaining. I love imagining them at their computers in too-small bathrobes, scarfing HoHos, trying to come up with new ways to insult some gorgeous, intelligent girl they know absolutely nothing about, and wishing they were 30 years younger.

Sad, ain't it? It's a weird phenomenon, it really is.

Anyway, I would love to keep going just to prove all the idiots wrong, but unfortunately I can't do both pageants and acting stuff this summer. Since pageants are just for fun and acting is my career, I need to focus on the latter. Not to mention I'm extremely busy right now and just don't have the time to put into competing the way I would need to work on it if I were going to win. So I'm stopping.

I made a new cereal discovery. Honeycomb. It rocks, people. It's really, really good. You guys should all go pick up a big box and go to town. It tastes kind of like Corn Pops, but not as sticky. The mascot is weird, though. As far as I can discern, the story goes that this little blond kid eats Honeycomb until it runs out, at which point his craving causes him to morph into this weird little monster dude with buggy eyes and a mane and teeth that are rather larger than they need to be, for my money. And he runs around wildly as if in an epileptic fit going "Honeycomb, honeycomb! Me want!" (Zen poetry or not Zen poetry? You decide) until he gets more cereal from somewhere. Is the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde thing really that appealing? Especially that early in the morning?

Question du Jour:
What do you think of beauty pageants?

2001-03-16T01:20:00.000-05:00

collage

My webpage. Mine. And I can write whatever the fuck I want to.

Sorry. I have to begin that way so that no one feels jipped when I talk about my personal life almost exclusively in this entry.

Last night I did a very difficult thing. I resigned my position on the Board of Directors of the Williamsburg Players. I have really loved being a board member, but my duties to school and shows at school are keeping me from even making it to our monthly meetings. I was feeling bad that I kept letting everyone down, so I stepped down. I hate it. Now I won't have a voice. Now I won't be able to make a difference. Now I won't get any good theater gossip.

Today Fred and I mailed off applications to a summer theater workshop up in Saratoga Springs. It would be amazing if we get to go. If only one of us gets to go, it will be slightly less than amazing. We had a little discussion of that this evening, actually, but keep your fingers crossed that it works out.

I'm very excited right now because I'm doing my first ever printwork as a professional (oooooowee) model tomorrow. I have a shoot at 1, and I'm totally stoked about it, although I'm not stoked about the fact that I'll have to miss acting class because of it. Also, I have like three (12) things due tomorrow. It's 12, but there are three that absolutely cannot be put off till later. (To be perfectly correct, they could be put off till later, but I already did the putting them off thing, and later is now. Me and Nietzsche, dude. Like this.) My work is all at various states of "not done," including "half-done," "came up with a title," "thought about starting yesterday," and "holy shit, you mean I have to do that on top of everything else?"

That last one happened to me on Wednesday. While sitting in class at 9:30, I realized I had a paper due at 4 on a book that I had only read halfway through, and I had already delegated the day for getting caught up on everything I had let slide. God, that was a scary moment.

I just found out that my friend Josh releases aggresion by beating up his toilet. Hm. Is it just me or does that seem a little weird? Still, this is the same Josh who peed all over the dental products aisle at the drugstore because he felt the gum was overpriced.

Seriously. He whipped it out and peed on dental products, people.

Does everyone know that ADH is an acronym for A Doll House? Learn it. Love it. In the theater (as with everywhere, probably) people are lazy. We like to call stuff by shorter names if we can. Thus, A Little Night Music becomes ALNM (or "Night Music"); The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail becomes "Thoreau"; The Importance of Being Earnest is "Earnest"; and so on.

ADH rehearsals are going well. I'm learning tons already about the way I approach a new script. I did something I've never done last night as an actor: we improvised the entire play. And it went amazingly well. I got tons from the exercise, and it was really made quite easy for me, actually, because the other actors all totally knew what they were doing. It's hard to fail when everyone carries each other. Tonight, we started blocking the show, and already I can see how many amazing moments are going to be built into the show and how tight the actions are going to be. I can't wait to get the book out of my hands so I can really dig in and learn what Nora's about.

Katie wanted me to start a forum so that she doesn't have to keep emailing me every time she wants to comment about something I write. Makes sense. But since I made a forum, ya'll damn well better use it. That's an unveiled threat, in case you're wondering, so you have permission to ignore me. Go visit or I'll cry. Oh, no wait, go visit or I'll think you're dead.

Can't argue with it, can you?

2001-03-12T13:20:00.000-05:00

is that a mango in your nose, or are you just happy to see me?

I dote feel good.

It's by dose. By dose hurts. So does by throat. By god, I hate beig sick. I could kill by boyfredd - it's his fault edtirely. Too bad Daked Weeked coidcided with hib beig sick.

Sniff.

Well. I've been up all night. This is the second time I've done this in the past 5 days, and I didn't do it because there was an all-night party in my pants, if that's what you're thinking. I did it to finish a paper. Go ahead - ask me if I finished. Watch me cry.

So I had to go to Dr. Nichols this morning and tell him, falling all over myself, how sorry I was. How I only got 1/3 of it done. Undersnad (undersnad!), now: this is the second time he's backed up the deadline for me.

Well, today makes three. Now I don't even have a deadline. He's given up on me, I know it. He just tells me to get it in whenever I can. How much does that suck? I mean, it sucks of me. And then, the best part is, I've just gotten finished telling him what a bad student I am, and what a really worthless person in general I am, and what does he do? He smiles and congratulates my performance in Night Music.

Like salt in the wound.

So anyway. The man is way too nice and I am a degenerate clod. I will get it done, someday. Hopefully I'll work my ass off and he'll fail me.

Wait, what am I saying? I may be down on myself, but don't let's get crazy.

Naked Weekend was a rousing success. We had a picnic by the fireplace, we spent all day Thursday in bed. Fantastic, except that Fred is sick and now I am sharing his fungus. Ah, it must be love when you have communal diseases. I would be okay with taking part in the sickness, too, as its just a mild little coughy thing, but I had to stay up all night to do my paper, and I can't go to bed until after rehearsal tonight, which means at the earliest, midnight. Plus, when I do go to bed, I'll be alone, and if you've just spent 4 nights in a row with your boyfriend, you don't want to go to bed alone.

Ah, the trials of living at home. Life or death, I'm telling you.

I can't believe that I got so little accomplished during Spring Break. I really thought I was more responsible than that.

Oh, wait. No I didn't.

I mentioned the fireside picnic. I guess I should say I don't cook very often, so when I do, it's quite an event. I made the same thing that I made the last time I cooked for Fred (Chicken Margherite), which was about a year ago almost to the week (and don't ask why I remember that). I added some stuff this time though: croissants, melted butter, cheapy cheap peach wine (holy wow! cheap peach! that's almost a palindrome, but not), and fresh cut mangoes.

I eat a mango about once every few years or so. Used to be my grandfather would buy them and try and make us eat them.

ANGELA AND HER COUSINS
Pops! Ewww no! Mangoes are NASTY! They taste like boogers!
(little did we know...)

Gradually I came to enjoy them, but I couldn't tell you why, as I absolutely hate all forms of melon, and it's basically the same texture thing going on. But I can't handle a whole lot of mango. A few pieces will satiate me for a good long while. Which explains that I got bored with the plate of mangoes very quickly. I fed a few to Fred.

Of course, I had to stick one up his nose.

The funny thing was, rather than freak out and pull away, he let me do it. Then he kept it there. Guess what we learned. If you stick a piece of mango (or, well, anything, I'm guessing) way inside your nose, it looks like your nose is broken or lopsided. This was high comedy at the moment of its discovery, let me tell you. Now. We have always had a thing about each other's noses (inspecting for snot, runaway nose hairs, that kind of thing), so this whole mango-in-the-nose thing was really nothing out of the ordinary, until he dared me to eat the mango.

FRED
I dare you to eat the mango.

ANGELA
What? Gross!

FRED
Come on, eat the mango.

ANGELA
That is so not happening.

FRED
I would do it.

ANGELA
You would eat a mango that just came out of my nose.

FRED
Sure I would.

ANGELA
Yes, but your nose is full of mucous and god-knows-what at the moment.

FRED
Good point. I'll give you twenty dollars.

ANGELA
You don't have twenty dollars.

FRED
I'll give you two dollars.

ANGELA
From twenty dollars to two, this deal gets sweeter all the time.

In the end, I flat-out refused to eat the mango, and Fred was sad, hurt, and probably a little relieved. I don't know that I'll ever look at mangoes the same way, and now you probably won't, either. But think of all you've learned that you'd probably never even CONSIDERED before the whole nose/mango discussion:

1) If you put a mango in your nose, your nose looks weird.
2) Just because you like someone's nose doesn't mean you have to eat stuff that comes out of it.
3) Twenty dollars might be enough to make you break rule #2, but two dollars DEFINITELY is not.
4) You can talk about absolutely anything you want to on the internet.
5) People like to be grossed out.

Okay, so I haven't talked about that last rule yet, but it's very true. What's that? Prove it, you say?

Well, you're still reading, aren't you?

2001-03-08T03:32:00.000-05:00

for the price of a dime I can always turn to your voice mail

I keep getting threatening messages on my voice mail. It seems like everyone I know has called me at least a dozen times over the last week and a half or so. And they're all Pissed Off because they haven't heard back from me. It got me thinking about the kinds of phone calls I get, and how likely I am to return them. They range in intensity according to a statistical mean which I have just now made up. It shows the broad range of people's desires and the means they use to achieve them. So rather than actually call anyone back, I thought instead I'd write about how I feel about the various efforts people make to reach out and touch someone.

Does anyone else think that's way dirty sounding? Just me? Okay. Moving right along.

The Hanger Upper

"Please check the number and try your call again. [Big Pause.] We're sorry. Your call was not completed as dialed. Please check the number and try your call again. [Big Pause.] EH! EH! EH! EH! EH! EH! EH! EH! [repeats infinitely]."

These are the bane of my existence. The hang up call makes me hate everyone I can think of. It's much better if you don't call me. Or if you just call and blow raspberries into my ear. But don't do the hang up. I hate listening to the Voice Lady. She's so freaky. She has NO DISCERNABLE ACCENT! That is not right. And I really hate the busy signal noise, too, which by the way, not to toot my own horn, but I think I reproduced it to great effect up there.
Callback Rating: 0 (duh).

The Paranoiac

"Hey, if you're there pick up. Hello? You there? If you're screening your calls and not picking up I am going to be SO mad. Are you there? Hello? I'm just going to sit here until you pick up the phone. Okay. I'm waiting. [Pause.] You really aren't there? Hello?"

If you're unlucky, your machine tapes ten minutes of this drivel. If you're lucky, the paranoiac gets cut off and you get to hear the Voice Lady again: "Your call has been disconnected. Please hang up and try your call again." The Voice Lady sucks, but in this case she can be your one and only saving grace. Paranoiacs are saved from a zero rating because 1) it's a human voice and 2) sometimes their paranoid ramblings can be amusing.
Callback Rating: 0.5

The First Call

"Hey! I haven't heard from you in a while, so I thought I'd give you a buzz and see what's up. Call me sometime, maybe we can set up dinner or something. See ya."

No pressure there. You haven't talked in weeks. Maybe even years. You got the feeling she didn't care much one way or the other, then out of the blue you hear from her. Aha - so she felt guilty about not calling you. So you got an obligation call. Big deal. If you miss the return call, she's probably just relieved. At least, it's pretty easy for you to pretend she's just relieved.
Callback Rating: 1

The Guilt Trip

"Where are you? Dude, don't think you can just blow me off now that we don't see each other that often. Call me!"

Tricky, but still not completely necessary that you call him immediately. You can always just say you thought he was kidding. At the very worst, you'll sound like an airhead and he'll decide he doesn't want to be friends with you anyway.
Callback Rating: 2

The Unveiled Threat

"You better call me... or else."

Well, it's not dire that you call him back, unless he's a suspected mafia henchman. And really, I doubt you'd be forwarding HIS calls to your voice mail anyway. Anyone who tries to force you into calling them back is just desperate for attention. Don't feed the need, but lock your doors just to be safe.
Addendum: If this message is left by your boss, you might actually want to up this rating to a 4. I personally wouldn't, but that's why I'm unemployed and you aren't.
Callback Rating: 2

The Secret Keeper

"I gotta tell you something. It's hilarious/important/freaky/unbelievable. You are going to die when I tell you... CALL ME!"

This one's hard, because now it's a mind game. This tactic works especially well on me, if only for the simple fact that I hate talking on the phone, so I like when conversations have a definite direction. If that direction only consists of petty theater department gossip and hearsay, so much the better.
Callback Rating: 3

The Ol' Switcheroo

"Hiya. This is [insert name of significant other]. I changed my number. Give me a call sometime."

I wouldn't have thought of this myself, but one of my friends actually did this to me once. I laughed for about ten minutes, then proceeded to pick up the phone and call him immediately. So my advice: make 'em laugh. It works. If not, go for balls.
Callback Rating: 3

The Friend In Need

"...oh my god! There it goes again! I am so freaked out right now. I am not going out there. There are lights down the street and everything. I can hear them... AHHHHHH! I can hear them outside. I am so scared. Goddamnit, where the hell are you? I wonder should I call the police? I think the police are out there already though. Oh my god this is so fucking scary...."

This one has actually been left on my voice mail as well. And it definitely worked. My friend was scared out of her mind while she was spending the night at her boyfriend's apartment (alone) and some big scary rent collector people tried to break the front door down while looking for the previous tenants. It was a harmless mistake, but she definitely came off worse in the process.
Callback Rating: 4

The Big Show

Calls and leaves:

a) weird poetry
b) a song they just made up
c) a full length stand-up routine about friends who don't return phone calls
d) chanting
e) random strange noises or voices
f) beatboxing to the tune of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore"
g) long and/or annoying movie quotes (in affected voices, of course): "Shampoo is better. I go on first and clean the hair..."

So. You know this person. Always makes you laugh. Always in a good mood. If you aren't already dating him/her, you want to. Are you going to call back? Duh. But maybe... maybe not right away. You don't want to seem too eager, you know.
Callback Rating: 4

The Jewish Mother

"Hello. This is your mother calling. I haven't heard from you in 6 days. Please call me and let me know you're still alive."

Okay, so my mother isn't Jewish, but she can lay a guilt trip like nobody's business. She's quite adept at it. Anyone who says I do a good guilt trip has not come face to face with my mommy on the business end of a hissy fit. If anyone has any clue what I'm rambling about here, please let the powers that be know. Anyway. Hello. It's mom. You can't not call her.
Callback Rating: 5

The Ultimate Question

"So, like, I'm starting to actually worry about you. Are you okay? You aren't... you aren't dead, are you? That would suck. Oh my... I'm sorry. Just, call me, okay?"

At this point, you have no choice. You pretty much have to call her back. When she asks if you're dead and she means to get an honest response out of you, the least you can do is call and say hi. Hey, look at it this way: the conversation will have a direction. Because as soon as she's over the initial shock of hearing your voice, you'll get an earful of "Why-Haven't-You-Called-Me-Back-You-Twat" mixed in with a little "Oh-So-You're-THAT-Busy" and of course everyone's favorite "You-Called-So-And-So-Before-ME?" Great to be so loved, ain't it?
Callback Rating: 5

So there you have it. A comprehensive list of the different phone tag methods. Now you know which ones work on me especially well. And you also know I'm not dead. Yet.* So don't anyone call and bug me about it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go ignore my telephone.

* I'm sorry about that. I had to work in a Monty Python quote, I just had to. And I really am sorry about it. But at least I didn't try for "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

2001-02-27T01:43:00.000-05:00

i really want to go to bed...

...but I just HAD to check my email one last time. And if you want this entry to make any sort of sense, better read my entry from earlier this evening first.

Golf Says:

Two things:

1) Dennis Miller didn't do that. George Carlin did.
2) It's actually 6/7 applicable, only 1/7 of it has lost applicabilty. If it was only 1/7 applicable, only one word would be offensive. My vote would be for "cunt."

All right, fine. I concede the George Carlin thing, but I am definitely not going to argue with you about math right now.

Katie Says:

Angela, Angela, my dear. My dear, poor child.

"So Dennis Miller's "shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker and tits" routine is only 1/7 applicable anymore. Too bad, cause it's damn fun to say."

That's George Carlin, girl. GEORGE CARLIN... oh dear. George Carlin was the "Seven Dirty Words" man.

Natch. Or, something.

Natch, indeed. Okay already! George Carlin, damn it.

George Carlin, Dennis Miller, what the hell's the difference. They both cuss. They both have weird hair. I am so sick of people insisting that I have correct information on my website! It makes me want to natch.

2001-02-27T01:14:00.000-05:00

you'll be sorry you ever opened your big fat natch

So. This is going to be sort of a cop out entry, but check out this email I got from Golf:

You do, of course, realize that you STILL aren't using the word "natch" correctly:

Golf, I only do it so you'll feel compelled to send me clever emails telling me how much I suck.

"Then Fred and I went to the library, and we had a really interesting (natch) discussion about whether the people at the cashier's office are either uncompassionate or discompassionate."

"Natch" has no business being in that sentence. I'm still trying to figure out the best way to describe the word. It's still elusive, though.

ANGELA'S INNER MONOLOGUE
I hope he comes up with a helpful example to illustrate this point clearly.

Here's a sentence I found that uses it correctly:

ANGELA'S INNER MONOLOGUE
Well, thank god for that.

"John's busy making four new puzzles a month for you to print out and solve. Me, I'm working on the one about chocolate (natch!)."

Okay, so this is an extremely helpful and informative example, except for the fact that the sentence itself makes NO FUCKING SENSE. This is my model? This is the best you could do? I think that my sentence is a lot better as a sentence, bad slang usage notwithstanding. And furthermore, anyone who disagrees with me should suck my natch.

Katie said that it's slang for "naturally" or "of course," and that's ALMOST it. But there's a bit of a surprise or an extra twist... say for example, the person speaking that sentence above doesn't LIKE chocolate, and the listener knows that. Or something. This natch shit still pisses me off that I can't really explain it.

Trust me, Golf, it's positively eating ME up inside, too.

And it always comes at the end of the sentence. Usually after a comma, natch. <-- like that. The parenthetical thing is like fucking an ugly whore - yeah, if you gotta, go ahead, but if you're going to do it, why not do it with someone pretty?

If that last comment makes any sense to anyone, please email me.

And the answer to your question is "without compassion."

So you're saying it should read "The people at the cashier's office are extremely without compassion." Talk about your convoluted syntaxes.

Golfomundo

Not in my backyard, you don't.

I don't know what that means either, I just thought I should be allowed one random non-sequitur to compensate for his. I would say he was drunk when he wrote this, except a) he never drinks; b) all the words are spelled correctly; and c) I hope people have better things to do when they get drunk than impose anal corrections on my grammatical prowess or lack thereof.

All that said, that was one of the more entertaining emails I've received in a long time. Rest assured, dear readers, that you will be seeing a lot more of the word "natch" around here. You may get sick of it. In fact, you probably will. I will be using it a lot. In the middle of sentences. Surrounded by parentheses. I may start using it in all my sentences, much the same way Smurfs use the word "smurf." I'm actually thinking of changing the name of this website to unpack the natch.

In other interesting news, I heard from Steven today in acting class that there are only two curse words left in the English language. In fact, he's absolutely right. This came up because Amanda offered me a Jump wherein I played a racist, and I was forced to use the N-word. I was trying to do the scene without saying it, and Steven stopped us and told me to stop being so PC, to get inside the character. It was very, VERY difficult for me. The other curseword is the C-word, which took me awhile to figure out. There are a few possibilities for that, but the one he meant was the slang for the female anatomy that rhymes with runt.

The word "fuck" is quite dead as a curse word. No one's offended by that one these days. Even if you think it offends you, it doesn't offend you the way the N-word or the C-word do. So Dennis Miller's "shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker and tits" routine is only 1/7 applicable anymore. Too bad, cause it's damn fun to say.

Maybe we could lobby Congress to get "natch" accepted as a nationally recognized curse word. I'd be willing to do it. Hell, it might even get Golf off my ass.

2001-02-22T11:33:00.000-05:00

if i wanted to hear this, i would watch the weather channel

Fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie, fucking Ruthie.

It was supposed to snow last night so I didn't have to come to school today. Oh my god, I'm just like I was in high school, praying for snow so school will close. But honestly, I just want the world to go on hold for a day to give me space to catch up. Right now, I don't have a prayer in hell of having anything ready for today. I can't believe I'm so far behind in everything. This weekend will be all about catching up in school. Well, it would be but for the fact that I have to be in Richmond Saturday night and back here all day Sunday for wet tech.

Wet tech sounds dirty. I love that.

She grabbed his wet tech impulsively. "Oh John," she purred, feeling his long hard wet tech, "John, how can you offer such a high credit line with a 6.9% APR and no annual fee?"

Sorry about that. The credit card people are after me, and frankly, I have it on the brain.

This is what happened. When I was younger, I got a credit card. It was one of those measly ones you can get through the bank with a low limit that your parents co-sign on just in case you spend out your ass and can't pay it. Guess what I did.

That's right sportsfans, I ran that bitch up like crazy. CDs. Clothes. Books. Smelly stuff. I have a weakness for smelly stuff. Body lotion, body cream, shower gel, talc, bath bubbles, shower cream, massage oil, bath beads, cologne, bath splash, etc. I am the queen of the smelly stuff. You don't believe me, but I am. I have like 40 bottles of smelly stuff in the cabinet below my sink, the majority of which I don't even like. There's one under there (Victoria's Secret's Tender Musk) that I actively abhor, and yet I keep it. You don't (get ready for the first ever UTL in-joke:) undersnad: I literally cannot stand the stuff. If my mom puts that lotion on and I'm somewhere in the house at the time, I go into spasmodic dry-heaving. My nose is wrinkling just thinking about it.

Basically, I don't like it that much. But I bought it. And I keep it.

The point is, I bought a lot of things on that credit card. That was when I was about 19. I got it fully paid off a year or so ago, thinking that I'd been so naughty, no credit card company would ever show me love ever again.

How wrong I was.

I've figured it out, too. They actually want people who have semi-bad credit, because those people are likely to fuck up again and end up owing a lot more money than they should. But then those people will also (the companies figure) have the sense enough to figure out a way to pay all they owe.

I am a credit card company's dream. But I'm not falling for it anymore. They keep sending me all these "pre-approved" cards with insane credit limits. You don't have any clue how hard it is for me to just look at them and send them reeling into the circular file. I've thought long and hard about how many bottles of lotion I could get with five grand.

Okay, I haven't. But I just did, and it's a lot. With some money left over for shower gel.

The snow is sticking. I'm sorry about this. I know it's uninteresting to hear about the weather conditions in the coastal mid-atlantic region, but damn it, the snow is sticking. I'm already here. That's no help whatsoever. Now I'm just going to have to deal with a bunch of crappy drivers all day who can't handle an inch of snow.

Okay so I actually am that crappy driver. But at least I admit it.

And now here comes the fickle Angela. I feel like a total scrooge because Fred just called me all excited about how pretty the snow is. I concede the point. It's very pretty. I can't wait to go throw some snowballs. I hope it snows a foot.

2001-02-21T11:42:00.000-05:00

someone pay the rent, for chrissakes

Dr. Nichols must really hate me. No matter what time I set my alarm, I just cannot make it to that class on time. (It's American Drama, for those of you who aren't keeping up like you should be.) It's ridiculous. I set my clock for 7:15 this morning, and don't think I even woke up to hit snooze until 7:35. Then I proceeded to continue hitting snooze (every nine minutes, mind you -- how much rest am I really getting?) until I rolled out of bed at 8:18.

Class starts at 9.

I live half an hour away.

I always tell myself I can shower and get dressed in the space of five minutes. I tell myself this every single morning. I tell myself I can just throw on pajama pants and some old t shirt and go to class, because, what the hell, it's just class. No one cares. And the truth is, no one does care, but I still can't make myself do it. Every time I put on some horribly wretched outfit, I take a look at myself in the mirror and just get all depressed.

Is this what I'm reduced to? I can't even get it together enough to match a pair of pants and a shirt?

So I change. I generally end up looking like a bum anyway, probably, but at least I feel somewhat put together.

Here's another truth: I cannot take a quick shower. I may have great intentions when I get in there, but the fact is I just love hot water. Especially when it's cold in my house, which is all the time. I love soap. I love shampooing my head. I basically love everything about showers except possibly having to stay awake through them. That part can be tedious if you've only had 4 hours sleep.

But you do it, if only to make it to your next shower. If I were ever about to commit suicide, I would seriously have to rethink it when it came to "But what about hot showers?"

And don't even get me thinking about bubble baths.

So I waltz into class my typical 8-10 minutes late, and we actually had an interactive class today. It's so funny how he sometimes tries to make us do these weird "get-off-your-ass" activities. I think he's kind of feeling the fact that it's 9AM himself sometimes. What I really like about him though, is that I think half the time he's just up there amusing himself. Which is great to watch. We were doing late-19th century stereotypes today, and he had us all get up and perform a series of tableaux vivants, which is when you stand in a position for five seconds to convey either an emotion or a famous scene from a painting or a play or something. Kind of like charades.

There's a reason people don't usually play charades anymore. It's basically, well, you know, charades suck.

But we did the tableauxs (Dr. Nichols: "Okay, who wants to go first?" Fred: "WE DO!") and they actually turned out to be pretty interesting. I love looking at pictures of 19th c. stereotypes because they're so damn funny. And they have to be exact, you have to spread your fingers in exactly the right way otherwise you're "Distressed" instead of "Surprised."

The part about Dr. Nichols amusing himself came when he was demonstrating for us how to use the different props. He had this little bow-tie thing, and he was using it for that old vaudeville act, where you use it interchangably as a moustache for the evil villain, a hairbow for the damsel in distress, and a bowtie for the hero. You've seen something similar I'm sure:

DR. NICHOLS AS EVIL VILLAIN
You must pay the rent!

DR. NICHOLS AS DAMSEL IN DISTRESS
But I can't pay the rent!

DR. NICHOLS AS VILLAIN
But you must pay the rent!

DR. NICHOLS AS DAMSEL
But I can't pay the rent!

DR. NICHOLS AS HERO
I'll pay the rent!

DR. NICHOLS AS DAMSEL
My hero!

DR. NICHOLS AS VILLAIN
Curses! Foiled again!

It was pretty inspired.

Then Fred and I went to the library, and we had a really interesting (natch) discussion about whether the people at the cashier's office are either uncompassionate or discompassionate. The unabridged dictionary says it's neither. Other possibilities: noncompassionate, incompassionate, decompassionate, ilcompassionate, imcompassionate, acompassionate, ill-compassionate, and pseudocompassionate.

If anyone knows, email me. Or don't. Whatever.

I forgot to talk about the pageant in my last entry. I did a pageant Saturday night, and it was quite an interesting experience. I placed second, which isn't the interesting part. What's interesting is, Fred came. So did all my "pageant" friends (my fantastic directors and such from last year): Blair, Cherise, Sonya, Caroline, Gwenn, Emily, etc.

I thought this was going to be a very bad mix, but actually it turned out just fine. Fred wore a fixed smile basically the entire night, but I think he was a little surprised by how loud all of them were. He got there late, but immediately knew where my friends were sitting because of their screaming and yelling the entire time I was onstage. And if there's one thing Fred appreciates in people, it's loudness.

So it was a fun night, and I still don't know if I really want to keep competing, but Caroline says I do so I guess I do. But I might stay in just for moments like what happened during the opening number. We only went over it a couple times during rehearsal, and it was a very easy not-many-ways-to-screw-it-up kind of number. Step together step touch kind of stuff.

Well. Screw it up we did. Royally. It was hilarious. No two girls ever did the same thing at the same time, and if we did, it was an accident. We just kept laughing and looking at each other. When we got offstage, Kelly said to me, "So, does this prove the stereotype is true? We're so stupid, we can't even learn a dance right?"

Kelly's a pre-med at UVa, which makes it that much funnier.

That night at the after glow (the party they have for the winner) Blair said to me, "That opening number was beautiful. I cried." I bet they did. I bet they all did.

While I'm thinking about it, go check out the March 2001 issue of Cosmo. They did an article about Gwenn and Shawn in there. The title ("My boyfriend has AIDS!") is really dramatic, as she says, but it's a great article.

2001-02-19T23:40:00.000-05:00

lie.

Jesse started this new blog, Nana makes good pancakes, and he invited me to join it so I can post random things on there with him and Mikey and Katie and apparently no one else I know. It excites me. Well, it excites me except for the fact that I can't actually join it... the blogger software is hiccoughing or something and it won't let me access the thing. So much for that. Anyway, I'm really only posting this now because I keep forgetting to email him and tell him that it's fucked up. I'm hoping he'll see this and email me or fix it or something. How sad is that? I could just open my email program right now while I'm thinking about it. But do I do that? No, I don't do that.

Speaking of hiccoughs (we were. really.), I need to learn how to do a really convincing one by erm... Friday. Does anyone out there have any incredible words of wisdom on how to do a great fake hiccough? I have to do two of them in Night Music, and not only do I need to do them but they need to carry into the audience at Gaines. Hello, I can barely make my speaking voice carry in that place!

The musical is jamming. I fluctuate between freaking out and feeling good about it lately. Right at the moment I'm feeling good because we sang through "Every Day A Little Death" tonight and I hit all my entrances perfectly tonight. Last night at the first run through with orchestra, I felt like the retarded step sister or something. But I'm done feeling that way. From here on out, I promise, you will hear nothing but positive things from me about the musical. Unless someone pisses me off.

Kidding of course - I must be the most non-confrontational person on this planet.

Oooh, I have juicy acting info, too. Well, juicy to me. Today we played "Lie" in class, which is where you sit in the center of a circle of actors and talk about yourself. You can either tell something real from your life or make stuff up. So I've been extremely scared to do this particular exercise. I don't know why - normally I'm a lot bolder in acting class. I think it has something to do with the fact that you're using your own words and telling stuff about your own life and if it isn't cool or intelligent or funny or whatever, then you're a failure. Not that the other students or Steven make you feel that way or anything, but there's more pressure when it's your own stuff. If you're reading from a script, you could always fall back on "This just is SO not the way I talk." or alternatively, if you're reading something by, say, Agatha Christie, "Egad, this sucks."

I wonder if anyone has actually ever said the words "Egad, this sucks," and meant it.

So I got out there for "Lie" today. I told a truth, though. I told about how back in middle school people used to pick on me for being short. What was really interesting was, I haven't had to deal with those feelings for so long (5'6 and still growing, baby) that it really put me back in the little shell I used to be in. As of right now I'm used to walking around with my head held high. I feel very confident and secure in myself and my body just about all the time. But just by talking about the way it used to be, even to a group of my peers/friends/colleagues, it made me all fluttery and wretched inside again. I suddenly remembered how it felt to walk down a hall with my head down and assume that every occurence of spontaneous laughter I heard was directed at me. How I used to never draw attention to myself for fear of inviting scrutiny. How I lived with the very sobering reality that at any moment someone could conceivably pick me up and shut me in their locker.

I know everyone has a bad time of it in middle school. I know every kid gets picked on at some point. It's just so amazing how far I've come from the girl I was then. Of course, I probably still nurse some of those same insecurities. But now I basically just feel healthy and confident for the most part. I'm really happy about that. I wasn't too happy about delving back into those emotions today, though, and after I did it I sort of wished I hadn't.

Probably, that further validates why I needed to do it.

Tonight Fred and I were having a discussion about makeup - specifically about me and makeup, and he told me I have the most naturally beautiful face he's ever seen. I don't have anything to say about that, I just didn't want to forget that it happened. Oh actually I do have one thing to say about it: "YEeeeeeEEEEEeeeee!" People can tell you you're pretty or attractive or something all the time, but to hear a comment like that, really sincerely said, is just amazing. I wanted to fall through the floor. When I hear stuff like that, it totally humbles me, actually. I almost felt like I didn't deserve to hear anything so nice.

Hey, I said almost. The short girl inside me still needs some plain old unadulterated flattery every now and then.

2001-02-15T01:39:00.000-05:00

sappy love mush

I need to remember to lower my expectations.

It's so funny how what you want never happens, and what you aren't even thinking about, happens. Valentine's Day was in some ways a let down. I can't really complain because I got two unexpected surprises from two friends at school, which was awesome. That made it a really happy day.

Then Fred and I had a stupid fight. It was so stupid I'm not even going to waste space talking about it. I hate that we fought today. I hate it every time we fight.

Anyway, so I bought him a book of writing/philosophy/pornography by the Marquis de Sade. We both saw Quills and thought it was magnificent so it was a really easy gift to think of.

This entry sucks a lot. I apologize for the fact that I suck. I am meaningless and insignificant. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I know. I'll rip off more popular websites.

Dear J. Alfred Prufrock:
Sorry. That won't happen again.
Love
Angela, who likey peaches.

Dear CNU English Department:
You would be making my life a lot easier if we could study a bunch of novels I've already read. We can start with Harry Potter.
Love
Angela

Dear Electric Blanket:
Me love you long time. I can't believe I've lived 23 years without you. You make my life worth living all over again.
Be my valentine.
Angela

Dear Goldfish:
I love you. You are so tasty. Erm, the crackers I mean. Not actual fish in bowls.
Love
Angela

Dear Actual Goldfish:
Like, I love you too or something. Damn, I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I killed one of your bretheren in 5th grade because I overfed it. I just love the goldfish too much for their own good.
I'm sorry. I feel really bad.
Angela

2001-02-15T01:27:00.000-05:00

2001-02-13T11:52:00.000-05:00

take two advil and don't ever call me again

So I realize that I'm a bastard for not writing this weekend or last week or anything. But I have a really good reason. Last week I went completely fucking insane.

I didn't go insane in the way where like you cut the top of a guy's head off and eat pieces of his brain while you're talking to him, or in the way where you slit a guy's stomach open and hang him from a church tower, or in the way where you dump a wheelchair riding invalid into a pit of starved warthogs.

Anyone who's ready to call the authorities on my ass right now should go see Hannibal and then get back to me.

Sorry for the spoilers. I guess the bitch in me hasn't left yet. Don't worry. You can still go see it and barf all the way home. That movie defies description, and not in the good way. And trust me, what I just told you won't even make sense to you until you see it happening. Actually, you're better off just not seeing it. Don't. It's really really gross. You won't like it. And Julianne Moore has a dress that I really want. Not that that's a good reason to hate a movie, but... it's a reason, ya'll.

I seem to have gotten off the point. Imagine that. Last week I went insane due to my bout with the female disease. Any guys out there squeamish about talking menstruation? Great, I love it. Here's how it works. Some months, my body hates me. Some months, my brain hates me. Some months, I can barely tell there's anything going on down there at all.

This month, my body's okay, but my brain hates me big time. I had a major hormonal surge thing happening last week and I won't go through all the bloody (nyuk nyuk) details with you, but I will tell you that I couldn't stop crying and I got pissed off over the most minute things. All the while I kept telling people, "It's my period, I'm acting like this because I'm getting ready to start my period," but even with this pragmatic objectivism (sorry for the English major buzzwords - I have a paper to write today and I'm thinking ahead) I still couldn't get it together enough to go home, take some Advil, and go to bed.

Next time I'll know better.

Yeah, right.

You should be glad that I was smart enough not to write last week because what you would probably have gotten would have been a 1000 word dissertation on Why My Life Sucks and Everyone Hates Me So Much.

From the other side of it, I know that life's great. And if anyone hates me, that's their problem.

Yesterday we had our first ever Alpha Psi meeting. I am so excited. I'm sorry there weren't more people in attendance, but I know there definitely eventually will be. I saw Jeffrey at the meeting, which was nice because I've been trying to call him all this past week to talk about Doll House and other things. However, his phone just rings and rings. I think he's been talking to his new woman long distance. It's going to be interesting to see what Jeffrey In Love is like - ever since I've known him he's been single and pissed off. Anyway, so during our brief meeting, he leaned over to me and took my hand and said, "Guess what, we're cutting 25 minutes off the show and there's going to be no intermission. So expect to get a new script soon."

I had heard something about this the week before, so it didn't come as a huge shock. I just gave him a thumbs up and smiled. It's going to be great. I just hope I don't let everyone down. I guess all actors do the thing where they go through these major periods of self doubt and self loathing and stuff? I definitely do. I ride the "I got cast in something new! Yeeee!" wave for about two weeks, and after that, my brain goes, "Oh fuck, but remember, you don't have a clue what you're doing." That's what's going on now. I know I can do it, or at least most of the time I know somewhere in the back of my head that I can do it. But just not every day. And today's not the day to worry about it. Today I need to have on my English major hat. If anyone has any clue what The Rainbow might be about, email me and be quick about it. I'll be here gnawing on the ends of pens and furrowing my brow thoughtfully. I have an idea that I'm going to write about masturbation (seriously), but I'm going to title it "Sex and Knowledge of Self in D.H. Lawrence's The Rainbow"

Good, yes?