Blargle Blargle

I am really sick of saying this, but apparently it needs to be said every time a judicial decision is reached/ every time Sonya Sotomayor is confirmed/ every 30 seconds:

The follow question to "Does it matter that Vaughn Walker is gay?" is not:

"Does it matter that Thurgood Marshall was black?"

It's "Does it matter that Justice so-and-so is white/straight/male/etc?"

All gender is gender, all race is race, all sexuality is sexuality. They're not optional. No one is the control group.

All right, back to your regularly scheduled lives.

Hallelujah (or, one of these days I'm going to have to actually mail these)

Dear The New Yorker,

It is totally awesome that you had a profile of Brad Paisley in your most recent issue. I realize that for very good reasons, all of your letters this week will be about Atul Gawande because oh my God, but I have some thoughts about Mr. Paisley that I've been thinking for the better part of a year and this is as good a chance as any to express them. My thoughts in a nutshell: you blew it.

For the reader who lives without any knowledge of contemporary country music (which, to be fair, is probably the average New Yorker reader, fine), the article does a perfectly adequate job explaining who Brad Paisley is, why his songs are good, and why lots of people who don't subscribe to The New Yorker care. But, it skates only lightly and superficially over the gonzo, bonkers radicalism that Paisley espouses. Seriously, American Saturday Night is a nuts album. It is a stealth bomb thrown into the current heart of country music and a peppy refutation of an entire socio/cultural/political outlook. It is, I believe, the most important artifact of popular culture from the last twelve months (sorry, everyone who liked The Kids Are All Right). I cannot overstate how seriously you whiffed while writing about this shit, structuring the whole thing as a general "hey, there's this guy in middle America who writes a bunch of hit songs and this one time he decided to write about race" profile. Opportunity = lost.

To hear Kelefa Sanneh tell it, the shocking thing about Paisley's hit song "Welcome to the Future" is its final verse, in which the election of a black president is contrasted with the racism Paisley's friend experienced in high school. This third verse comes after a first verse described as "goofy nostalgia" and a second verse that goes entirely unmentioned.

No! No! No! No!

I am trying to be restrained here, but dude missed the entire point. Yes, race is a big deal in a country song, and yes, a pro-black-president message is fascinating and daring. But, it's not just writing about race (as Sanneh points out, Tim McGraw's "Southern Voice" contains a list of multi-racial shout-outs), it's how this song writes about race: it's about racial progress. Unlike 99.99% of the country music currently on the radio that grapples in any way with the past, "Welcome to the Future" is decidedly NOT nostalgic.

Verse 1: You used to have to go to the arcade to play video games -- now you don't! Because stuff got better!

Verse 2: The narrator's grandfather fought in WWII. The narrator has a video conference with Tokyo. Which is better -- killing people or trading with them? Trading with them!

The standard contemporary country orientation toward the past is one of rue, regret, or gentle headshaking at these crazy modern times (example: Bucky Covington's "A Different World" in which the reasonable universe of his childhood where you got "daddy's belt when you misbehaved" is contrasted with our current, coddled, every-kid-gets-a-trophy times). And why does Paisley's unique challenge to this nostalgia matter?

Because this is the backbone of the current Republican message: stuff was good once, now it's bad, make it like it used to be in the '40s or the '50s or the '60s, what do you mean it used to be bad, everything was easy and folks knew how to be and now it's all a mess.

And this attitude isn't just limited to Republicans; I can find you plenty of liberals who would agree with the sentence "everything was better in the '60s and kids today suck." It's an attitude that fears progress, fears change, makes a lot of sense right now, and I think is super-comforting and totally dangerous.

So what does crazy, radical, out-there Brad Paisley say to all of us in the midst of the mishegas of 2010, when we long to go back to those simpler days?

Things are different now. We can't put them back.

Besides, things used to be pretty bad.

Now, they're better.

And if The New Yorker doesn't notice what this is or what it means, honestly -- it's probably all for the best. Keep being crazy, Brad, I won't tell.

Kisses,

Me

Oh, Rikki Lake, you were so good in Hairspray

Just finished watching The Business of Being Born because it streams on Netflix. First two thirds, I'm thinking "all right, a couple too many shots of ladies in inflatable tubs, but overall your analysis seems wise." That analysis: that birth in the US is weirdly both over-medicalized and under-effective in patient and baby mortality rates, that we're gaga for C-sections without understanding that it's major surgery, and that historically, OB's (mainly men) have tried to get women to follow the latest birthing trends by scaring the pants off of them about how terrible it will be for the baby if they don't.

With which I agree! We should (on this issue) be more like Europe. Absolutely. Yay vaginas. Yay being sensible, yay encouraging women to make informed decisions, yay not fear-mongering wildly -- oh wait. There's more.

That would be the movie's last third. Where two doctors (both male) and Louann Brizendrine (who would be my arch-nemesis if she knew who I was) talk about the real, as yet unproven, risks of Cesarians. Their speculation? By depriving women of the post-birth release of oxytocin, mothers who have C-sections are putting their children at risk for autism, ADHD, learning disabilities, impaired bonding, reduced affection, reduced maternal protectiveness, and more. In fact, as the French scientist expert dude put it (you have to do a French accent if you want the full effect): "When you give a monkey a C-section, and then show the monkey the baby, it does not love the baby. It will not care for the baby. And what are we creating now but a world without love?"

That's right, mamas. Your birth? Responsible for World War Three. Now try to relax, remember stress is bad for the baby.

Limits

This is terrible timing. My body thinks it's 1 o'clock in the morning in Tennessee. I am totally exhausted. But, I also have too much to say and the person I usually say it to is making avant-garde music in Germany right now, and I have decided not to declaim to the dog. Partly because my theory is chock full o' spoilers. Consider yourself warned.

Yesterday I finished reading Infinite Jest. Everybody is right. It is brilliant, it is frustrating. It is long. The footnotes really could be endnotes except for the multi-page ones. You'll be glad if you have, at some point, taken calculus. It will break your ever-loving heart. Etc.

But I also was pretty stunned by the depiction of the women in the book and figured there was some important essay by Jessa Crispin or Katie Rophie or someone about it. And all I could find was this fine but small post pointing out the passivity of the moms in the book. What's up with that? Where are all the feminists? In comas? The author of the post is totally right -- passive, denial-riddled mothers are a major theme, and they tolerate, for unexplained reasons, some truly noxious father behavior.

And but so there's more. In addition to the laid-back-to-catatonic mothers there are two main female characters: Avril Incandenza and Joelle Van Dyne, or, in archetype, the monster and the saint.

Avril Incandenza is, I have to admit it, a fantastic creation -- someone paid a lot of attention to women who want to project that their children are free to make up their own minds and express themselves, while simultaneously broadcasting desires of an almost crippling ferocity into the crania of such kids. She's a great, soft-spoken, eternally patient, totally hobbling demon woman. But, unlike every other major (and perhaps a plurality of minor) characters, we never for a moment get inside her head. Her flaws -- sexual, parental, incestuous -- are legion and yet, barring a brief allusion to an alcoholic dad and dead mom (which for this book are the most petite des pommes de terre) they are maddeningly unexplained. She's an ice queen, a giant slut, a borderline pedophile, and a potential terrorist and we have no idea why. (more on this later)

Joelle there's less to say about -- she's fantastically beautiful and then she isn't. Really, she isn't. Reading up on the speculations, there's an almost desperate quality to the desire some fans have for her still to be bang-up hot from head-to-toe. It's chin-to-toe, folks, though her hair seems fine. Joelle is given some smarty-pants traits (an interest in cinema, a super-cult radio show), but she's mostly there to be the Prettiest Girl (and then not) of All Time. She (unlike Avril) gets to be sweet and caring, but remains a pretty uncomplicated Object of Male Attention. Dudes' (her father, Orin, most of the planet) looking at her fucked her up one way; their looking's cessation fucked her up in a different way; and, hopefully, because I really do want her and Don to ride off into the holocaust-flecked sunset together, a dude loving her will be her salvation. Which is fine, as far as it goes -- but this is as far as it goes. These are your ladies.

Yes, there are other women in the book (Kate Gompert, Pat Montesian, Wardine, Clenette) but the pages spent on their internal lives dwarfs those given to J. O. Incandenza, J. O.'s dad, Pemulis(es), Lenz, Mario, Bruce Green, Tiny Ewell, Poor Tony, Maranthe, Steepley, et al -- not to mention the main (Hal) and secondary (Don) protagonists. It's like not even close.

So, what does this all mean? Does it mean anything? The novel's a Hamlet story from the title on down and maybe Gertrude's frosty exterior and red-hot sexual voracity will always be opaque to her son. So what if the book isn't about women's lives in the same way it's about men's? Maybe it's just a book about dudes. Adolescent dudes and older dudes and how their fathers destroy them and how their mothers let it happen and sometimes they meet vulnerable women with gorgeous faces and fantastic bodies who happen to be cheerleaders and so what?

Well, because the book's not only about masculinity (although I do think it's a major concern). It's about (yes, I know, in addition to entertainment and the environment and competition and addiction and depression, jeez) the fundamental existential difficulty of empathy. The fish in the water joke is told here for the first time, and it permeates the whole book. Can you truly understand what someone else is going through? Can you Identify? And can you capture, if only for a moment, if only one Day At a Time, the grace that comes when you do?

And I'd say the answer is for the reader is: you can when the author can. I had no doubt as I was reading that I knew exactly what it's like to be a physically gifted, grammatically obsessed tennis prodigy with a bum ankle and some major socio-cultural (not to mention economic) privilege. I could tell you honestly that I spent several years of my life as a blue-collar prescription drug fiend who burgled to finance his habit after destroying a promising football career. I can smell the stink of cigarettes from Boston AA meetings and the horror of realizing that the ritual of drug paraphernalia is the only thing I have to look forward to in a given day. I could make you believe I played Eschaton.

But I don't have a clue what makes Avril Incandenza or Joelle Van Dyne tick, and so here is where the empathy runs out. The lack of a female character with a tenth of the heart and complication and fleshed-out backstory and in-the-present pain that the men have is a big brick wall that the central project of the novel runs face-first into. It's a giant novel with a shit-ton of inertia, so it doesn't go splat when it hits that wall, but it darn sure wobbles on its way through.

The novel begins and ends with its two protagonists in a shared (though spatially and temporally separate) kind of particularly awful pain. Their internal thoughts are clear, but they have no way to communicate such thoughts to the outside world. They are rich with life but to the outside world can present only the crudest grimaces and gasps. This condition, it is clear, is a kind of hell, for in Hal's words: "I have an intricate history. Experiences and feelings. I'm complex."

What he said.

Another Letter

Can you tell I'm procrastinating?

Oh good.

Ahem.

Dear New York Times,

Forgive me for writing again so quickly, but I could not contain my shock at this week's Ethicist. In it, a parent wonders whether it would be ethical to permit her over-18-year-old son from smoking marijuana during a family vacation to Amsterdam, because while she discourages it at home on grounds of illegality, in Amsterdam it is perfectly legal.

My shock came not from the subject matter but the destination of the letter. Surely, this is not a question of ethics, but of manners, and Judith Martin ought to have set the whole family straight.

Her son should be chastised, and promptly, for placing his parents in the awkward position of having to prohibit or condone his behavior, when properly, it is none of their business.

Had the son wanted to display a more courteous attitude to his family, he could have responded, "Oh? Amsterdam. I have long wanted to observe the local culture" when the vacation was proposed, and then, casually said at the end of dinner, "I am going to visit a coffeehouse" or "I think I'll continue sight-seeing" and left it at that. Having instead apparently said something along the lines of, "Oh, goody! Legal weed!" he has now forced his parents into acting like parents must when confronted with a child's passion. They will want to find the best local hash; take photos of his smoking it for the grandparents; perhaps bring home a souvenir bong; all something of a burden. I only hope this family's mania for the truth has some boundaries -- he seems like the kind of boy who would exclaim, "Thank you so much for letting Sarah come visit for Thanksgiving. I am hoping that we will have lots of sex in the guest room."

I can't say I was surprised when I discovered that the family vacation plan was changed to Switzerland, and I must admit the young man deserved it for his rudeness. As the saying goes, "if you're not old enough to smoke pot without bragging about it to your parents, you're not old enough to smoke pot."

A Letter to the Editors of the New York Times

That I did not send and therefore will not be published:

In response to What Do Women Want? I am very impressed that scientists have gone to such great lengths to study female desire, and somewhat pity the women who watched bonobos gone wild with electrodes strapped to their ladyjunk.

However, I regret to inform all of your dedicated researchers that they are somewhat late to the party. Every single one of their startling, groundbreaking bits of sexuality insight have been known for decades to the single largest industry of women's pornography. I am referring, of course to the romance novel.

Apparently, scientists can prove that women get turned on paying attention to other women's bodies as a locus for desire: EVERY romance novel contains a lengthy, breathy description of how attractive the heroine is, how her flimsy clothes strain to hold in her bounteous body, and how mad with lust this drives our hero.

Women are, according to the article, also turned on by complete strangers and also intense emotional connection. Two things that, in real life, are going to be difficult to find in one person. However, in EVERY romance novel, the dude is both brand-new to the woman but yet can penetrate (with his insight) to the depths of her very soul.

Finally, and most controversially, women seem to test highly for fantasies of submission and domination - except, of course, in the fantasies and not real life, they actually are asking for it. Again, without judgment or a nature/nurture debate -- I dare you to find a single romance novel where the woman is the sexual aggressor. I'm not saying they all have rape -- it could be a stolen kiss, followed by a masterly display of masculine self-control, but the guys are the ones doing the pursuing.

In conclusion, New York Times, I applaud your discussion of this research (although I must admit that the photographs made it somewhat difficult to read on the subway), but I must tell you that The Defiant Debutante and her kinswomen knew it all long ago.

The Importance of Being English

On my evermore intense quest to devote all my free (and unfree) time to pointless election micro-spectating, I came across the following passage by Tory mayor of London Boris Johnson (as quoted by Andrew Sullivan):

Democracy and capitalism are the two great pillars of the American idea. To have rocked one of those pillars may be regarded as a misfortune. To have damaged the reputation of both, at home and abroad, is a pretty stunning achievement for an American president.

But, as yet unremarked upon by Sullivan or TPM, or any other blog I can find is the source of the quote. Dude's referencing Oscar Wilde! From The Importance of Being Earnest:

To have lost one parent, Mr. Worthing, might be considered a misfortune. To have lost both smacks of carelessness.

And now, the question: intentional allusion (my vote), or is Wilde enough of the daily imagination of Brits that this construction has become standard? Also -- only 2 more weeks until I get my life (and, God willing, my country) back.

I am Not a Pundit

And I have no idea what the American People's response to the last 48 hours will be, but I have to say that, from where I sit, John McCain had 4 advantages over Obama 1 month ago:

1) Experience, esp. in foreign policy
2) Reputation as a truth-teller
3) Cozy relationship w/ the media
4) Reputation as tougher and less wimpy in a crisis

And, from this l'il ol' chair, I can't help but think that between Palin, the negative ads, the Palin seclusion campaign, and the suspension freakout, he may have blown all of them BY HIMSELF in a month.

Now, just to prevent jinxing, I'm going to tap on wood, throw salt over my shoulder, and spit three times.

A prayer

Dear God, let this be the shoe vomit.

P.S. I spent yesterday vacuuming moth larvae from the ceiling. I would prefer not to have to do that again, thanks.

Ugh

And on a wildly more personal note, I just realized tonight why we are suffering our 2nd annual late summer/early fall moth infestation.

Last year, the moths all decided to live in our bread board (in its convenient plastic crumb-catching tray, feasting on our crumbs). So, of course, this year, we've been diligently checking and washing the bread board. No moths there, but yet somehow still moths.

Until tonight, when after making a post-Passion Play cup of cocoa, I saw. The moths have been living:

1) in our whole wheat flour jar from IKEA

and

2) in the dog biscuits

Both of which, are, of course, safely in the trash bag, which is safely in the trash container outside. But, still. Ugh. I killed about 5 out of 8 moths that I saw tonight, and I'll try to finish them off in the next few days, but I'm feeling a little too grossed out to go to bed alone right now.

And, in all the moth business, I wasn't able to drink my cocoa, so now it's cold and has a skin. Double ugh. I saw a 4 hour play tonight. I wanted my cocoa.

Barack Obama will never read this post

So I can feel pretty sure that my campaign advice can offered without fear of affecting things badly.

Everyone's shorts are in a knot (mine included) about what Obama should do faced with an attack of lies, more lies, fake outrage, and fake outrage + lies.

Go negative? Hire Bill Clinton? Stay positive? Make more ads about the 80s? Okay, no one wants that. Here's my two cents, for whatever it's worth (and, at this point, I think it's worth is primarily keeping me sane):

There's a scene in the 1st season of Mad Men where our protagonist, Don Draper -- 40ish, fit, talented -- invites his boss, Roger Sterling -- older, white haired, ruthless -- over to his home for dinner. Over the course of dinner Sterling gets drunk and makes a pass at Don's wife. Don is livid, but what can he do? Hit the man? No. Insult him? Unlikely. So, he says nothing, and, the next day, Sterling invites him to lunch. Where they eat and eat and drink and drink. When I watched this episode, I was like "geez, why all the oysters and cocktails?" Upon returning to the office, the men are told by an elevator operator (whom we saw Don chatting with earlier) that the elevator is out. So they take the stairs. Up twenty five flights. Don is younger and better at it, Sterling refuses to ask for a break, and when they arrive at Floor 25, Sterling walks in the door and promptly vomits 32 oysters all over the shoes of their client.

Obama's job? Keep going up the stairs. And bribe the elevator guy. McCain and Palin are going to vomit all over the American public. And we just have to hope they don't like it.

Tony Kushner's imaginary drag name

As he writes in the introduction to Homebody/Kabul, would be "Eara Lee Prescient"

And I have to say that's how I feel re-reading my last column in light of the whole Sarah Palin shebang. What are we talking about? Her kids, her uterus, her kids' uteruses, and her physical appearance.*

Politicians. And women politicians.

Not that women writers or feminists are being uniformly helpful about this either. They've made the personal their stock-in-trade, and so our presidential election becomes an extension of the Mommy Wars. I like her. I hate her. So what? Do you think she'd be a good presidential understudy? The most cynical thing I think I've thought this election cycle was when somebody said, "They're just nominating her to get the women's vote." My first reaction was "Oh, that won't be bad for the Democrats. Women hate other women." And scene.

I'm hoping that the 24-hour media cycle, billion-blog news OD thing will give way, at least a little, to issues of substance. (I know, a girl can dream). Although I have to admit that this inclines me toward despair. What can I do? Stop reading the stupid Internets like it's going out of style, and remember to breathe. We'll see how well those go.

*And yes, like 99% of women, she is both the victim of this and it's eager perpetrator. Who put this stuff on the table? Often Palin herself. Does that mean it's worth talking about? I don't really think so.

X and Woman X

Woke up this morning to this on Jezebel, which was sad and disturbing and reminded me a lot of this from the world of Gawker Media lady overshares, and also made me think about this:

None of this would be happening if they were men.

Because there are no "men's issues" blogs. There are "issues" blogs and "women's issues" blogs. Imagine for a second that Ross Douthat and Joshua Michael Marshall and Reihan Salaam were invited to an event called "Thinking and Drinking." Would their sex lives EVER be on the table as discussable? Would their behavior from college? No, and partly because they didn't put these issues there. They, like their "old media" counterparts, Leon Wiseltier and Sy Hersh et al, talk about the election and the economy and the environment, while Sandra Tsing Loh and Caitlin Flanagan and Judith Warner talk about their children and their sex lives. When 2nd-wave feminists coined the phrase "the personal is the political" I don't know if they intended it to be this kind of substitution.

Women get attention, lots of attention from people (including avid reader me) about their personal lives. It's interesting. I'm interested. In their STDs and tampon follies. In their visits to the ob/gyn and their heartbreaking breakups. But, I don't know what this attention all adds up to.

One of my good (male) friends asked  me recently, apropos of the young male writer deal (Ben Kunkel, et al) where all the young women writers are . . . and my first, uncharitable, thought was: getting drunk, having sex, and writing about it on their blogs. Yes, it's unfair and there's institutional sexist, patriarchal reasons behind these differences, but the comparison stands: Emily Gould has a memoir coming out where she talks about, um, herself. Keith Gessen wrote a novel and founded a magazine. With almost no women writers. Which somehow doesn't make it a "men's magazine."

And, finally, the shittiest part of all of this comes down to biology. Yes, men aren't oversharing as much on their blogs and they're way further ahead in both old and new media in talking about the big-picture political stuff, even though I'd take Megan Carpentier's analysis over Matt Yglesias's any day. And, yes,  I have to wonder if the hunger we have, as a society, for the inner lives of women writers creates its own kind of glass ceiling where you can have a column as long as you promise to self-gossip. But, even if we did away with all of the societal crap, we'd still come down to this:

What are the two hot-button issues on the Jezebel interview? Rape and abortion. Two things that even feminists will fight each other about, two things that lead to blame and judgment and "how dare you" or "why didn't you" or "I never would have" or "you don't understand." The twin worst outcomes of sexual behavior -- the demons lurking around the corner of supposedly liberated, late 20s carousing. 

Two things that are never, ever going to happen to straight men. 

After "Resume"

Or "Dorothy Parker Tries to Remove Her Pubic Hair"

Nair smells icky
Razors cause bumps
Sugar's sticky
And cold wax clumps

Brazilians are burning
Right up to the tush
Scissors take learning
You might as well bush

I am a part of a crucial demographic trend

And here all this time, I thought I was just wearing pants and cardigans.

Sometimes it takes a blog

To remark on the one angle of the Eliot Spitzer situation you are 100% positive has not been covered by the mainstream media. . .

It's eerie similarity to a song by mid-90s folk-pop band The Nields. Keep in mind that George Fox was the alias Spitzer used at the Mayflower Hotel, and read:

Best Black Dress

Mr. George Fox requests the pleasure of my company
By pointed envelope marked "Special Delivery"
And I know what this means, most certainly
This means tonight Mr. George Fox will take me to Club Century

In my best black dress
In my best black shoes
Why should I refuse?

Most days are not like this, you understand
Oh no, most days find me taking ideas in shorthand
In a room alone with changing wedding bands
Mr. George Fox, I've got better things planned

In my best black dress
In my best black shoes
What have I got to lose?

He says, "That's what's wrong with this generation
You're supposed to be making something new
But it's so much more fun to play in your parents' historyland"

Speaking of which
Mr. George Fox has a daughter just my age
I've seen her once or twice at the other end of his estate
She has long purple skirts and an old mutt she got in college
I wonder if she's seen me creeping home at night through the foliage
Has she seen me?

In my best black dress
In my best black shoes
Would she be confused?

The Busy List

I was looking at my name on a list of ushers (my current work-study assignment) last week. Next to people's names were various designations: jobs they held, year and department. Next to mine was an asterix and the words "The Busy List." I have no idea what the Busy List and am only moderately interested in finding out. Now that I know it exists, however, I'm feeling quite justified in being on it. In addition to ushering, I'm directing a show at the Cabaret, on top of all the regular classwork plus TAing plus thinking about next year stuff. Life (as defined by regular exercise, sleep, church, and reading novels) bit the dust around mid-September and hasn't returned.

It's tech week, though, and I'm having all kinds of directing flashbacks. It's been about 6 years since I've done this. Scratch that. It's been exactly 6 years since I've done this -- I always have a play going up the weekend of The Game -- and it's amazing what's faded (many, many useful skills) and what's remained (my emotions). During tech week when everyone's digging in and hunkering down and fighting for what they want and crying in the corner, during tech week when it seems so life-and-death, I always become weirdly detached. It's the moment when I suddenly go, "You guys, it's just a play." I tend to do this about 48 hours before we open. It's not particularly helpful.

So, everyone's running around and doing things and asking my opinions, and no one's slept and everyone's on edge and I'm continually asked if I want to either:

A) Tell someone I like very much who's exhausted to work still more on something

or

B) Tell someone that I like very much who's exhausted that I don't want to use that thing they stayed up all night making


The only way to get through these moments, I think, is to have a clear sense of vision. A perspective that "I don't care if you plucked single hairs off a thousand llamas, this is sweater doesn't look the way I want it to." And I just don't. I kind of go "I dunno, what do you think? Sweater? No sweater? Meh, it's only a play."

This is the same me who will write for months, years on "only a play" or rehearse tirelessly, convinced that a single missed word or comma or realization or breath will inexcusably alter the course of the piece. But put me in tech week, and I'm suddenly the captain of team, "why are you guys so worked up about playing dress-up?"

Anyway, it's extremely late and I can't sleep because I'm afraid of making decisions that will make people that I like very much who are exhausted upset.

And, for the past week, whenever I do get to sleep, I just dream about the play anyways.

Decisions

Sometimes you come home from rehearsal and you have a giant to-do list, featuring things like homework, producing chores for the show that opens in 12 days (aaaah), making a giant cardboard circular sign (actually that technically falls under producing chores), applying to various schmancy playwriting contests that do things like require a CDR with all of your documents when you are ALREADY SENDING THEM IN TRIPLICATE.

And, instead of doing one or some or any of the things on your to-do list, you start cooking because . . . well, you're starving, and there are things in the fridge that can turn into food, but very little that can be eaten w/o being cooked. So, now it's an hour and a half later and the to-do list is still as long and you're busy pretty much all of tomorrow, but . . . you have made a tuna casserole (complete with corn-flake crust) and are roasting a chicken and cooking greens so as to have meals for the rest of the week. Because that's the other thing. I kind of hate eating out around campus. Whatever you eat for dinner (barring Mamoun's or Noodle which are absurdly cheap) will cost around $10 and be thoroughly unexceptional. I have a high/low relationship with food . . . either it's homemade and cheap or it's a restaurant and nice and better in some way than home. $10 worth of lousy Pad Thai is a week's worth of dinners, or a couple used books, or a fifth of a haircut.

And I'll figure out the damn playwriting contests once the chicken is done.

Postscript for all you feminists out there: Beloved Husband is actually in more rehearsals than I am, and won't be getting home till midnight. But he made linguine with tomatoes and cannellini beans on Sunday, so we can't be too mad at him.

Good things

The best pie crust recipe I have ever tried. Why? It involves vodka. For serious. Sign up for the free trial and steal this sucker. Or else just buy the magazine.

The best piece of theater I have seen in a long-ass time. Why? Chuck Mee and Tina Landau are awesome and able to bypass mere "relevance" (one of my least favorite program-note terms ever) and achieve import.

The show that is currently consuming my brain, but making me very happy.

I still feel as though the water level of my own busyness keeps rising (right now, I'd say it's at about mid-shoulder). On the other hand, I've reached a state of Zen-like calm about the fact that I might not finish my big homework projects for the semester (full-length original screenplay, new biography play, among others) and I'm okay with that. It seems like a sort of mental transition has started, and suddenly the fact that I'm going to graduate is provoking a weird sort of senioritis. Not that I shouldn't do my homework because it doesn't matter, but that I shouldn't do a half-assed, just turn it in to be done with it job, because it does matter. Some lightbulb went off October 1st and I'm not writing for my teachers anymore. I'm writing for me. And, you know, God willing, some other folks, too, eventually.

Life and shoes

Unlike many ladies, or at least many ladies on the TV, I am not a big fan of shoe shopping. This stems largely from the fact that in addition to being concerned about consumerism and the environment, blah blah blah, I also have a bunion. Like the Golden Girl I am. (Related: I was going to link to WebMD, but their site claims that bunions result from wearing tight shoes, which is UNTRUE. I have worn high heels for a total of 90 minutes in my life and still have weirdo deformed feet. So phooey on you and your sexist ersatz genetics-avoidance, WebMD).

Anyway, I'm not so into shoe shopping, but faced with one pair of hole-riddled red Chucks, I figured I was going to have to face up to the impending New England fall. And I went to DSW, where I found this . . . a shoe called the Playwright. Which, shockingly, are actually pretty comfortable and kind of what I was looking for (in "cigar" if you're curious). Not too casual, not too dressy, nice cushy arch support; they are flat enough to fit in my bike's toe clips, and stretchy enough to accommodate said bunion.

And, I have to admit, I was feeling pretty stoked about wearing shoes that matched my chosen career right up until I went to look for them on Zappos, in case I wanted to order another pair in black. Turns out the style got discontinued in 2005. . . except for children.

Apparently, they're the only ones interested in playwrights. Sigh.