Tag Archives: alcohol

Manic, Twisted, & Sexy

28 May

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Today, I have three less personalities to concentrate on, still leaving me with a sizable deck yet to be sorted.

…A great new program at the UWT has been attempting to launch a theatre works interest, not only to the student body but local community as well.  Some of it’s leading professors have brought in a handful of actors to work both with the student playwrights and faculty, to do read performances with talk-backs to get the ball rolling, and I’ve been supremely lucky to be amongst those handful. 

I LOVE contributing in my own backyard…my own city…blocks away from my little home.  I love that they are eager to bring more arts to the area, use it’s local artists as resources, engage audiences made of faculty and students and community, in talk-backs about social issues, politics, art, and literature.  I love being part of a grass-roots movement, and that as more and more educational systems are phasing OUT the arts in their schools, we have a very esteemed University staff stating, “No!  In fact, we don’t have ENOUGH!” 

…How awesome is THAT?!

(I know, right?)

…Which is WHY I now have three less contributors to my psyche, in as much as last night we finished another such read, with a wonderfully alert house-full, engaged in the process, the structure, and the event as a whole. A fine study on mental illness and addiction and the affects they leave in their wake. I had a hell of a lot of fun as the bipolar, self-drug-prescribing, alcoholic root of it all, playing with tight text, exercising a little of my own demons, and having an exhausting wale of a time. These are the kind of work outs, (when married with a dream cast of close buds), when you really getta blow it all out there with full conviction, knowing full-well you are supporting, and are supported by, the best.

It only gets better than this, when it’s up on it’s feet and in full performance…

…Which, speaking of, leads us to the next part of the personality deck: A twisted little tale of sisterly sexual obsession and dark deeds.

“The Maids,” a translation from the Genet original, is next up on the calendar…with hopes to butt it snugly up against a mainstay of my bucket list, which will be auditioning next week.

…So, currently, I’ve a Scouser hairdresser a-la Pygmalion (“Educating Rita”) sharing space with a twisted turn-of-the-century homicidal Frenchy who likes to play-act as others. It’s an interesting combo up in my head these days, to say the least…which I obviously love, as only an actor would voluntarily piggy-back that range and number of personalities together at one time. Dropping the manic-bipolar-drugged-up-drunk off my back, makes the rest left over seem almost feasible at this point.

…So now I’ve only to concentrate on the massive “Maids” line load, break down my script as to whom I am “playing” when, and prep a monologue. Pffft!! Piece of fucking cake!

…Except, minus the cake.

…Cuz I’ve seen what we are wearing in this little French horror story, and the deconstructed waste of seedy, stringy undergarments we will be sporting, while slithering all over one another, requires yet another diet regime to flog and whip my body into a submissive state that I feel comfortable slobbering all over a stage in my “altogethers.” Well, as comfortable as one can be, anyway.

…I wonder if going vegetarian is the key? I wonder if I could even fathom a world without meat for any real length of time?

…I wonder if The WHS Pimp would survive the wasteland of this office with an hormonal and pregnant receptionist, and a meat-addicted me on the wagon?

…Fuck that…would the WORLD survive it??

…This is prob’ly TBA.

…But definitely not till after I finish this donut…

~D

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You Dirty Cheat

24 Mar

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The longer I give up a vice, the worse it gets.  Giving up all but one of ’em magnifies the whole thing beyond ridiculous.  In my final stretch of this nonsense (ending Sunday), I’ve been reduced to pretending I’m getting away with something bad, when I’m really not.

I’m not the noble type.  I’d rather feel like I’m breaking the rules any day, over martyring over it.  Unless I can spin it to make you laugh, in which case, I’m a whore for an audience so I’ll take whatever I can get away with.

…It is because of this that I entered the weirdest part of detox, sometime late last week: Pretending I’m cheating when I’m really not…just to psych myself into accepting the loss and shutting up about it.

“What the hell does that even mean?” you might ask yourself?

…It means dressing things up naughty, in order to fake out your brain that they are naughty, so you can reasonably consider yourself not really missing anything at all.

I am lying to myself on purpose and pretending I haven’t caught on yet.

How fucking lame is that?

…It started with fizzy water.

…I’ve been drowning in it.  It has long been my lack-of-soda fake-out, giving me bubbles that I miss, with zero nutritional cost on the diet end.  Other than the totally unsatisfying side affect of a water burp versus a Coke one, it seems to do the job most of the time. But it stopped filling the void in week two this time. So one night, for kicks, I filled up a champagne flute with it, and popped in few frozen berries set afloat.

…Turns out, the glass is 9/10th of my brain craving.

…I tested this heavily across all last week. Non-fat milk in a tumbler doubles as a White Russian if you sip not gulp.

…Apple and cranberry juice in a wine glass taste 75% naughtier than when not in one.

…Hot black tea with enough straight lemon juice to drown in, and a shot of cyan pepper makes a serviceable hot toddy on a rainy day…only for the love of god don’t try it an hour before bed.

There is, however, no pretence on EARTH that can fix the lack of whiskey.

…But, peppered and grilled garbanzo and kidney beans can give you the same general texture as chicken in a bowl of rice.

…Diced up colored bell peppers make even the most boring brown and pasty of foods look 300 times more appetizing.

…Steaming veggies in garlic to al dente makes shoving pound bags of em down your gullet a hell of a lot more interesting than raw salad number 456.

…After this, I frankly never want to see a piece of naked fruit again…but dried or in a roughly blended juice with some veg can get it down…if it is a sugar substitute must…and keep you from wanting to hit over a convenience store for a Milky Way bar.

There is no cure for pizza.

…But you can in lieu of a burger with a warm turkey sandwich…hot meat (pardon the expression) is hot meat…you can wig your brain to believe it’s almost anything.

…Especially when you’re desperate.

Desperation also can replace brown gluten-free protein powder in water as chocolate milk.

…Make you think the 12 supplement and vitamin pills you pop every morning, full of various weeds and homeopathic hoo-de-haws, will expand and fill your tummy for hours.

…That burping up broccoli means you’re totally in shape.

…That NOT cheating for real, at all, even a little bit, naturally means you will finally drop that sixth fucking pound because: SCIENCE!

…That all the clay masks and lotions and steam showers will de-age you by 10 years, instantly.

…That it’s totally normal for your stomach to growl sonatas during quiet scenes in rehearsal.

…That the pregnant gnome eating 300 times a day to the point that she smells like pizza sauce and baked goods permanently, means that (eventually) her tummy will out-protrude yours.

…These are the lies I have been forcing upon myself.

…They are getting more outrageous as time passes.

…If I were doing this for 30 days instead of 20, I’d be wandering around in my fat pants again, pretending that they fitted like a glove only two days ago, and hula hoop the waist band to everyone I see…just to show how much weight I’d lost in only 48 hours.

…I’d dye tofu red and pretend it’s sweet and sour pork on rice.

…I’d throw lemon juice in water and call it a dirty martini.

…In short: the ending could not come any sooner or last-second than it is.

And I am glad.

Because, even for an actor, I’m running out of lies to pretend for myself.

…And also, I’m not so sure I’m buying the ones I’ve already been telling, to begin with.

~D

D & D Diets

12 Mar

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You know…there should really be a bonus program for when you are dieting. 

…I mean, if you have the luxury of personal trainers and hermitting away from all your temptations, bully for you!  But for those of us who live in the real world, I think there should be some kind of alternate weight loss bonus for every time your face is slammed up against the window full of your choicest weaknesses and you still manage to resist.

…Things like the fact that today is only the third of my self-imposed detox, and in the last 48 hours I’ve turned away three boxes of donuts, a pizza, ham and cheese croissants, several Lattes, and free booze.  I have lost two pounds.  I feel my suffering is worth more than that, due to the circumstances of having to live and coexist with the goods across many hours while people have conversations with me, mid-consuming them.

Diets should be like a game of Dungeon and Dragons. I mean, it’s a bitch of a quest against all odds with shit coming at you from all directions. So why the hell not?

…And in keeping with this theme, we should all get character bonuses and special weight-loss powers to go with it.

For instance, as a Boozing Blubber, I should get an automatic +3 for acknowledgment and effort against any oncoming temptation monster. +1 if whatever I am turning away is offered free of charge, and +10 for stamina if I have to look or smell said temptation over an extended amount of time and still manage to resist it.

…I should come with a resilience weapon that defies mean people who wave their tacos in my face, and does a +20 damage of automatic weight transfer from me to them, and a special covert bonus with a chance to roll to run away and hide in my office with the door closed for an entire turn, when the pizza delivery guy arrives.

…As for alcohol…that might require additional powers from the DM, bequeathed in pity and/or support given the specific circumstances of the monster in play. If at home alone…even if watching a show wherein drinking figures heavily…the Boozing Blubber comes with +5 defiance. But if you take her and put her in a pub over friend-meets and it’s their turn to buy, there should be an added +2 for now being the designated driver, AND a one-time-per-day bonus of “ferret away”…which means you accumulate whatever drinks were offered and are able to use them later, after the Diet Campaign has been completed.

…Which means that by today, I’d already be less like 85 pounds, with two free drinks coming my way…which is more weight than I need to lose, and gives me an excuse to call and meet up with more friends…while killing the Diet Monster, and completing my campaign in full!

If diets were like THIS it would balance out the fucking playing field. It’s only fair. You should at LEAST get the courtesy of success equal to the chances of a roll of some dice.

…Which just proves that if theatrically inclined nerds ruled the world, instead of Science and Politics…water would turn to Mountain Dew, Cheetos would be a major food staple, showers would be optional, and everything would be fucking great!

(Well, two outta three ain’t bad.)

~D

Point Me To A Boxing Ring, & Place Your Bets

10 Jun

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I’m pissed.

…Not pissed as in “drunk” (yet)…but pissed as in “holy reign of terror.”

…It is 100% fueled by frustration.  Frustration in a field issue, I only rather recently overcame to begin with.  So this is pissed over an old wound being re-administered for the same reasons, in a different region.

The region is immaterial. 

This is still a compound fracture of nerve-temper being fucked with.

Which isn’t good.

It’s not good in my head.  Not good on a sunny day.  Not good with a week of work still ahead, and shows to open and bills to pay, and all the things that go with being a grown-up.

What I want right now, is a goblet of whiskey, certain pictures tacked on a wall, and some butcher knives for aiming practice. 

…No it’s not.  Why lie?  What I WANT is an explosive confrontation that leaves flames and general carnage in BBQ’d after-wake.

…What I have, instead, is a bottle of wine and plans to watch a super blast-your-fucking-ears-out action movie.

I am hoping the explosions help eradicate the rage.

…And as for the grape in lieu of grain: I learned long ago not to feed the Hulk beast with the hard stuff.  It only makes him Hulkier. 

Technically speaking, the wine isn’t practiced medical procedure either.  In fact, they frown on it.  I know, having been in therapy.  But if I’m not aloud to break things, or yell a lot…(and I refuse to take a Xanax)…then this is my deal breaker, people.

Me: and this bottled vineyard.

Much like morphine, it does absolutely nothing at fixing the actual problem, but does (if given in heavy enough dosage) keep you absolutely from even giving a flying fuck.

…Which, given the time crunch, day of week, and mental obstructions, is about the best I can hope for at the moment.

So: Go Me!

I will drink this fucking fermented grape juice, STUPID, and unnecessarily blast my TV sound system in something supremely obnoxious, and try my damndest to intoxicate the living-a-shit out of my current situation so that at some point tonight, I will be not-pissed-off-enough to actually sleep.

How the hell I deal with it all again tomorrow, is of course, an entirely other deal.

Suggestions are welcome.

…But only if they are artfully retaliatory, deliciously devilish, or painfully pointed in overall plot and procedure.

I have zero patience for reasonable, responsible, resolutions at the moment. 

Thank you.

~D

Rye Bread & Worcestershire

15 Apr

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A helluva day. 55 contracts processed and assigned…first food at 5pm.

Am snockered.

…But I promised something from behind the curtain for today’s post, and I’m good for it.

Since my day was passed with nary a Cheerio to sooth my tummy, food was frequently on the brain, as I sifted from contract to contract and fed my tummy acids with more black coffee.

…So “food” will be today’s quick peek. Not a glamourous part of the job, but the more you know about theatre, the more you see there IS no “glamourous” part of the job. That’s all in the heads of the people watching from the seats.

…So are the gluttonous ravishings of practical prop foods, and beauty of the jewel-toned alcohols filling up snifters and downstage bars.

But food and drink are supremely important props. They fill an uncomfortable silence with scraping cutlery, and slurping of tea…while being a gigantic pain in the ass to stage hands, and actors alike.

…Because we rarely (if ever) eat and drink the actual foods supposedly represented, due to the fact that apparently since time first began, playwrights give an absolute shit about the mechanics of dinner scenes and food allergies and non-alcoholic booze, and the disgusting practice it takes to achieve them.

How do you keep ice cream from melting under stage lights for upwards of 45 minutes?

What does one do with gluten allergies for one quarter of a cast?

Is there anything more disgusting than watered-down, warm, flat Pepsi in a glass decanter?

…Yes there is.  It’s called “Worcestershire gravy.”

Citrus-spray to stave off browning of apples cut two hours ago.

Semi-frozen cakes to keep them from crumbling all over the place.

What does one sub in for cold milk, to a non dairy drinker, which has been housed in a non-working refrigerator on stage for an entire act?

What kind of meat do you serve in a diner when none of the cooking appliances are actually hooked up?

How many chews can you get it down in?

Does it phlegm or dry out your throat too much to speak and be understood?

Is it messy or sticky?

Is it awkward to skewer, stab, spoon or cut?

Does it spoil, curdle, or turn unseemly colors under hot lights?

…And: how mean can a techie team be, when they wanna slip in a slice or bit of something sinful, without your knowing until it is far too late?

Most of us have been there and seen that.

…But for those who haven’t: The subbing in and out of food is a natural necessity. 

Lights are hot, frequently the foods are in non-functioning appliances on stage, which only ups the temperature if anything. And actors are, by reputation, finicky eaters: famously on restrictive diets, non-dairy, and/or vegetarian, and now: gluten-free, while being allergic to everything under the sun.

…Which is why one of the first questions asked at the first rehearsal is: “what (if any) food allergies do you have?”  This ties in life-choice foods as well, of course, and from there: the SM and props department, will have to come up with the correct looking foods, refashioned and dressed up to look like totally other foods, which we actors will be presented with come tech week and told to eat and drink. 

Period.

…And we do.

…Which is sometimes a pleasant surprise. (ie: the bakery-donated gluten-free New Years cake we eat in “Anne Frank.”)

…And sometimes not. (ie: the time they ran out of powdered gravy mix and doused my rye bread “meatloaf” in Worcestershire sauce instead, forgetting to tell me, for “Murder at the Vicarage.”)

…If you count smoking as a prop of consumption, I’ve had my fill with that lot as well…from grass-tasting peat, to something resembling catnip, to vapours, to pepper herbals, cloves, and god knows what-all, so long as actual tobacco wasn’t part of it, thus a patron-consumed health risk.

I’ve eaten delicious Greek yogurt on white bowl-forms, masquerading as ice cream, a la mode with an actual slice of apple pie.

…I’ve had gallons of teas, juices and flat sodas as different liquors, combining in truly odd tastes to pass as cocktails.

…Spam burgers with skinned apple slices as fries.

…”Crimes of the Heart” put me off Lemon in any form, for upwards of five years, from doing that one damn lemonade-making scene over and over and over again.

…Stale challah bread.

…Plenty of raw veg.

…A glass of powered, lukewarm, milk.

…Brownie pieces in lieu of boxed chocolates (required, with not enough time to chew them properly.)

…Tic-Tac pills.

…Kool Aid cough syrups.

…Whipped cream mashed potatoes.

…The list goes on and on.

I keep waiting for the day when I’ll sit in front of a full Italian meal of meats and pastas stood in by  bleached Twizzler ropes and cake sprinkles topped with cookie-chunk meatballs and lumpy, iced-cake “lasagna.” 

….It’s only a matter of time.

…Especially when the only “food allergy” I ever put down on that form is “fish.” 

…Which even the evilest-minded SM would never in a MILLION YEARS attempt, under hot lights, with actors.

The End.

~D

 

…And In Sweden, They Do It With Fire On Their Head!

17 Dec

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St. Lucia.

…An Italian Saint with about 1100 notations of conception and trials of faith, but I can’t for the life of me figure out which is the right one, or why a bunch of Nordic peoples, chose her, specifically, to celebrate.  Her day falls within the Yule, however, so its very possibly a turn of convenience, and great excuse for a party. And since she’s attributed for feeding the hungry…a feast is held, simultaneously.

…Being roughly a quarter Swedish, I always knew “about” the shindig, but had never taken actual part in it, until Marty showed up in all her blond-haired, blue-eyed, candle-burning, best.

She was always St. Lucia, while growing up, ceding the crown now to her carbon-copy niece. 

…And the honor of BEING St. Lucia comes with the ability to make special spiced and raisin-dimpled Lucia buns, and coffee, at the crack of dawn for the Mom and Pop of the house, bringing it to them, while wearing a white dress with red ribbon belt, and sporting a crown of melting candles in a wreath on your head.

…And sometimes this whole deal is repeated again later, when all the older relations come over for the feast…

…So you have to be careful not to set fire to yourself, not just once per year, but multiple times.  Apparently, it’s the elder’s jobs to sob over you, while watching you wander around singing songs at them, bending over with a tray of goods to offer, while praying to all that is holy that the hot wax dripping and drying on your hair, won’t actually ignite.

…It almost never does (just for the record.)  But I’m still not totally clear on the kind of percentage that “almost never” constitutes.

What I do know is that a LOT of food is involved…and a LOT of that food is made up of meat, spices, potatoes, creams, breads and butter. So I mean, it was immediately obvious to me, that this was going to be an awesome thing.

…Then too, there is the liquor.

…Liquor that took us three stores to find and collect. Because this magical mix called Glogg, the St. Lucia drink of choice, is made from not just one, not just two, but THREE kinds of alcohol, simmered in a pan with a bunch of spices, raisins, and almonds thrown it…then lit on fire with the help of Aquavit, and finally sieved and drunk.

…Which is a magical experience that can seriously fuck you up by evening’s end…especially if you “Skol” a shot of Aquavit with every new party arrival before hand…which was apparently Marty’s Pop’s job, every St. Lucia Day.

Being “traditionalist” is every sense of the word, we felt obliged to take up that banner, and roll with it as well.

Family peoples came.

We “Skol’d” ’em.

They “Skol’d” us.

…We watched (and helped as needed) whilst Marty, flushed a deep red, resided over Johnson’s potatoes and lace cookies and Lucia bread and spritzes and Swedish Meatballs…and then everyone ate, and drank, and laughed for like the next forever-hours, until it was time for Marty to go home.

Our guts, rumbled from so muchness in foods and drinks, that we switched then to waters…and the party distilled even further, leaving Ma n’ Me n’ Uncle Big Guy, swappin’ stories and poking our bellys to help in the digestion.

…This was all (btw) after a five-hour emo rehearsal, directly following an until four in the morning party-fest sleep-over, which directly followed an almost three-hour screening of the Hobbit with some very excited individuals, which directly followed a full work week.

…Which is why I spent all yesterday having an affair with a long-running TV series, while wearing my pajamas.

I ain’t no fool.

~D

Bow & Breathe

9 Dec

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Every show is different.

…Outside of the obvious, I mean it in the ways that they affect you; Even down to the basics of blocking rehearsals, and early French scene runs…before you’ve even gotten to the really meaty, everyone-off-book, part.

The last show was a laugh-fest of hams personifying humans, waltzing around making merry.  Which meant that, naturally, we all wanted to carry it on afterwards…usually to the local watering hole…where we would continue our antics (unscripted), with the boosting cheer of alcohol.

This show is more, hypertension, caged-animal fighting, sinus-weeping at max, with a couple of inappropriate jokes in between. Which means that, naturally, we all want to carry it on afterwards to the local watering hole, where we can kill it with a couple slugs of good whiskey, neat.

…The problem with that being: I don’t like alcohol as a medication for feeling like shit. 

…”Emotionally,” that is. 

(I’ll hot-toddy the sniffles to death in half a second, if given the opportunity.) 

…But depending on a drink to loosen the stays of the emotional corset I’m wearing, three to four hours a night, (and up to eight, on weekends) will NOT help me in the end.  It will only service me a new laundry list of problems.  So I have to be smart about how to deal with what is “left over”…my little host of nightly scars and unresolved emo-haunting…and not take them out on a bottle of something, expecting it to act as a cure. Or even to, “take the sting out.”

I wanted this job.

I knew what it would take.

I gotta put on my big-girl-panties, and do it.

…And because I know “me,” I gotta have a plan of attack to help even myself out afterward…or this could very well become the kind of sleepless obsession-state that’ll drive me into some kind of nervous breakdown.

I thought that maybe, instead, I’d not have one…as I’m kinda busy right now.

…Which means, I go back to my little mental toolkit built back in my days of Shrinkdom. Do some of the thinky-exercises to deal with extra-emo kinda things, I write in m’blog as needed, and return to the regime of morning and nightly Yoga.

…Just breathing exercises in the morning, but a full session every night before bed.

No matter how exhausted I am.

…And to follow that: only wash, and bed.

This was my old regime we had set, “back when,” giving me the most resolution to a hard day, the best start of the next, and a sort of defragmenting to my general software in the brain: releasing any little left-over burps and farts of aggression, sadness, frustration and fear.

A good plan, I think.

…And a good task at taking care of the “me” that will be taking and giving mental and physical beatings every night, from now into February.

…Which is NOT to say, I don’t intend to go out and have fun with these peeps, when the occasion arises.

It just means I am self-aware that “fun” is what is being had, that healthy solutions to feeling like crap are made, and that I am full of fuel and ready to hit the gas, full-throttle, come the next rehearsal…with no holding back.

And speaking of: another good one in the can.

Awesome Yoga session: complete.

Blog: now written.

…And now to wash and bed.

Namaste, cuties.

~D

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