Tag Archives: eating

Pick-Ups

18 Apr

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Oie. I need a freakin’ break.

…No lunch, no time away from the computer screen, and tiny-tiny numbered reports.

So this is me: breathing for a bit. 

Back in the saddle for shows in our second weekend, starting tonight.  No pick-ups, and early Thursday performances, so we’re on our own to run lines…prob’ly while driving, or setting our hair…to make sure we remember what the hell we’re doing. 

Early Thursday shows make “sense,” but I still hate early call. 

…Because of it, I’m floored for time, and have not only none in excess, but less than average for eating, travel and prep to begin with…thus zero time at all to run scenes with people to iron out all the brain burps that being dark for three days can do.  And this ain’t exactly an easy show to just jump into, cold.

Living on stage the whole time means there isn’t a single moment to run and check your script to remind you of things that one sometimes needs their scripts to remind them of…like the exact word right there that you can’t seem to remember, only know begins with an “M”…or what follows the first night scene…or which props need to disappear at which time, in which blue-out, as we quick-change.

…Significant details.

Think I’ll just have cereal for dinner tonight so I won’t take up all that time cooking things. Like an egg. Which gives me an extra 90 seconds to actually review the script, live.  Or maybe I’ll skip the shaving my legs part (yay for dancer tights, and Europeans!) and just do the necessities…that’ll buy an easy 3 minutes right there…

…It’s all about time management, you see.  The infinitesimal kind.   

Where you have to multitask eating and burping simultaneously…just so you won’t waste all that optional line reciting time on breathing.

~D

Tech Begins

5 Jan

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Hello civilians, it’s the morning of Boot Camp…aka: Q-to-Q.

Hell Week is now officially upon us once again…turning the entire theatre into a film set.

…Everyone but Tech, does a shit-ton of sitting and standing around waiting while that light gets refocused, this sound cue is timed out, furnishings are set, spiked, re-set, entrances are taken over and over again, and everyone forgets their lines because we do things like jump three pages on a “go” with an instant cue where if you fuck it up, everything has to re-set at their marks with sound, actors and lights, to do it again.  So of course you screw it up, and the tech people try not to be bitchy to you, even though last night at dry tech everything worked out perfectly and the show would obviously be infinitely better if one could figure out how to do it all without the actors.

True story.

…To top it off, the entire cast family that was able, thence motored to eats at the local Applebees, where worlds collided and we bonded…the younger peoples giving far too many “awesome points” to their elders as we talked shop, jewelry, acting, general “life” matters, and bogarting all the nacho cheese sauce.

(The Redhead wins.)

…Meanwhile, the “adults” rapidly lost “coolness” as the evening progressed, whilst prob’ly voicing inappropriate statements at random…which we just tossed up to being, “the same liberal education that we were raised on, and it didn’t hurt us any!”

Welcome to the theatre, kids.

Four Long Islands later, I’m gonna go to bed now.

To our table of lovelies: judge us with compassion. We meant well.

…Also…(no shit)…we are uber proud of you, kicking ass and taking names on that stage, nightly. And we can’t wait for people to see your work in this whole new light.

Shutting up, and going to bed now…

~D

…And Then The Alcohol Punched Them In The Face

1 Jan

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Listen: it became the tiniest of gatherings, ringing in the New Year…after a rehearsal, straight to food buying, straight to cooking, straight to eating. 

In the end, it had been deemed the better idea, allowing us to dress in clothes of our preference with zero pomp and circumstance, while getting as embarrassingly drunk as we wanted to, with zero reputation-slaughtering repercussions.

…Marty n’ I were well into the champagne, laughing at “Legally Blond,” tripped out in various pj attire and shoving eleven kinds of food in our faces like Hoover vacs…mostly getting it in our mouths…when a call came in from one of our most beloved “Twelfth Night-ers.” So we whooped loudly, everyone talking at once over speaker phone, while cackling dirty laughter with our mouths full of chewed up food bits, when our “Joe” arrived, fresh from Party #1, in his three piece suit, bow tie and fedora. 

…The slobs embraced him thoroughly, and provided him with his own bottle of alcohol, and he, in turn, popped the cap, immediately proceeding to make out with said bottle mouth for the rest of the night…like those couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, only getting worse the drunker they get.

…But because, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I cannot disclose the full beauty of what happened afterward…having nothing at all to do with sex, but everything in the world to do with the greatest hits of being totally trashed with people who you trust.

It was magical.

…And upon command of, ” We have to DO something when the clock strikes…a gesture…something to really punch it and make it matter,” an idea was put out on the floor to do a symbolic slaughter. Something of the past year, or an idea, or a thing that has haunted us that we want to start the New Year totally free of: write it down, then all rush outside, light the New Year stogie (saved for just this occasion), and pass it amongst ourselves as we light and watch disintegrate, that crappy whats-it from our past.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

…In a cold cloud of relief.

…Then back to the drinking as regularly scheduled…”Galaxy Quest” and “Back to the Future” tag teaming the TV in the background.

It was a night of a thousand giggles and guffaws, with tons of surprising moments of delighted “yay.” I may never know how long it truly lasted, as I peeled away at ’round 6 a.m…to pound water and pass out on a soft surface.

…To bed and to rise, with this crazy bright New Year sun screaming at me, and liquor corpses in the living room…which I should really do something with, but I figured they are well preserved, so can prob’ly wait at least as long as the length of a blog.

For reasons that don’t at all add up, I haven’t got the faintest tummy oots, or brain pain. It’s prob’ly that whole side of cow I ate that soaked up all the toxins, so I’ll have to remember to light a candle for it later…before confession.

…Keeping to tradition, Marty will bounce up with eyes round as saucers, blink a couple times and ask, “what’s happening, what’s next?” Cuz she’s the only human being I know who can get totally blitzed…not ONLY without repercussion, but can get by on 2 hours of sleep after it, waking up with the innocents of an infant, ready to start the day.

Our “Joe” being a new team member, still has the Jury out in debates.

…But either way, we had a helluva time…able to be the most basic us-like us’s, with complete freedom of safety, in a warm little house, stocked full of goodies to imbibe on, and beds and pillows to swallow us up afterwards.

A Happy New Year to you all! Hope your Alka Seltzer breakfasts and bed-buddies treated yuh well.

…And so off I go, to administer to the dead.

~D

…And The Footie Pajamas

25 Nov

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We are in pajamas, post show (and first read), decorating cookies (part 2), eating cheese plates and doing a “White Christmas” sing-along.

…It’s our thing.

The BFF and I are in sweats, but The Fella is wearing full-out long underwear footie pjs.  With the escape hatch.  He looks phenomenal.  I honestly didn’t know they made them for full grown people.

…Also, by time of blog writing, The Fella is drunk.  He’s now in the prone position, with said butt flap open, airing his pirate underwear and threatening to fart us into oblivion.  He’s now to the point of drunk where you lay in dead weight and grin at things…like the air…and have whole conversations with your eyes closed, your voice in falsetto.

I’m totally writing this whole night off on “character study” at tax time.   

***

The Fella is now splayed out in the farty chair, and “White Christmas” at it’s end, has led onto “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.” 

…They are worried about me having to work tomorrow…which with only two days left of BFF-dome, before she escapes back to Tinsel Town, is just erroneous.  Tomorrow will come as it always does, and I will crawl from the bed like a Darwinian evolutionary sludge, as I always do…be it on six hours or three. It is far more important to be building these memories.

…Unless someone pukes. 

I call the kibosh at that point.

***

So here we all sit…a small pile of humanity across all of the general couch area.  The Christmas tree lights on, the heater humming busily…our decorated cookies that look like a five-year-old baked and decorated them (though that is totally unintentional), on the table in front of us with little bottles of sprinkles and candy pieces, and wine bottles growing around us. 

…We begin deep philosophical discussions, like people do when they are buzzed after a long day…such as the political significance of the Lesba-whos, that are The Grinch’s parents…and if being green is a commentary on race relations…

…In between, we giggle, till it starts to get quiet and we get sucked into the movie.

The wine starts to mix in our tummies, the sugar cookies, soaking it up…our eyelids start to get heavy.

…Just like kids, we fight the sleep fairy and insist we are wide awake and ready to party.

…But we ain’t.

It’s late. Our tummies are full. The bottles are empty. And even Jim Carey in ten pounds of green fur and prosthetic can only seduce us so far. Not gonna lie, m’pillow sounds pretty amazing. But we are captivated with brilliance…in both what’s happening on the screen, and in the room right now. We are our own ultimate family…the kind that people can build if all the best of circumstances align…and at least one of the people are really bossy.

…As The BFF just stated, “Lookit this! If we were all siblings growing up, we woulda been awesome!”

…To which I replied, “Well yeah, but then you can’t have sex with your brother, so, maybe it’s gooder this way.”

“Also, she’d have been the bully,” The Fella pipes up through his wine-haze, before going back to grinning at the atmosphere.

“I would not!,” she insists, ironically punctuating it with a punch.

Touche. And stuff.

(Yawn)

“He’s out, ” The BFF sighs, leaning over The Fella, some minutes later. “Hey babe, wanna stay here on the futon or go home?”

“Mmfubbbub,” The Fella replies.

We take that for “home.”

…They stuff themselves into boots and scarves and coats and start on their journey…all of two city blocks away.

I watch them, lit by street lights on their early morning quest, before finishing with my typing.

…Night, friends. May you pass out well into noon. For me: I’m lookin’ at six hours. So I guess I’d better get at it…

~D

A Study On Textures (When You’re Tired)

14 Sep

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Just a little ditty.

The BFF is here, fixing Old Fashions. 

…With a spoon in a glass, she crushes sugar cubes. Crunch, crunch…grind, crunch…stainless steel meeting sweet grained sand.

…A sigh of relieved pressure and soda water is splashed in…fizzing like pop rocks as it meets the sides of the glass.

Glug, glug, glug…bourbon…golden, yellow-brown…clean-edged with no bubble or froth…and a stir. 

Suddenly: A circular orange slice jumps in.

…Citrus, the perfect circumference of the tumbler glass, floats on the top, gauging each sip with a kiss on your lips.

Spaghetti, homemade…the kind of left-overs you dream about while you’re still eating it the first night, hit the plates. Steaming.  Garlicy. Italian sausage like butter, melting in your mouth.

On the player: Miles Davis: Quiet Nights.  A souvenir of Vacation, and travel, and tonight.

…Sliding some butter on a french bread…so fresh it ceeds to the knife with every swipe.

Yummy noises, and noodle slurps resound.

I’m tired…the good kind.  From so muchness and doings.  The BFF too…from working and life.

We sit in silence as I finish this blog.

“Too tired to try tonight,” I say.  “It won’t be a long one.”

“Take your time,” she hums, taking in the vinyl liner notes from the back of her new toy.

…The music fits this.  It’s random.  It’s kind of never ending.  It sort of goes nowhere in particular.  I say this aloud.

“You know nothing about Miles Davis at all,” The BFF defends, staunchly.

“I saw this documentary once,” I throw out on reserve.  Like that orange slice.

“Okay, so maybe you do know some stuff.  But that doesn’t mean you understand his greatness.”

“I do not,”  I admit.

…Another swirl of spaghetti on the spoon…the red sauce spatters me at the corner of my lip.  I’m too lazy to do anything but leave it there, while I pocket the pasta in my cheek and munch on.

…Sweet, garlic…silver onion…spices I can’t pick out…al dente pasta.

Yes.

…Another sip of Old Fashioned.

“This is yay,” I comment .

“Yes,” The BFF confirms with a drink. “And later: a cigar.”

…I sit back from the table and inhale my guts to rest.

…Vacations.

Everyone should have them.

~D

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