Le maudit Mo D.

sexy sexy

I agree with Dyna--this whole business of "sexy _____" Halloween costumes is absurd. Are Americans so convinced of their utter lack of inherent sexiness that they must wait until Halloween to proclaim themselves such? Is human sexuality so taboo and creepy and only the rightful province of silicone freaks like Pamela Anderson-Sex Tape Guy that we have to resort to being "sexy butterfly" or "sexy beer wench" just to claim our right to our own sexuality.

D has offered to draw the world's most unsexy thing with sexy legs on it (like the old cigarette ads of yore). I am sure that the end result will be hilarious.

My list:
Sexy Dictionary
Sexy Bottle of Bleach
Sexy Gallstone
Sexy Monogrammed Towel Set
Sexy Crock Pot
Sexy Dental Floss

TOMORROW marks Day #1 of NaBloPoMo, which requires me to post every day for a month. Some topics to be covered: improv, art, artists, other shit, and etc. Thank you for your continued support.

behemoth

Here at worky-work, I have been relieved of my duties towards the Behemoth Man of Letters and am applying my caring archival hand to the papers of Thin Irish Poet. Thin Irish Poet has the distinction of being the youngest Harry's author/collectee. I remember when TIP came to visit us librarians a few years ago. I only saw him for a few seconds but enjoyed listening to his dulcet Irish brogue fill the stacks. His voice was effortlessly sexy, by virtue of being Irish, and a total panty-dampener when reading aloud from his works. It reminded me of my One Life To Live obsession, when IRA operative/college professor (of course) Patrick Thornhart charmed daytime viewers with his Irish poet soul. Brown penny brown penny brown penny... O, the magic!

Turns out that TIP, like Behemoth, did not cull needless materials from his collection before shipping it over from County Mayo. While Behemoth kept all of his hate letters and spirited backyard snapshots of lingerie-clad middle-aged female fans hoping to become Wife #7, TIP interfiled all of his boring home remodel paperwork in with his official writerly correspondence. So alongside letters from Annie Proulx and Coim Ni Dearrhnra (making that one up--lots o' Gaelic names I can't pronounce) researchers will appreciate finding a brochure from Irish Wood Frame and Custom Window.

I must say, I am having a frightening visceral reaction to not working on Behemoth's stuff. I miss Behemoth and his lawsuits and his unkind words for M. Kakutani. I suspect that Behemoth's appeal has little to do with writing and a lot to do with the ineffable chemical bitchslap that is charisma. Behemoth's got it pouring out of his aged Jewish ass in spades, and it just is. Nothing you can cultivate. Nothing you should spend time working your brain on. I admit to being seduced by his crap. I can't even get through ten consecutive paragraphs of his work and here I am committing the indulgent, unprofessional sin of pining (and blogging on the clock).

We have some Junior Archives Scouts over from the i-School this afternoon who are audibly creaming over finding stuff by K. Vonnegut. If they only know what's in store for them in the future.

maudit poetry corner #2

i am afraid of
slight asian men
(one tried to carve my chest; a popsicle stick photograph in Beverly Hills)
and
ancient tall men with roman noses
(one made me and broke my heart)
men who read
(they all have a problem with me;
such is the plight of a girl who works with her head)
books poems and angry guitars
(the strings that break are the strings I make)
silly pointing and speaking out
(i cannot speak; words
betray this tongue so thick with song)
lights pouring from overhead
(such papery skin makes leaves that say nice things)
smoke and flame
(nearly destroyed the foundation upon
which these fears were born)
eyes which fall and do not meet mine
(so long ago, in
polyester pigtails this plight was wrought; unkindness is a game, a necessary foe)
remind me of the infinite sword
that holds my leg still

i am afraid of
paper wrapped babies i might never hold
(lambs of god foretold by angry subway rats cursed
to hold the magic wand)
blame
(for my innocence is vapor)
women
(it is not my intention to harm you, only to hold your gaze
as the wind undoes your shoelaces)
bad tastes
plastic bags
regrets so leaden that tears are toxic waste

and yet
hold my hand
for tomorrow's untold graces may challenge
that which fear entombs
undoes it like a lover
after time relents
and
forgets responsibility

mazel tov, eireann!

I was lying in the warm comfort of my newly flannel-sheeted bed last night, awaiting the arrival of my fuzzy co-sleeper, thumbing my way though Poets & Writers magazine, and who should appear on the emerging poets roster but Eireann, reader of this here blog! She recently published a book of poetry with an adorable cover. Yay acknowledged talent and yay Eireann! If you happen to be reading this, congratulations!

are we not girls?

Just read Joolz's blog. She says last night's show was TEH SUCK. We were up against a lot of troublesome factors last night. For starters, t'was the Saturday before Halloween, and everyone in Austin preferred to attend parties, imbibe, wear costumes, and perhaps mack the fuck out instead of attending one of the city's numerous improvisational offerings. Totally understandable, and in the future we will remember not to book shows on such a fortuitous date. Second, we did not get listed in the Chronic. That's buttfuck suicide right there, unless you're famous, in which case it's cool. Was it not just a week ago that we had a sold-out crowd at our fifth anniversary show? Are we not awesome?

Part of being an artist is sometimes being Teh Suck. Not dwelling on it or letting it color your future endeavors is the only way to get past it. My puppets got their pride majorly hurt this week. Sock's been looking really gloomy, lying folded next to Bob's soldering gun. Snail doesn't want to talk about it but I know my dudes are hurting. They really want to impress. GGG is fucking golden. We rock it so hard that yeah, last night's mediocre show to an audience of eight with no house music (oops) was a turd in the punchbowl of greatness. We were down half the cast and playing at a new venue after hours is hard. Damn hard. But like a phoenix with hot tits, we will rise again. We are solid as a rock and any Geegster setback is a temporary setback. Trust the we are great.

Sorry I went all mega-smart-ass. Library: The Musical is the only time that I get to use my MLIS to the fullest these days.

I got some good notes on POE from my writey group today and AITS (novel #2) is going well, with the really-horrible-date written to its oogy specifications. Tony Spinelli is a freak and is totally mean to Carol.

the fortunes of the fortunate

First of all, I've felt like a pariah/dweeb in all social situations this week, even at work, which is a seething nerd hutch if there ever was one. The fact that I'm wearing socks with sandals right now is not helping. The combo is comfortable and comforting but clearly everyone is looking at my feet before looking into my heart. I admit, I've been wound up like a top this week, owing to the presence of large, uncontrollable fire adjacent to my mom's property. Now that she and Little Bro are out of imminent danger, I will try to calm the fuck down.

I also have this crazy itchy scab in my left nostril, so I bet people have seen me trying to scratch at it, assuming that I'm going in for booger excavation. I'm gross and nerdy!

My thoughts on last night's failed puppet-prov experience:
1) It's really important to commit, even if you don't know what you're doing. Fake it. Don't defer to anyone else. I felt there was a lot of "play to meet Mo's expectations" going on. My only expectation was that we do our best and have fun. I didn't give a shit about winning. I just wanted to have fun and air out the puppets.
2) Not rehearsing is a bad idea.

Sock had eye surgery immediately before our set, so he says that the lingering odor of glue kept him off his game. He and Snail would like to thank the two people who voted for us last night. Thank you. No puppets until 2008, which will put a smile on the faces of local puppet-haters.

GGG has a show tomorrow night. A bad, busy holiday weekend to try to put on a show at an irregular venue. But we're going to do it anyway!

Geegsters!
10:30pm
Salvage Vanguard Theater
2??? Manor Rd (somewhere between El Chilito and the Citgo station)
$10
to be performed on a pretty white set with a bed

House 1; Fire 0

is still standing!
is officially out of the evacuation perimeter!
is apparently in need of a big old power wash and an hvac blow-out.

I am rather stunned by the images from Rancho Bernardo, where entire streets were wiped out, save for one or two houses here and there. How does that happen?

I will have a lot to be thankful for at Thanksgiving this year. House!

i h8 fire

My mom seems oddly cheerful for a woman whose brand-new home isn't two miles from a raging, towering inferno, taking out the Bing Crosby Motherdiddlin' Golf Course on its way to Del Mar Heights. There are a shitload of golf courses staving off the flames, and thank GOD Mom chose to buy amid all those moneyed sportsmen, with acres of well-hydrated turf and sandlots ahoy. Mom and Bro actually spent some Q.T. in their house today. WTF?

I HATE FIRE! I always have! I hate it more than I hate Genocide-denying Turks, so that's some big hate.

She and her neighbors are confident that they are to be spared, and I hope they're right. Not only do I not want her to lose that house because A) that would totally suck, B) my dad's Quebecois maritime antiques are in that house and I would feel like an asshole for not donating them to a maritime museum when I had the chance but mostly C) I would spend the next 10+ years dealing with a KRAZY MOTHER WHO IS HOMELESS. Homeless but can front for a four-star hotel. She wouldn't be homeless for long. But still. Not two days before the shitstorm began, IKEA delivered her new EKTORP love seat and she was all excited about it. She just finished getting her new house up to code and for it to be mowed down by my mortal enemy, FIRE, the whole fam would be devastated.

I'd be more upset about the maritime antiques than the EKTORP. EKTORPS are like rats, yo: everywhere.

In Armo news, I enjoyed a kufta for my lunch today. I was very excited about that. It was a tasty kufta, though not called that and not made by Armenians.

evacuation

Does not mean "check into a four star hotel on the beach three miles from your house."

But, I guess to my mom it does.

I'm a bit cheesed about this. She had an opportunity to head to O.C. and she frittered it away. I hate to say this, but the fire is encroaching on her house. For what she paid for that house, it better be fucking fireproof. I would have been out of there hours ago, but she and her neighbors are treating it like a big End of the World Party and are partying hearty on the fucking beach.

Grrrr...

I h8 s.d.

Whenever I tell people that I hate, with a passion, the city and county of San Diego, people look at me like I have two heads. EVERYONE loves San Diego. Who doesn't want perfect weather, beaches, and a laid-back attitude for life? Me, for starters. Although F-town is universally acknowledged to suck dead donkey dick, that was my home. I was cruelly and unforgivably wrested from it, and was forced to put up with a psycho assfuck stepdad whilst looking out the window at one palm tree, Tijuana, and a 7-11 I wasn't allowed to go to because it was allegedly full of gun-toting Mexicans looking to rape white women. That and a lot of crying and baby puke. None of this is San Diego's fault, but just being there gives me a headache. People say it's pretty and to me it's the fugliest place on earth, though better than L.A. in my opinion. And who the hell puts carne asada on fries? People in San Diego, that's who.

And now San Diego is ON FIRE and causing my family much anguish. As I write this, my mom is packing up her Volvo and is about to evacuate her new house in the 'Mar because there are raging fires encroaching on the very tony property in her area. Mom's house sits under a very scary, brushy mountain. When I saw the house for the first time, I looked up at that hill, which overlooks I-5 and the beach, and said, "well, if that thing ever catches fire, you're fucked." And here we are today.

San Diego had firestorms of a similar magnitude four years ago. Ash fell from the sky like hell on earth but the only land truly threatened was out in east county. East SD county is an odd ecosystem that can't choose whether or not to be desert or mountains, so it is both and neither at the same time. It hardly ever rains out there, so it is very susceptible to fire. Mom lives closer to the ocean, but as fire has proven itself to be able to cross twelve-across freeways with no problem, she is in the line of fire (literally) and is on her way.

As I write this, the fire has to take out all of Rancho Santa Fe (the most expensive zip code in San Diego) and the polo fields that lie to the east of my mom's property, plus a few hundred houses, before it would get to her place. She lives on the Del Mar/Solana Beach line off Via de la Valle between San Andres and I-5 if you want to track it on a Google.

And let's face it: do you think that those nice mega-rich people are going to let their mansions burn to the ground? No. Money wall. I think (and hope) that mom's place will be okay.

"The Guadalajaran Enema"

Finally has a Wikipedia entry.

When Big Ray ordered this at the Don Diego Taqueria way back when, I was rather disgusted by his choice of caloric intake. Fortunately, he christened it the Guadalajaran Enema and all was right in the world again.

Also, in perusing the online menu of my high school era supplier of lard pill burritos, Roberto's, I learned that they now offer a "lite" burrito, consisting of beans, rice, salsa, and guacamole. I wonder if they still use a ton of lard in everything--the tortillas, the beans, smeared on the grill. When in SD, you should hit one of the 1,200,000 SD County locations of Roberto's.

ridiculousness

Austin will soon be getting its very own Fogo de Chao. For those of you who have never met our puppets, or who have never perused Southwest's in-flight magazine, Fogo de Chao is a chain Brazilian churrascaria. An embarrassment of foods is brought to your table by "gauchos" who, responding to a red-means-stop, green-means-more-meat sign, deliver to your table fifteen different types of seasoned, fire-roasted meats on a large metal skewer. The puppets are really taken by this concept of Brazilian abundance and like to yell "MEAT ON A SWORD!" when they are feeling surly or attention-starved. "MEAT ON A SWORD!" A battle cry! A demand for service by gauchos! Real gauchos, right here in Austin! Wearing knee-revealing gaucho pants, I hope.

--NEXT TOPIC--

I've been drowsy and lo-N.R.G. all day today. I barely left the house except to go eat a burger with Bob's ex and her husband (lovely people). Most of the day was dedicated to my OCD version of online airplane ticketing. That's right: another Euro adventure this Christmas. This time, sunny Spain! Or more specifically, Barcelona. The Ap Fam is sponsoring a family vay-cay. Ma and Pa Ap, the three baby Aps, and the two Ap wives are spending a week in Catalonia. I've been perusing a Catalan phrasebook. I had no idea that Catalan was the language of Spanish and French mooshed together. In fact, Catalan looks more like French to me. I hope that I can bust out some of my francais whilst on the continent.

tonight is a night for lovers

...of distaff improv musical comedy. That's right, tonight La Geegsters celebrate FIVE glorious years as what they are today. Which is an all-girl improv troupe that specializes in Broadway-style musicals.

Who can deny the talent and sexiness of this batch of bitches?

That would be us in April 2005. There are a lot less of us now:

September 2006. That's all of us today minus Aden.

There's Aden singing with Andy!

So as you can see, we're a pack of stone cold foxes. AND we're funny and talented, too. Also, this five year deal is huge because we haven't (for the most part) had any giant meltdowns or fistfights or enormous "artistic differences" that have lead to people leaving in a huff or the group dissolving like so much soggy Kleenex. For whatever reason, we have our shit together.

Here in A-town, we talk a lot about the "improv community" and how great it is. I totally drink to that, but honestly, if it hadn't been for the Geegsters, I think I would have taken a hike from improv years ago and never looked back. I credit these ladies for being supportive friends, amazing creative collaborators, and excellent girly fashion and makeup resources. Where I would be with out my girls I cannot say, but love them I do.

TONIGHT!
Five years of GGG as we know it!
special guests Caitlin Sweet, Tara White and OMG JEN CARGILL!?!?!?
The Hideout
10pm
10 dollaz
party afterwards
beer + cake by Michelle who made my wedding cake!

Big B Baby News

I think my only reader who knows the parties involved is T-Square, but here it is:

My Big B pal KR gave birth to a very preemie baby yesterday. The little dude is 1 lb 12 oz. KR had preeclampsia so baby Benjamin was delivered via C-section 12 weeks early.

Happy birthday, little dude. Someday when you're older, your mom's college friends will tell you about the time your she threw a Sam Adams 12-pack box full of vomit out of her fourth floor window.

KR is totally one of my favoritest people. I hope she and baby do alright.

Buy the Harold wall chart

I should also add that you can buy that spiffy Harold instructional wall chart here.

behemoth woman of opinions

Today while I was sorting the high-dollar-value detritus of the Behemoth Man of Letters, I was taking small personal edification breaks (read: surfing the web) and as per usual, took several ganders at the Rollicking Improv Commentary (see link to your right). There were several threads of a theoretic basis going. One about some dude trying to impose a nationwide moratorium on the practice and performance of Harolds:

Which to me just comes across as pointless, ignorant, and the folly of an attention-starved provocateur. A wise man once said, "you need to get laid, young man," but because he was espousing his views on an improv message board, he was indulged with a number of supportive and/or you-are-such-a-dick responses from other readers. I personally think jackassery deserves to be ignored. Shouting matches with faceless, far-away children never yielded much in the way of fomenting reason in the populace. To me, at least, which is why I never feel the need to screed.

The other was about how the nomination process for a local theater award. The ball got dropped, but during that time, there was much chatter about whether or not the greater improv community should pursue this award for a troupe in our community. The noise rose and fell for a month and a half until the deadline passed and someone said "what ever happened with this?" Nothing!

Wading through these missives, I couldn't help but notice that the women in the community rarely participate in the theoretic banter games that are volleyed on the message boards. Maybe its because there are fewer girls than guys. Maybe because fewer ladies have day jobs that have them parked in front of a computer all day, with time to spare to express themselves. I don't believe this happens because the ladies feel they would be shouted down or that their opinions don't count. It's a curious fact of being female, I suppose. Intellectual sparring doesn't appeal to most of us girls.

I say that tongue-in-cheek, of course. If you read this blog, you know where I went to college, and in saying that I can almost feel the rugby cleats of a hundred Clinton-era feminists on my throat. Intellectual sparring did happen a lot back in the 'Hamp, but in a wildly different manner. Female sparring, as I witnessed and participated in it a decade ago, was based on emotions and personal experiences. "I" statements were the norm and you had more traction in your arguments if you were one of the LC's Daughters of Distinction*. As circumstances put me at a tactical disadvantage, I usually found ample reason to flee those interviews. I was not one of the Ladycollege's fiercest debaters, nor did I care to be.

Opinions, like assholes, nothing special.

Tell that to Behemoth Man of Letters. Six decades of dominating American literary and social thought and the man sells his scribbles to Harry for millions. Tastemaker mags like the New Yorker call him to ask him what he ate for breakfast and what it looked like coming out the other end. How many trees have died for this man's opinions? And why are we still listening?

I tried to figure out who the female version of BM of Ls is and the best I could come up with was Gloria. Gloria and Behemoth had their own differences BITD. In fact, there is a documentary where Behemoth summarily wizzes on second-wave feminism, much to the shock and awe of the 413 peanut gallery. I'd like to watch this, if for no other reason than after going through this man's garbage for the last month, I have yet to find convincing evidence that he's a capital-S sexist. Men are a power group, and asking them to relinquish their power through name-calling and overall-wearing just doesn't work. I might have believed otherwise ten years ago, but if I didn't, I wouldn't have had a place to sit in the living room.

But back to my 'prov homeboys. I don't know why this happens, but there are a group of people who get lathered over the Harold. For those of you who practice other religions, the Harold is a long-form improv format devised by Del Close. Dyna designed a pretty bitchin' wall chart about it that sums it up quite beautifully. Even though I am not a practitioner of the Harold (not because I have anything against it; my improv path just hasn''t lead me there), I still have that wall chart hanging in my living room, sort of like Catholics have crucifixes or Jews have mezzuzahs. Of course, local defenders and detractors, all male, get out their polemic machetes and start hacking. My gut reaction is, "why waste IQ points on this loser?" Which also begs the question, Madame Maudit, why are you saving yours?

So, my personal challenge is to embroil myself in all matters of improv-related opinion. Even if I can't muster the fervor required. Men have a lot of things right and maybe running the mouth regardless of what anyone else thinks without considering if what I have to say is relevant or valuable is what I need to get myself out of the miasma of politeness I find myself in. When I don't speak up on trivial pursuits, it is usually because I don't think anyone gives two shits about my opinion. Which is not the point! Does Behemoth think this way? No! And he's lying in a hospital bed right now, opining from behind an oxygen mask. And I promise you that anyone in earshot is hanging on his every word.

G-d bless you, N. M.

*add three points if you're queer, two points if you're an abuse survivor, one point if you're a woman-of-color or have a diagnosed personality disorder. Subtract one point if you're white, straight, obviously wealthy, a compsci major, or have a Brad Pitt poster on your wall. Five points added if you plan to start a rumor about present company or if you have dominion over the living room furniture. God Save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!

a brilliant mistake

There is something in my life that means a lot to me. We share a special relationship, one based on pleasure. I am not talking about Bob, though he is aware of my feelings, nay, addiction, for Parmesan cheese. Actually, all hard Italian cheeses. We call it "shakey cheese," not only because it is usually dispensed from a container that is shaken, but because I become shaky in its presence. When I was a baby, my mom used to cut slivers of it for me to suck on. I love Parmesan and overuse it at every Italian meal.

Tonight, I was sauteeing myself some spinach to pour over pasta. Bob and I bought a big block of Parmesano Reggiano (The King of Parmesans) at Costco. Bob dutifully portioned it out, freezer-bagged it, and put the cubes in the freezer so they last a long time. Parm Reg is outrageously expensive: $15 a pound at C-Market usually. Costco sells it for around $11, but you have to buy at least a full pound, if not more. I decided that my pasta/spinach combo deserved some Reggiano and pulled out a chunklet from the freezer.

It was still frozen, so I decided to let it whirl in the microwave for a few seconds. Apparently "express defrost" is very hot, because after 15 seconds in the 'wave, my block of hard Italian cheese had melted into a gooey mess. At first, I was crestfallen. I had ruined a block of expensive cheese.

OR HAD I?

Reader, melted Parm Reg is heavenly. I placed a stringy blob of it on my pasta, and it was the most salty, winey, toothsome treat imaginable. Over-microwaving the cheese was the best mistake I ever made. And now I am too full of cheese to eat any dessert. Oh well.

IN OTHER NEWS:

Lurid materials regarding the eating of poop were found today at work. Specifically, an interview with an unidentified eater of poop. I have also seen child pornography under the auspices of archivy. Just another day at Harry's Hideaway!

Dear Carol,

BELATED EDITOR'S NOTE: This is me basically brainstorming about my novel. Whenever I run into a snag or a little writer's block, I like to write my characters a letter. Carol is the main character in my 2nd novel. She is pretend, but if she were not, she'd be 61 years old. I imagine that Philip Horvath, at 86, would be dead by now. I might write him a letter anyway.

You are a Catholic girl in 1964 Western Massachusetts. You have a lot in common with my mother-in-law: religion, class, Polishness. You don't have the same ambitions I do. There is no big payoff, no expectations other than marriage and motherhood. You will not go to college even though I put you in the Polish part of where I went to school. You don't care. It's never been part of the plan for you. There is no plan. It's 1964. Your father is a bus driver. Your mother stays home.

You worry about not fitting in. Your friends have been ragging on you ever since you failed to bawl your eyes out when Kennedy was shot. And then you did it again when Anna died. It's not that you don't feel terrible about these things--you saw Anna's blood in the snow after all. You just think there is a better explanation for things like this. You believe God has the answers. You do not question the religious education you have received, though you do question Sister Aquilina's personal happiness and her opinion of you.

You worry that you aren't pretty enough to attract a boy, yet you sabotage yourself in that arena whenever you have a chance. At those Senior Mixers you're required to attend, you get jealous when boys lavish your friends with attention, but you won't put on makeup or even comb your hair. Your school uniforms are too big because they belonged to your sister and your mom did a piss-poor job taking them in for you. You look like a bum. You know this. You feel powerless to change it.

With Mr. Horvath, the limo was just part of it. Who can afford a limo in Chicopee? It's a milltown, the Horvath's do not own the mill. What's up with that?

You like the ballerina on Ed Sullivan, but you didn't see what was so great about the Beatles. You don't think any of them are cute enough to warrant such shrieking.

Maybe Paul. A little. Are they even Catholic?

You know that God wants to you to marry Mr Horvath. You are both thrilled and repulsed by this. You look him up in the phone book. You ride your bike past his house, a large, dilapidated, austere house. Mr. Horvath has a telephone cord so long that he can lounge in his front yard and drag the telephone out the front door. In addition to a limo, he also has an Indian motorcycle and a Cadillac.

There is also a blonde lady caller once in a while. More on that later.

But Carol, darling: he takes seriously your accidental proposal. He says he will seriously consider it. And then he shows up in front of your house in the limo with a ring and roses and everything.

Oh, what you will learn about Philip Horvath, baby.

Nazi art. War brides. A bunch of fucked-up friends from his days at Williams. And he's a big fucking baby, to boot. No wonder Anna's mother went to prison.

But by the end, when he kisses your forehead and tells you to find a better man than he, one who knows better than to complicate his life with silly things like art and trying to figure out the answers to life's enormous questions, you thank him.

You thank him with all your heart.

lucy was a stone-cold bitch

The Old Gray Lady has been running frequent articles about the release of the new Charles Schultz biography, which apparently reveals that the man behind ultra-depressed/Borderine personality-disordered 8-year-olds was himself a suffering, isolated, sad artiste. Now the Schultz family is upset because this book portrays Dear Old Dad as some kind of Van Gogh/Plathian black-clad bundle of depression.

I had my fair share of Peanuts swag. Anyone remember the Peanuts Glass Tumbler Collection that McDonald's included with their Happy Meals circa 1981? We had those, and we used them for a bloody long time.

The Peanuts characters are bundles of pathologies:

BORDERLINE: LUCY. Lucy took joy in the suffering of others and connived her way into perpetrating repeat attacks on Charlie Brown's dignity and self-worth.
STOCKHOLM SYNDROME: CHARLIE BROWN. Charlie Brown was treated like dirt by his peers and tended to sympathize with their opinion. The whole football thing with Lucy--over and over he kept convincing himself that he could trust her--proved that he identified with his abuser.
DELUSIONAL/ATTACHMENT DISORDER: LINUS. Still carrying around that blanky and believing that the Great Pumpkin is going to appear despite evidence to the contrary. Also, some sibling shit with Lucy, for sure.
PARENTAL NEGLECT: PIGPEN. No adult around to bathe him.
AUTISTIC SAVANT: SCHROEDER. Brilliant at piano but unable to form meaningful interpersonal relationships.
SLURRED SPEECH: MISS OTHMAR. Hwa hwa! Hwa hwa hwa HWA!
NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY DISORDER: PEPPERMINT PATTY. And what's up with that Gertrude/Alice dynamic she's got going with her girlfriend Marcie? Marcie needs to find a more loving and emotionally generous girlfriend instead of wallowing around that tyrant P. P.

Hell, the only normal characters are the animals. Snoopy is confident and has a rich inner life and despite his small stature, Woodstock is able to rise above Snoopy's occasional arrogance and put him in his place.

I have no problem believing that Charles Schultz wasn't exactly a bundle of funzies. Peanuts, like a lot of midcentury so-called children's literature, is F-ed up if you think about it long enough.

what gift?

If I want to get myself good and sad, all I have to do is read reports on the internet about gifted children. Yeah, I was off-the-mf-charts gifted in my day. Some ridiculously high IQ, early verbal acquisition, early reading skills, all added up to this current underachieving package you see today. I feel that my education was handled lazily, that I was bored in school, and that as much as C-Juana H.S. totally rocked it, I should have been allowed to graduate early and go to college at sixteen like I wanted to, but was blocked from doing so by my lazy mother and schoolteacher stepfather, who staunchly believes in the supremacy of public education and pretended to know about gifted education while not-so-secretly holding smart kids in contempt (another reason why he should not ever call me if/when he needs end-of-life care). I should just not read these things, but I am doing a little research into "alternatives to high school" for the little bro. He's only got two more years, but I'm thinking maybe taking the California equivalency exam and going to junior college might be a better route for him.

Bob and I attended the birthday party of a 4-year-old boy today. Being a member of the castrati, we don't get invites to kids b-day parties so much, so it was nice to revel with the kinder for a bit. I observed during the party that boys born during the early part of the 21st Century are given names more baroque than the Johnny/Timmy/Bobby names that SOME IMPROVISERS seem to assign child characters. NO ONE calls their son Timmy these days. It's not what America in the 2000s is about. Tanner! Elijah! Cameron! Kaden! get over here now! Children are given names that look good on business cards. Diminutives are not happening these days.

mobot week in review

A year later, I am finding amusement in my odds-n-sods wedding photos. What's up with that one? We're like a couple of robots kissing. I admit, that was a stressful day and Bob and I look exhausted in a lot of the pics (I have cry-eyes in most of them). But Bob looks like he's trying to suck Kool-aid out of my mouth or something. Strange shot!

At any rate, 14 months post-nup, the Bobster and I are still happy as a couple of drunk clams, so whatever was doing in my head on 08.13.06 isn't indicative of the big picture, which is MARRIAGE, which is super sweet. This week Bob confounded the crap out me with the news that an Alabama pastor died from a weird type of autoerotic asphyxiation.

I still can't wrap my mind around how one achieves orgasm (or whatever) by putting on two wetsuits and a dildo up one's ass. Bob digs it whenever a Republican senator or Christian dude gets caught getting faggy or practicing an elaborate, confusing, and in this case, fatal type of masturbation. The internets provide plenty of fodder for lefty schadenfreude! I still don't get how wetsuits, dildo-up-the-bum, and hogtying yourself is in any way pleasurable. It sounds painful and weird, and from a mechanical standpoint, impractical. If he had an erection, there would be no place for it to go. It would end up swollen and look like Central Market Hot Italian Sausage trapped beneath the plastic wrap and the styrofoam tray. Why G-d commanded this man to eschew the classic pants-down up-and-down tried-and-true pathway to ejaculation is beyond me, and I guess we'll never know the answer to the question, "what the fuh?"

How about and XTREME CAKE CLOSEUP!?!?

That was a delicious cake. Blue frosting. Tres leches insides. If you're in Austin and you want to try delicious cake from the woman who made my wedding cake (though this time it will be pink outside, strawberries-and-cream insides) you should attend the Geegster 5th Anniversary Show next Friday night at 10pm at The Hideout! A few of our out-of-town members are coming back for this. And there will be cake. So you should attend. There, it's settled. I will see you there.

NaPoBloMe!

Despite recent reports that I am a lame-ass for blogging, I proudly present this LOLCats-themed badge of participation.

the most dangerous game

This entry, inspired by the musings of a fellow improviser.

If there's one improv game/warmup I despise more than anything it's "Song Spot." Also called "Hot Spot" by people with regional dialects, this group activity starts with one person jumping into the middle of a circle singing a popular song. Usually this song is "All You Need is Love" or something by Meat Loaf or Britney Spears. Others are expected to sing along with you until another person from the circle tags you out and starts singing a new song. Repeat until certifiably insane.

When this game is played, I find ample reason to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, or pretend to check my messages. I hate this game. Saying this to a merry band of hot-to-Spot improvisers usually earns you the mark of "not a team player," "bad attitude" or "lame." This warmup often rears its ugly head at mixed-skill improv shows and rarely at Geegster rehearsals. It sucks forty flavors of balls and here's why:

1) It assumes that you are familiar with the last fifty years of American popular song. Those of us who devoted our youth to miraculous independent music discoveries learned about in the back pages of Option and Puncture magazine have NO GAME when it comes to Song Spot. I could barrel into the middle of a circle and start singing "Six Layer Cake" but it is pretty much guaranteed that no one will join me. When no one sings along with you, the energy dies and you are left feeling naked and dorky. No one loves you. You didn't listen to enough shitty Top 40, so fuck you, and you just ruined the whole thing. If the game is supposed to build group mind and support, all it takes is a love of college radio, or jazz, or chamber music (Riatsala would have a nightmare on his hands!) to make you feel completely disconnected from the entire room.

2) It assumes that group mind is cultivated through rote memorization and regurgitation. I think in terms of building group mind that leads to excellent scene work, Song Spot is too lazy an activity to achieve anything. You can Song Spot your twat off in your car, in the shower, with your friends at Karaoke night. I guess it's fun for some people, but in terms of getting warm to do a show, it's like warming up for a race by eating an energy bar.

3) It fucking kills your voice.

4) For those who argue that it forces you to be obvious on stage, I am not entirely convinced that being obvious is the most important ingredient of a good improv performance. Also, Song Spot is not improvising. The only required skill is knowing the words to "I'm a Believer." Bite me.

5) It's a hands-free circle jerk and I'm not interested.

This entry may or may not be used against me in the future to show what a bad sport/stuck-up bitch I am, but I don't care. Forty flavors of balls, people!

Santiago's gonna kill me

Pretty much all of my life, minus the six years I spent living on the east coast, I have lived among the Mexican people. Big ones, small ones, brown ones, white ones. Pushing strollers and making me tacos and shaking their scantily-clad asses in the gym at C-Juana High. My dentist was Mexican, my hair dresser was Mexican, I've taken a few writing classes with Mexican authors. My buddy Big Ray, of Filipino descent, once said of the Mexicans, "I love them. They know how to cook meat." Whilst in England, I observed that there were no Mexicans anywhere, no tacos, no syncopated rhythms peppered with accordion wails. I told Bob, "I don't think I could live here. There are no Mexicans."

I love and respect the Mexican people, is what I'm saying. I appreciate their beans. Without them, I am hungry and bored.

But there is also this thing, this very White American thing, where we are suspicious of other peoples and cultures. Sure, Mexico is only a spit and a fart away from C-juana, but to some people, it is a foreign country to be feared. It is the Mexicans who make the C-juana Target filthy and unpleasant. Their children scream louder, their cars are offensive. They consume lard. They do not speak the King's English and our tax dollars go to feed their unaborted fetuses. Illegal immigration is draining our resources. Walls. Tall walls. A wall, to some, is a solution to be taken seriously. When I first moved to Austin, I had dinner with a woman who warned me to NEVER go on the other side of i-35, because IT'S SO DANGEROUS. That is estupido! I laugh and fart at this lame-ass woman, but again, she's not the only ignorant fucktard I've heard that from. (for some beyond brilliant satire on the subject by a group of Mexicanos who make this gringa laugh until she wets her pantalones, please visit lcp.org)

And it is here that I must involve the heretofore innocent nation of Chile into my essay about Mexicans. The fact that, like a marriage, to some it is a love/hate relationship.

My in-laws want to take the entire family (including me and my mom and bro) to Santiago, Chile, to attend the wedding of their former exchange student. I knew that my mother would frown on this, as all Spanish speaking countries, to her, are Mexico. Surely, anywhere but the USA, Canada, Great Britain, any part of western Europe, and English-speaking former colonies thereof, are dirty, dangerous places where violent anti-government demonstrations and seamy, dangerous drug cartels maraud the streets looking for white tourists to kidnap and murder. At the very least, I will get raped or get diarrhea, so says my mother, a woman with the time and resources to travel but cannot be convinced to do so.

I tried to explain to her that Chile is actually rather safe, that the state department has issued no travel warnings for the entire country, other than to be aware of pickpockets, and that I know a few Ladycollegians who live down there and raise their kids there and are, as far as I can tell, just fine.

All Spanish-speaking countries are Mexico as far as my mom is concerned, and she did get a tad mouthy and unpleasant, stating that "she did not want me going to South America." She would not admit that she knows next to nothing about South America and believes that I should turn down a free trip just so she doesn't have to worry about me.

She also offered us a pair of tickets to Sydney to go see Daniel if we don't go to scary, violent, dirty, and dangerous Chile. Because in her mind, it is Mexico and Mexico is horrible.

Don Francisco is from Chile, fwiw.

miracle people

I haven't had a proper indie rock fan moment in years, so it was to much pleasure and delight last night, after seeing the revelatory, genius, and profoundly brilliant 3 For All performance (they are the gold standard of improv comedy. everyone is a giant pile of sun-baked diarrhea in comparison to those guys, so we don't compare. we just watch, quietly, and allow ourselves to be humbled) that I had excellent conversations with all 3 guys of 3 For All. They hail from the great state of California, so one of them and I had a most enlightening chat about F-town. Once one knows F-town, one cannot help but be reviled or disappointed by it. I make it a point not to hate on F-town (a lovely life it does provide me) but it is always fun to hear others speak critically of it, or as if it were a small child lying in a hospital bed with a bad prognosis.

I digress.

Currently on an aeroplane bound for Austin is my beloved best friend Cassi. Cassi and I are celebrating 20 years of friendship this fall! We met at 6th grade camp somewhere in Gold Rush country. We both had brightly colored Reeboks that earned us no favor with the more popular nerds at Special Gifted School. There have been times in my life when I've recognized that words and deeds committed by moi have been used by douchebags to heap great scorn upon me, but there have also been other times that they have earned me lifelong friendships. And this is one special case. Those at my wedding remember Cassi as my maid-o-honor and mother of an adorable 3-yr-old girl named Coco. Her daddy used to be a cop and would escort 12-yr-old us around the F-town Fair with a concealed weapon. (Parents of today would love this--maybe he could offer his services for a fee in his retirement?) Though a devout Christian, Cassi is also an avowed shit-talker, and often incorporates her faith into her masterful skewering ("I think God made a mistake with her...") which is dee-lightful.

I am going to fill her with refined sugar-free Snowballs from Senor Naturale and we are going to party like it's 1987.

mo tends to bail

I have been nonstop tired this week, since driving to Tulsa. I bailed on social events there and I bailed on social events now, because I am tired and can barely think straight and just want to get in bed. I think this has to do with my (um) skipping that surgery. I still have my little breathy problem. Oh well. If I bail on social events, it's not because I'm bored or don't like you. It's because I can't breathe and I cheat myself into thinking I'm okay by getting tons of sleep. It works.

Some shit crawled into my eyes and no amount of Fake Tears(TM) seems to help. Itchy.

Complainy-plainy comp-lain.

Poop.

Tulsa!

So, a couple of Beyond the Borders Fests ago, I met this chick named Katrina. She was from Tulsa, an improviser, and pretty cool. She's very hyper and very sweet and I liked talking with her. Found out she's got an all-lady improv troupe in Tulsa, Okla, of all places. We offer them an invite to come play here sometime. A year passes. We restate the invite. They schedule a date. We turn it into an entire all-lady comedy festival. They say, "anytime you wanna come play in Tulsa, let us know, we'll hook you up." We wait a little while. I say, "hey Geegsters, let's take up SuperOvum on their offer to rock the balls off Tulsa." So we schedule it. P-graph comes with. We drive in my trusty Corolla 11 hours north up I-35, stop at Czech Stop to get some kolaches. I had poppyseed rolls, having loved the crap out of 'em the day IFE and I went to LaGrange. We try to locate the cool college towny part of Denton and fail, having dinner at a chainish place called Good Eats with visually unappealing plating. Shel's baked potato had butter, sour cream, AND cheese in it and that was ridiculous. Somewhere along I-35 in the great state of Oklahoma (my new state add for '07) I spot a billboard for breakfasts and say something about "plated breakfasts" which becomes a running joke. I impress the pants off of Merlin by locating Katrina's house in Tulsa without the aid of written directions. My internal compass is bitchin. I am a tired bitch so I fall asleep over at April's lovely home. P-graph arrives. The next morning there is BRUNCH at Toni's place, all set up pretty in her front yard. She served artful toast creations and grapes. And then we "saw Tulsa" which means this:

The HANDS! My Smithie from Oklahoma pal Jasmine used to talk about the praying hands all the freakin' time, back when we used to make fun of her home state. She even bought me an Abundant Life keychain, which I still have. Those are improvisers with the hands. Let me tell you, Oral Roberts U. is one creepy motherfucking place. It's like Tomorrowland at Disneyland, all pseudo-futuristic in its architecture. Behold this accidental admissions brochure photo I took::

There's the prayer tower! It's a spaceship on a stick! I can't believe that structure is load-bearing. Maybe God takes care of the bizarre gravity-defying characteristics of the building. The dorms and such look like decaying Army barracks or ancient motels dissolving and cracking. DUMP! There were no students milling about or flyers posted. I guess everyone goes home on the weekends. There was an alumni event happening outside the spaceship and they were blasting "YMCA" by the Village People on a PA, probably completely unaware that they were playing what everyone in the real world recognizes as a gay anthem.

We had dinner at a pizza place and then me, Roy, and Val got revved up before our show by watching the ending of "Silence of the Lambs." The theater where we performed is huge and has all sorts of props and wood shop stuff and an alley out back that looks out over the municipal bus garage. There was a huge pentagram painted onto the stage floor. We heard that a couple from Okla City read about us in the paper there (big props to the Ova for getting such amazing press coverage) and drove out to see us! Graph and Geeg did really good shows. I didn't see the P-graph show, but let it be known that the Geegsters did "Church Camp: The Musical" on top of a pentagram in the middle of the Bible Belt and it got big laughs. Okla pal Jasmine even made it out and we had some serious catching up to do.

The next day we sang Kareem happy birthday song to wake him up because he was celebrating the geezer b-day that is 29. We had brunch and then said bye-bye to Katrina and THANK YOU because that girlfriend worked so hard for us and showed us crazy amounts of love! We drove home with Okie love in our hearts and Olive Garden in our bellies. Good trip.

For all the bitches from the 413

Go eat a maple cone.