Tag Archives: postaday

Indiscreet Ink – Week 3

30 Aug

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Oie. 

This one was a bear to finish, the kind of week I’ve been having certainly not helping.

…But it’s different, it’s dark, and it’s completed.

On time.

**Click here to read “SHE”, an exercise as part of Weekly Writing Lab**

~D

Sex Farce

29 Aug

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You know how actors are always saying things like, “Oh filming sex scenes are one of the top ten most un-hot things to do ever,” and they are describing how much of a pain in the ass it was for them to lay around naked, in a bed, beside Brad Pitt for a week to shoot it…?

…And you know how you sit there, and watch them give these interviews and say these things, and you want to punch them in the mouth…?

…Because your job is in no way even remotely like that, nor do you make the kind of money that they do while doing it, and the fact that they are complaining about any of it, really makes you want to hate them…?

That is why I won’t be saying any of that.

Except that it is sufficient to say: I work in the theatre, so I decidedly do NOT make as much money as you, and also (in the current show’s circumstances anyway,) am sweating a lot more nightly, than you do in a week’s time.

…While being continually “made love to,” classic film style. 

As a variety of people, in a hundred different scenarios, featuring dozens of acts of groping, smooshing, spitting, scratching, dusting, patting, plopping, straddling and motor boating, in a seemingly unending voyage of butt slaps, boob squishes, lip sucks, face smooshes, crotch dives, feel-ups, arm wrenches, leg locks, and what-all, I am technically getting more action than if I were married right now.

…And though often hilariously funny, achieving any sexual significance from this, is utterly out of the question. 

Even for the slowly, specific things. 

…Because when you’re mid-them, on a stage, the repercussions of the act are the last thing on your mind.  What comes first is where the noses go this time, for the right shot to the audience, and how to balance your two weights acting against one another, and how long to hold the beat for the other thing to happen while this is going on, and how to time the end of it, when the other thing is finished, and how not to laugh when someone tip-toes by as if they fucked up and were in the wrong place, adjusting to it now…which is part of the actual humor of the show, and requires everyone on stage to keep a straight face of focus, while they do it.

This all makes the sexual innuendos, anything but sexy to the people involved.  Furthermore compounding the fact that the speed and attack of these moments turns them into controlled beat-snaps.  Which means lips have more the consistency of grade school children kisses, than adult sensuality.  Then it’s, “where do the hand cuffs go,” ” how do we do this turn while stuck together,” “what’s a new way to straddle you that I haven’t tried yet,” “what if I bit him here,” and beard prickles, followed by sweaty nylon leg skims, and breathing all night in one another’s faces so that by the end we could reconstruct the entire day’s worth of food intake, by burps and accidental-on-purpose vocal spittings alone.

…What I’m trying to say is: Sex and comedy go together like strawberries and champagne from the seating section POV.  Hell there’s a whole sub-genre invented for it. But for the bedroom farce-ing actors: I promise you, almost nothing, in the entire world, could turn you on less.

…Which is why (I think) they threw the “farce” bit in, to begin with.

For us.

Cuz if you aren’t getting “off” in bedroom matters…might as well have a good laugh at it.

Am I right?

~D

A Rehearsal Post

28 Aug

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Sitting in the house, while an oddly masculine woman plans her debutant daughter’s party, as her husband schemes homicide.

Now: Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre interrogate our hero.

…There are only two people on the stage.

It’s a long one, (as far as they go in this show full of French scene madness.)

…Six and a half pages.

The finale of Act One.

Psychotic Nazis, world overthrow, frenetic gun brandishing, top secret-secrets, maniacal laughing, rampant crossdressing, murder, peepshows, and self-propelled seating.

Six pages.

…Oop! Back to beginners, I’m up!

***

Later: Just back from Scotland. Baking accidentally phallic bread loafs, tucking in murderers for a good night’s sleep, and watching a lover escape into the night, through the “rear window.”

…It’s been a full night already, and we’ve been at it less than an hour.

First, came an “underware parade,” for instance.

…This is how you know I’m in a show, cuz in real life, I haven’t worn so little as a one piece swimming suite in public in over a decade. Yet tonight began, trying on high heels and period underwear, while the costumer and everyone watched me parade around, flop about, and mock die, so they could talk function, light, and color notes.

…Like every other prop on stage.

…And now they’ve moved on.

…Via a slow motion chase scene.

***

Next: an assembly hall, featuring the oldest man in the world, and a fuck-all political speech that would make Aaron Sorkin sit up and take notice. Mostly cuz it’s so long and terrible.

…In all the good ways.

***

Nexter: Invisible car ride through the moores, followed by erotic ballet by handcuff.

…I’m telling you, this show has freakin’ everything!

And more.

~D

Vikings & Sword Brandishings

27 Aug

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amtiredandcranky.

dontwannablog…

orusepunctuationspacesoranything.

iwouldratherreadthisBBCHistorymagazinearticleaboutthevikings…

andhowtheywieldswordsandtookoverstuff.

…soiamgonna.

~D

To-day

21 Aug

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Today was the kind of day where a dude ramming into your car (while driving the wrong way, in reverse, at a stoplight,) is just the side dish.

…Which is exactly what happened.

On the way to rehearsal.

…After a day wherein Boss still exists
in his position, we feel like a guillotine is above our head, and everything is all-’round, fucked.

Puke. With chunks.

~D

I Will Mutton Chop Your Ass!

19 Aug

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First of all, it is important to note that the WHS Pimp has Muttons.

…Not the kind of exaggerated sideburn that Elvis rocked in the ’70’s.  The “old school” kind of muttons, that your Great Grandpappy rocked in like the Civil War.

His muttons mean biz’ness

…They take up nearly all his cheeks, bushing out in varying lengths depending on the season, a careful and precise trim to accent the jaw line below, with a 5 o’clock shadow on upper lip and chin, in between. In short, if you went about three days past “Wolverine,” but kept it manicured, you’d just about nail it.

Now, I dunno if you realize this, but it takes a face to pull that off.  Your average dude can’t just yank this one outta his back pocket and saunter down main street while rockin’ it. It takes a certain je ne sais quoi…a generous amount of mountain-man meet old timey gravitas.  A face that tells a history.  It takes someone with an intriguing demeanor, who looks like they could go from “jolly” to “kill a man,” in almost nothing flat.

…Like a Hell’s Angel on a “Toys for Tots” run.

This, is the WHS Pimp.

…And though by “casting type” he fulfills all the above-said requirements, the dude is one of the funniest, easiest going humans…in the world.  So accomidating, and such the “good guy” that he (like most “good guys”) consistently gets fucked for it, (in all the wrong ways), by the people he stands by and bends over backwards to help, the most.

…Namely: Boss n’ the Builder Bunnies.

WHS Pimp, is the kind of dude that will take shit n’ make gold with it, for reasons surpassing understanding.  (While I just throw it back at people, like a primate in a cage.)

…And today…the poo flew.

It flew big time.

…From three hours BEFORE the office opened, until the MOMENT it closed.

Today was the kind of day where NOTHING goes right.  Weekend contractor accidents screwed up weeks of schedules, with people now in casts…already booked up a month in advance, road shows backed up in Customer Service, Shipping fucked up container load deliveries, Inventory reallocated our own stock to other branches without asking, Contractors went MIA, and customers and Corporate stormed with screaming freak-outs, as we were on the phones doing our best to adjust the schedules accordingly.

…By nine o’clock, we had blown through an entire pot of coffee and felt like we’d already been at the day for 15 hours.  By ten, we were volunteering to swap departmental homicides and make it look like an accident. By ten-thirty, we were making suicide packs.   

…And then, something happened that in over a year of knowing WHS Pimp, I have never seen.  Not even once.

(…And you must understand, we’ve seen about every “low” that either one of us could possibly have.  Because this is the kind of place which brings out the absolute, psychotically, pissed-off, ridiculously worst in EVERYBODY.)

…But, in ALL of that time…

…With ALL of  the things I have seen…

…Through ALL of the shit-storms…

…I had never witnessed WHS Pimp bust out into “Wolverine.”

Until today.

It took roughly three hours of non-stop, antagonism from Corporate, Traffic, Customers, Boss and non-stop phones and emails to bring him to the brink, the absolute edge of the precipice…when then: the wrong Contractor, picked the wrong time, to go “Build a Bitch” in his office.

…Not an irregularity.  It’s what this guy routinely does.   And what’s more, what he does EVERY Monday, while WHS is busy loading him up for his full week of building. This has never changed.  No one expected it ever would.  But today…today, this Builder Bunny had picked the wrong day to play his “pitty me” record.

Suddenly, with a growling BOOM, the office just beside me, went off like a hydrogen bomb.

…And being as it was Monday, and being as it was that same dick head complaining about the same things…being as we were swamped with phone calls that just never ceased, and Boss was (again) MIA, and people were literally waiting in LINE to scream at us some more, for things we had zero power to control.  Being, as it was the first time, after over a YEAR of goddamn infuriating accommodations, making gold out of shit being thrown at him, for the zillionth time…

…The satisfaction of sitting, in total silence, muting incoming phone calls, and listening to the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, just there beside me…aimed at full force on this guy, was about the goodest thing to happen within those office walls since…oh…since the invention of “ever.”

It was a fury.  It was non-negotiable.  It was terrifying.  It was something never witnessed from him before. Aimed at a person, who had WELL earned it, with interest payments, going back across at least 16 months of time.

It was…

Hawt.

As hell.

…In that so thoroughly enjoyable, “seeing-karma-come-uppance-at last” kind of way, that mostly only happens in movies.

So, I shut up, and just enjoyed it.

…And the Builder Bunny eventually exited (as dismissed to, in no uncertain terms.)

…And I continued on with my paperwork,  and answered a few more screaming phone calls, yet managed strangely enough, to smile all throughout.

After a while, WHS Pimp emerged from his cave, a bit of growl left, but not much. And I looked up.

WHS Pimp: Sorry ’bout that.

Me: –Nope.

WHS Pimp: Weren’t on a customer call I hope.

Me: –Uh uh.

WHS Pimp: So, we might have another issue to deal with.

Me: –Kay.

WHS Pimp: Down another Contractor, could be.

Me: –Right.

WHS Pimp: But I got an idea for cover.

Me: –Kay.

WHS Pimp: I’m just gonna sit here for a bit and cool off…

Me: –Right.

WHS Pimp: Then maybe see…

Me: –Uh huh.

WHS Pimp: So, we’re on the same page, then.

(Long beat.)

WHS Pimp: So.  Anyway.  Yeah.

(He turns to exit back into his office.)

Me: Mad-Fucking-Awesome-Unbelievable. 

(He stops.)

WHS Pimp: Boss is gonna freak.

Me: Yep.

WHS Pimp: Then, what?

Me: He’ll get over it.  And ass-hat over there with either build or not.  The world doesn’t end.

WHS Pimp: Kay.

(He goes back to his desk . It’s quiet for a bit.)

Me: (Hollaring from my office.) Freakin.’ Awesome. You’re my hero, man!

(From the other office, a very slight chuckle can be heard.  As if: he knows it.)

~D

A Break

18 Aug

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…Sometimes a girl needs a break from 24/7 lines, murder, and mayhem. 

…Not necessarily a “girl break” (ie: An Austen or RomCom film fest, featuring junk food and heavy sighing.)

Sometimes, all you need are some snarking smart-asses, and some sex.  Then, when you remember that you’re single, you have a buddy over n’ say:

“Hey, Justin and Mila…wanna have a foursome?”

…And everybody lives happily ever after.

This movie is magical in that it talks the way people really do.  (At least, my kind.) Also, makes fun of the sappy stuff, proves that laughing and sex can be a GOOD thing, and that friendship is mightier than the screw.

…Which, thank God.  Am I right?!

So, there is that. 

…An evening’s release from dark lit rooms, killers lurking in shadows, and dead bodies laying around just everywhere. 

Tonight, tousled sheets and funny bedroom bossings took precedence. Okay, sure, it was on a screen, but yuh takes what yuh gets, kiddies.

…And yuh bes grateful to the miracle of  “the BluRay.”

~D

Ode To A Line Run

17 Aug

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Lines. 

Running them ad-nauseum, just to make sure that they stick.  Mini pockets that don’t. For any number of reasons. 

…In this case: quick-succession repetition.

Pamela Edwards (the Brit), has a habit of repeating what she and other people say, forty or fifty times, but in slightly different orders.  Remembering which one we are on, gets tricky.  Also: the “one-worders.”

…This is an actual thing.  It’s not the proper name (prob’ly), but it’s what I call them.  They happen in Mamet, and comedy, frequently…and in farce, they run rampant. Mostly to show awkward social skills and sexual tension.

When you put someone who repeats things constantly (only in slightly different order each time) in a one-worder situation, you get something that looks a little like this:

(…Actually, you get something that looks a LOT like this…in that this is directly from the script.)

Hannay: That’s alright. Well —

Pamela: Well–

Hannay: –we ought to be–

Pamela: Yes —

Hannay: –going I suppose.

Pamela: Mmm.

Hannay: Right. Um —

Pamela: Yes?

Hannay: Which —

Pamela: What?

Hannay: — room are they staying in?

Pamela: Who?

Hannay: What?

Pamela: Who?

Pamela: Those two men?

Pamela: Sorry?

Hannay: The two men you overheard?

Pamela: Staying in?

Hannay: Mmm.

Pamela: Well, they’re not.

Hannay: Sorry?

***

…Believe it or not, these kind of lines aren’t the easiest to get.  Not only because you are telling a story about nothing, and have the panic situation of cutting the other guy off in time…(often having less than one word in order to remember what yours is again), but also the fact that if you fuck up at any point in the sequence, it all goes to absolute hell in a handbasket.  The beat-structure HAS to be the way it is written, or it’s like throwing a stick through the spoke of a bicycle, going at full speed down a heel.  Crash and burn, baby.

…And I guess the lesson I learned today, (while picking metaphorical gravel out of my bloodied hands, knees, and face), is that I have some more work here to do.

By the third section of this repeated dialogue style, I had completely lost any sense of rhythm, in utter despair of constantly fucked with word repetitions, and the final clip in my one-wording cue-a-thon turned into this: (Actual lines in quotes.)

Prompter: “Well…”

Me: Yes?

Prompter: No, “well.”

Me: “Well.” Yes?

Prompter: No.

Me: What?

Prompter: “Well…”

Me: And I said, yes.

Prompter: No, ‘yes.’  Just “well…”

Me: What?

Prompter: It’s just, “Well.”

Me: Mine?

Prompter: Yes.

Me: So this time it’s just, “Well…” and “Well.”

Prompter: Yes.

Me: Okay, so take it back to the beginning.

Prompter: That was the beginning.  “Well…”

Me: “Well…you’re a free man…”

(Long pause.)

Prompter: “…Anyway.”

Me: Yes?

Prompter: “…Anyway.”

Me: What? Line?

Prompter: “…Anyway.”

Me: No, not ‘cue,’ my line.

Prompter: “…Anyway.”

Me: I know that’s next, but what is my actual line?

Prompter: “…ANYWAY.”

Me: What?  Read the whole thing to me.

Prompter: “Well…you’re a free man anyway.”

Me: Oh, it’s the end of the line this time.  Cuz it began it before, the last time…

Prompter: Right.

Me: …Followed by…?

Prompter: “Right.”

Me: No, I know, I get it.  What’s the next cue.

Prompter: “Right.”

Me: “Right” is the cue.

Prompter: Yes.

Me: Can we go back?

Prompter: “Well…”

Me: “Well.  You’re a free many anyway.”

Prompter: “Right.”

Me: “Saved the country too.”

Prompter: “We both did that.”

Me: “Not really.”

Prompter: “Anyway…better be um–”

Me: Yes?

Prompter: “Right.”

Me: What?

Prompter: No, it’s “Right.”

Me: Which one?

Prompter: The first…one.

Me: So it’s Yes, Right, What…?

Prompter: It’s, “Right.” “What.” “Quite.”

Me: “Right.” “What.” “Quite.”

Promper: Then, “Yes.”

Me: THEN, “Yes!”

Prompter: — Right.

Me: THERE’S where it was…I knew a ‘yes’ was somewhere in there.  So, cue at the top of the one-worders again?

Prompter: “Anyway…better be um–”

Me: “Right.”

Prompter: “D’you want to–”

Me: “What?” 

Prompter: “Nothing.”

Me: “Quite.”

Prompter: “Better be going.”

Me: “Yes.”

Prompter: “Got the decorators in and — you know…”

Me: “Certainly do.”

Prompter: “Well — bye.”

Me: ” Bye.”

Prompter: …And scene.

Me: FUCK YOU, PAMELA EDWARDS, AND YOUR DIALOGUE WRITING TEAM!

Prompter: Want to run it again?

Me: Not even with a bottle of Jameson in my hand.

Prompter: So…a break?

***

…So this was my break.

I guess.

…Obviously have some more work to do.

…So, I guess I’ll go back to doing it. Then.

Think kind thoughts for me…

~D

Indiscreet Ink: A New Chapter

16 Aug

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It’s up, kids…and running. 

Every Friday, SWAL will be including a link to our new Writing Lab Workshop Notebook: “Indiscreet Ink.” 

…This stuff will be naked, and raw…often unfinished, in any number of style genres…and levels of taste, texture, and emotion.  This is just a workbook, for open forum exercises…meant to blow out some creativity, not earn a Pulitzer.

…With that in mind: read it or don’t.  Like it or not.  It’s m’new challenge of the year, replacing postaday.

Not to worry, loves…SWAL ain’t goin’ anywhere.  She’s just taking the passenger seat for awhile.

…And that’s okay. 

She covered a lot of miles last year.

Time to put someone else in the driver’s seat for a bit.

~D

Art According To Sylvia

15 Aug

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…Am seeking a name for m’new Lit blog.  Thought I’d start with some quotes from the brilliant and famous…and several hours later: here I still be.

…Reading.

No kidding, if you’re disenchanted with the creative process of words, in the least…you should pop on over to this page, and it’ll cure it for you.

Meantime, I’m still trying to rip myself away, and focus on the new house I’m trying to build for my new Group works.

…So I’ll go and do that then.

…But not before first leaving you with this:

“…Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” ― Sylvia Plath

So, there is that.

Now: stop making excuses, and get to work.

~D

Back Home Again

14 Aug

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Last night, while flicking through files on my thumb drive, I came across my old writing group one from several years ago, and opened it for a looksee.

…Some interesting bits and pieces…a lot I had forgotten about.  Prompts that had been given me, fifteen minute in-group exercises…pictures and music clips I’d used to assign as inspiration to others. Every conceivable genre, and length, and discipline…from short stories to long-form, scenes, dialogues, and poetry to what-all.  Mystery, love stories, gothic ghost stories, horror, comedy, period…you name it. It was a fun time capsule to break in on, suddenly without planning to.  Especially when I hit one specific blip: a noir detective story that had me cracking myself up with how thickly I laid on the Dashiell Hammit of it all.

…All in good fun, of course.

…And it got me thinking.

In the time I was part of that group, I had produced reams and notebooks full of random nothings, exercises, thoughts, ideas…rough forms of characters and plots and ideas. I had written two full length plays, (one with the group itself, and one on my own)…and started a novel…a historical monster of research which sits to this day, in that same folder, untouched since those last meeting days…at 100 pages, yet to be finished.

…What I’m saying is: I recognized the importance of the weekly exercises and assignments…but the value of the fuller works is what the group’s point was meant to lead me towards.  And it had done it’s job.  As long as I had stuck with it.

…And maybe, this full year of blogs, was a certain form of “exercise” meant to prep me for something bigger.

What if?

…So, with this idea in my head, (and the knowledge that “schedules” as they are in today’s world, simply cannot allow a guarantee of an every week meeting time), I shot an email to a bud, and we two instantly built a digital, brand-spankin’-new writing group.

…Yet to be named.

Writing prompts are given out on Fridays.  To be fulfilled in any genre, at any pace, to any purpose, in any discipline we like, so long as it is turned in on the following Friday.  At which time, we (wherever we are) read said pieces, and pop onto IM, or fire our emails for a discussion, directly following.

…We’ve started half through this week already, so we have something to share on Friday.

…He’s been updating ever since, here and there on the progress.  And how good it feels to be at the keyboard with creative intentions again.  And tonight, I finished my piece.  At twelve typewritten pages.

…My first piece: a scene.  My prompt: a quote.  His prompt a painting I’d found. His discipline: TBA.

All I know, is that good, bad or otherwise in final piece result…it sure felt good to get creative again.  With words and ideas, in a specific character environment.

…It’s good to be back “home” again.

I’ve missed it.

~D

Inter-Office Peace Treaties

13 Aug

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I’m taking a break from voicemails for a bit here.

…Also, there’s this huge-giant spider in the bathroom that is too big to kill.  It’ like Aragog from “Harry Potter.”

…Ok, maybe not quite as big as Aragog, but big enough that it is winning the turf war. 

I’m thinking of putting a post-it on the door as warning for the WHS Pimp in the morning…but I dunno what to write on it that doesn’t make me sound like a total “girl”…and thus get me made fun of.

I mean, if I put something like, “WARNING: Arachnid of death, enter at own risk,” I’d never hear the end of it.  But if I wrote something like, “Enter with boots on and please kill me” that might send a mixed message.

…For instance, what if it decides to move out in the middle of the night, to wherever it came from.  Then in the morning, maybe WHS Pimp comes in and finds nothing behind the door…but leaves it open…and I just assume he took care of it, but forget about the post-it…then close the door to go pee at some point, and look like I’m inviting permissive homicide to any and all who walk by.

…And WORSE, what if its still in there with me, at the same time?

These are the kind of things I think about, you guys.

…Especially when my bladder is full of an entire pot of coffee and “freak-bug” in there, won’t let me pee.

Seriously.

…Maybe we could hold like a negotiation for a momentary peace treaty…which lasts just long enough for me to do my business.  I tell him, I promise not to go near him with any large, heavy, squish-inducing object, and he promises to stay within my eyeline the whole time, and not move an inch. 

…Then, (of course), by morning, WHS Pimp can artfully announce an instant ban on all inter-office peace treaties, and kill him dead with his steel-toed boot.  And maybe wipe the creepy guts and leg-appendage-pieces off the wall as well.

Call me just another crazy Politician, but that whole thing sounds really good to me.  It’s like a really violent, version of “good cop/bad cop.”

…Or, you know…Europe. In the thirties…

~D

Old Habits…

12 Aug

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…die hard.

So, I’m back…blogging. Cuz what the hello else do I do?

…Today was about work, and spending a lot of money to become a legal driver again. Tonight is about Cecily visits and Hitchcock’s “Lifeboat” and “Rebecca.”

….”Rebecca.” My all time gothic fav. My several times per year required read. My personal literary obsession.

Daphne du Maurier and Hitchcock were beded more times together than any other combo on his screen. You may not know it, but he knew her pop, Gerald, (an English theatre biggie), and because gothic mystery and sex are some of his favorite things, so was she.

“Jamaica Inn,” “The Birds,” and his first American film, “Rebecca” were all Daphne’s.

…And this one: my particular favorite because of the level of frustration, the brilliance of building a character so specific whom you never see, the sexual tension…all narrated by a person who is never given a name.

…And…my most influential nod at the German in my show. A fucking brilliant, and best villain of all time (who isn’t a villain.)

…Mrs. Danvers.

God. I love Hitchcock.

~D

Good EEEEEEEEve’ning

11 Aug

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He never got an Oscar, but he’s m’top choice of subject for my final, 365th blog of the year.

…That’s right, tonight is IT, sweeties.  I’ve done did it.

A blog a day for one full year.

…Come rain, shine, sleet, snow…come crap-days or fine, during rehearsals and shows…two a.m., midnight, or noon-thirty…every day: a blog.  Something.  Prob’ly not great, but there…as I promised they would be. 

…And tonight, instead of focusing on what in the hell it all means in retrospect, I’ve decided not to.  Mostly because (in keeping with the trend of a lot of these entries), I haven’t the time.

…I’m studying, you see.  Up to my chin in show prep, I’m twenty films deep into the Major General of Maguffin: Mr. Hitchcock himself.  Taking notes like a good girl on all the intimate, insider details of his famous blonde Divas and their particular brand of “yum.” (Not to mention his love affair with the naughty villain Dames.) It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with his most famous of trademarks (second only to his profile)…but undertaking becoming three of them, requires a new swipe at the film stock, with a new filter in focus. 

I have always been a GIANT Hitch fan.  His sick little macabre sense of humor, his constant re-invention of the cinematic wheel, the thumbprints he uses on scripts he shoots…and how many ways he can manage to make “murder” and “suspense” one of the sexiest foreplays EVER, made him a favorite from day-one. 

…I’m already holding his early Hollywood classics like “Rebecca,” “Notorious,” “Spellbound,” “Suspicion” and “Shadow of a Doubt” snugly in my head from repeat-repeat viewings.  His golden years as well, with “Vertigo,” “Rear Window,” “Dial M for Murder,” To Catch a Thief,” “North by Northwest,” “Psycho,” “Rope, ” “Strangers on a Train,” “The Birds” and “Torn Curtain.”  When I say, “I love me some Hitchcock,” I seriously mean it.  I’ve twenty of his titles (well known and lesser) in my own library so far, with an Amazon wish-list holding the rest, plus every new bells-n-whistles Bluray and Criterion version of any already owned ones.

…Which made watching this show, “The 39 Steps,” IN London, IN the Criterion Theatre, with all it’s zillion Easter egg nods at Hitch “other” works, about one of the dork-coolest things I’ve ever panted through while wearing a shit-eatin-grin the entire time…in my life.

…Tonight, I’m playing with my old friend again.  Watching old favorites in a new light, with a goal in mind, and having a whole lotta fun while it’s happening.

So, excuse the lack of anniversary touting from a full year’s work come to a close.

Tonight, I’m just too busy to bother.  I’m on a date. With the Master of Suspense.

And it’s hawt 🙂

So ends this blog (and “North by Northwest.”)

…What, oh what, will come next???

~D

Forty Or Fifty Sexual Positions…& Some Haddock

10 Aug

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6 hour rehearsal reserved for today, to finish blocking.  All Leading Fella and me, all the time.

With this show only populated by four people playing all the roles, we are all (but the lead, who has his own giant bag of tricks to carry) pulling multiple characters out of our pockets and throwing them around…and it was odd to have that team cut down to just two today, though really nice in the kind of specificity it brought.

…The prime key of what MY women bring to the piece (versus those of the clowns) is the “sex” of the show.  At all times, in all positions, with any possible flavor of innuendo…we have gone full speed ahead.  Which (when working with someone you’ve never worked with before) can get reeeeeally uncomfortable reeeeally quickly. 

…Only it isn’t, and hasn’t ever been.  Not even a little.  For reasons I will prob’ly never understand.

Well…I might have sorta contributed to that at some point.  Like the time, early this week, when I came to rehearsal just after shoving an onion-filled burger into my face, and while stretching on the stage said something like, “Yeah, I ate the most awesome onion of all time on my burger just now…so I hope you like the taste of lukewarm Walla-Wallas.”

…To which He replied something like,”Welp, I’ve been burping up my lunch all day, so we’ll just swap flavors and be good to go!”

…And we were.

…He kept burping ‘tween love scenes, and I kept reeking of 12-year-old-boy-feet. 

We were just disgusting.  Together.  And it’s been a beautiful stage marriage, ever since.

This kind of thing helps considerably, when you have a rehearsal day set up like today’s: All sex. All the time.

…How many suggestive positions can we possibly sink into this sucker?  How many crotch-shots, boob-facials, accidental butt-slaps, hand-grazes, lip bites, ear nibbles, body-straddles, cock-teases, fingernail scrapings, bed-positions, whiskey-shots, handcuff bits, garter-belt-popping, and lap dances can you find a home for in a script that just screams for sex, like Noir film in heat?

A lot.  Come to find out.

A. Whole. Fucking. Lot.

…And this was only the “preliminary” pass at it.  THIS was only “blocking.”  What comes with the finesse, and character study, and bit-work later, God only knows.  “More,” certainly. A refined style of it, slipped in…with layers, some subtle, and some…very much NOT.

For some reason, “comedy” means you can get away with a lot more with the general viewership, than the straight stuff.  I promise you that if we were doing half of what we did just today, on a stage, in a straight show, there’d be seats thumping closed and feet rushing through the theatre doors to the lobby faster than a run on a toy store at Christmas. People’s comfort level and self-righteousness grows like leavened bread in those kind of circumstances.  I have no idea why.  But bedroom farce is just this whole other world of a thing.  And in all my time in theatre, this is the ONE discipline of sex that I have NOT been asked to do as yet, on a stage.

…I gotta say, it is really quite liberating.

And fun!

Especially when you aren’t working with a creepy, greasy, tongue-thrusting, boob-grabbing, sleazoid.

Frankly, I’ve just totally made out like a bandit! A funny dude, whose game for the outrageously embarrassing, in a tag-team environment!

Plus, just doing the show is gonna get me more “action” than I’ve had in the past mffrrrtmmfa-MONTHS.

HOT DAMN! 

Let the sexing-up begin!

~D

* Enter Title Here

9 Aug

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I was just saying to m’carpool buddy last night…as we unlocked our seatbelts and began collecting our bags of crap to take with us into the theatre…that it’s prob’ly a really good thing that I’m doing a show right now, else I’d be pretty plowed with this cloud of “suck” I’ve got stalking me.

Work at the office it just hell-squared and multiplied, with too muchness and no rest or reprieve in sight…and finances are for total shit, with now added stress of getting license fees paid so I can rejoin the rest of the adult driving population, plus some personal stuff has really gotten me down.

I dunno ’bout you, but every so often, life likes to hit me these shitty ground balls, that keep popping up at the last second and smacking me in the face.  It’s never just the one, it’s often three or four…they are always in close succession, and at the most inconvenient times. 

This is one of those times.

…And it’s hard to find a good balance to that.

You know what I mean?

…Turning the crap parts off, at the end of the day, has become like a third job for the past several weeks.  And carpooling with Mr. Director means I have less than the average time to do that in, as his schedule requires earlier arrivals for production meetings.  Which means for the past week, I have not “been done” yet in the converting process of Part “A” into Part “B,” by the time I’m supposed to be moving on into “the next thing.”

…Plus, for the past TWO days of that, I’ve been hormonal as well.

…Which meant my needing (for sanity purposes) to unplug from the world the second I get into the car, until nearly the second we arrive at the theatre…in which time I’m over my head with blaring music coming at me through my earbuds, and trying my very best NOT to fixate on the crap that I cannot control across about thirty minutes of commute time, after which, I’m supposed to magically emerge as: “funny.”

“Funny” isn’t easy in any circumstances, and it’s even harder when you really, really, really, would rather just sit and cry…alone…in the bathtub…for a few minutes.

…Not in a total melt-down capacity.  Not because life is beyond the point of undertaking, but rather because you are frustrated, and tired, and broke and see no reason that won’t continue for a great deal of time to come. Or, like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News” where she gives herself that 5 minute pre-cry release every morning, as a prep for all the shit that will likely be flung at her that day.

I feel like this kind of depression needs it’s own name, really.  It surpasses a “groan,” but isn’t as bad as “travesty.” 

…It’s “important” and constantly “present”…like the reverse gut-fear feeling of an adrenaline rush, but it isn’t a major disease, and you aren’t being evicted.

…It makes sleeping spotty, involuntary sighs a natural byproduct, and stupid people annoy you a little bit more than they usually do, but you haven’t burst into tears due to a malfunctioning stapler, punched a wall, or set your desk on fire. (yet.)

Actually, this emotional space I’m currently at, is what I picture a LOT of poor adult bastards live in…like 80% of the time.  So I should be glad that it’s just come to my attention as being a current “thing” and not a life-long “constant”…which is about two steps lower than my average emo state…which still puts me better off than the chick with 5 kids, working the drive thu at McDonalds right now.

…And I can appreciate that fact. 

Some of the time.

…Only mostly, this week, I have not.  Appreciated it, that is.  Not even the part where I “get to” go to rehearsal every night. 

Nope.

This week, absolutely everything but breathing and sleeping has been one gigantic personal pain in my ass.  Even eating. 

…And yet, every night in it, by the end of a rehearsal that I sincerely did NOT want to go to, where I insisted to myself that there was no fucking way on god’s green earth that I would ever be able to be FUNNY at, (because why in the hell SHOULD I, given the current circumstances?!) Every night (by the end), I had somehow or another been slapped out of it.

…Which ended up helping a lot more than I originally thought it did.

It meant, going to bed every night, minus the cloud of “shit.” 

…Sure, it would come in throughout the night, like a light fog, and start to seep and settle and collect and grow by morning, back to it’s original size. But in the meantime, at least I got some sleep outta the deal.  Some laughs the night before…

…And every once in a while…for reasons surpassing understanding…for about three hours or so, I could even be “funny.”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all that.  But whatever it is, involves art somehow, and how it’s a good thing, I guess. 

So: now you know.

  ~D

Meh.

8 Aug

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Yep.

It’s like that.

Back to our regularly programmed schedule tomorrow.

…In the meantime…

Kisses (and drool.)

~D

Communist Garbo, a-la Python, With Peter Lorre

7 Aug

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All hail Britannia!

…This evening was spent as Miss Pamela Edwards, the bratty English-finishing-school-grad-turned-reluctant-hostage of a wanted murderer.

…Covering election debates, with road trips through the bumpy highlands, while handcuffed to my kidnapper, we had just reached the rented hotel room bed, when (like the best episode cliffhangers of anything you’ve watched, ever)…the scene was called for the night to be picked up as a “part two” added to all the other intimate scenes being blocked on Saturday.

Until props arrive next rehearsal week, we are in makeshifts. A 1940’s gentleman’s tie, wrapped ’round our wrists, served as our cuffs, a collapsing music stand: our happy accident-to-be-copied-with-real-prop lectern. Beds made of benches…and every canned sound effect, being live foleyed on stage.

…Something like 40 accents thrown out there so far between the four of us. Keeping them from bleeding into one another is gonna require time and it’s own special concentrated effort. But as much as we laugh through the night, we are still focused on the prize…and can proove it…as we are still totally on pace with blocking the entire show in one week.

…Meanwhile, random character notes are already being thrown at us. Things like, “flirt like you’re in a maltshop” and, “he’s the oldest man in the world…think Tim Conway”…”lets put some shapeable dough in that bowl and see what happens”…”rush at him and bellow as loud and unintelligibly as you can”…”anytime you want lovey things from her, just yank the handcuff”…”she’s a cheek pincher..no…not that cheek”…”this is the part where you go wrangle him again for five minutes”…”all the women should sound a-la Python”…”it’s like The Scarlet Letter is in your house”…”Good! Yes! I want him to work his ass off on this speech and your job is to steal the scene”…”it’s like you’re, Niles and he’s Frasier…only: with sex!”

…And in keeping with clarity, we also chime in: ” if you can understand me right now, I can make it sound worse”…”what about I do Sydney Greenstreet and he can pop into Peter Lorre?”…”how literal are we getting…am I gonna be all wet here?”…”it’s a very His Girl Friday, sex antagonism thing”…”can I take the gun from my garter?”…”wait, who am I right now?”…”do I mount him here or no?”…”from English to German with all the subtlety of Carl Reiner”…”I think she’s seductive on accident, with zero emotions or sense of personal space. Like a dom…or a communist Garbo.”

…Obviously, it helps to all be giant film nerds and actor stalkers. Half our fun is coming up with a spot on simile or metaphor, somehow related to this noir or era-involved world of ridiculousness we are living in. If someone jumps up, points wildly at you and yells, “YES! Exactly!” afterwards, so much the better.

Double “win!”

….Plus, an awesome isolated and specific point of character contact for later.

~D

German Spy Dom

6 Aug

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One of the joys of working on this show, is the constant ping-pong of character work. Where last night we molested the Scottish moores…tonight, I was a German noir spy in an English music hall, for the bulk of the evening.

…Almost zero facial expression, with a whole lot of stiffly negotiated sexual positions…pulling lugars from my garters, and spitting all over the leading man, with thick accent articulation.

We are only in day three of rehearsals, and every one of them has brought an entirely new world of “what if” and “holy god, I can’t wait to get off book and fuck with this” feeling.

…Only three, in.

Imagine what two weeks from now will be like? Insanity. Theatrical anarchy.

…This is the kinda show that grows “bits” and “bits on bits” at almost out-of-control levels. If we were a virus, we’d have already infected a two county radius by now. Sure, they can try to contain us, but Mr. Director is gonna have his hands full on this one.

…If for no other reason than, that at SOME point, he’s gonna have to pick what stays in and what goes out…else the show will run four hours long.

…And four hours in a theatre seat, is anything but funny.

Unfortunately, I am in a position to know this by experiance.

~D

A Carpool Blog

5 Aug

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Comin’ home from rehearsal spent on the Scottish moores, I get the luxury of kickin’ off my character shoes, poppin’ open my WordPress app, n’ goin’ to town on it.

…Three-times the bonus! I get where I need to get to…while doing m’ blog post, and not having to dodge speed traps on the freeway!

Plus, I’m not helping Hitler!

Carpooling is freakin’ magical.

…True, at the moment, it’s the only fucking way I can get anywhere at all.

…But if you choose to only look at the good side of this, it means more multitasking opportunity, sooner sleeping times, earlier posted blogs, and a lot less road rage.

Today, I choose to see it as a “win.”

Today, my blog post will be done before we even hit the city limits, and I’ll be washed, brushes, powdered n’ put to bed by a time that even the normals would consider reasonable.

…And even better than that, after an awesome hilarious rehearsal that all but blew my shit workday and financial worries to total smithereens.

Art.

…It’s good for you 🙂

~D

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