Insert Some New Orleans Colloquiolism Here.

Today I leave for New Orleans. This is significant because I have always wanted to to go to New Orleans. Home to my second biggest comic book crush...Gambit. I always felt his love was wasted on sutpid Rogue with her inability to touch anybody. I could touch him. MMMM. K... yeah... think I just crossed a line there...

ANYWAY, so yes. The Boyfriend and I are going to New Orleans. But first, we're stopping twice. Once in Metropolis and then on to Memphis. Graceland baby. Graceland.

Why Metropolis?-aside from the fact that Superman lives there? Well, early on in the planning of this trip, we had deicided to push all the way to Memphis on the first night. That way, after we'd battled the great unwashed at Elvis's house, we'd be back on the road and only have 3 hours til the Hurricanes. However, we decided that as we were leaving late in the day, it might behoove us to stop a little north of Memphis and not kill ourselves. So, The Boyfriend charged me (the travel coordinator and navigator)with finding a hotel we could stop at on our way to Memphis.

So, I jumped on the Internets and began a search for hotels in Northwest Tennessee. An "all-hotel" search brought up blue dots representing the presence of hotels in Tennessee..but only in the "big cities". Hmmm. That's strange. What about suburbs and "medium sized cities"? That's when it hit me. My "I live in Chicago and everywhere in America is just like Chicago" bubble burst. This is Tennessee. There ARE no medium sized cities. The big cities are it. Everything else: Dueling Banjos.
That's ok! I thought, I'll just look in Kentucky! Um, hello... KENTUCKY, Loco. Missouri was no help either as the closest city was St. Louis and that was 8 hours from Memphis. What to do? Then, in a last ditch, "This country scares me" effort, I tried Illinois. Metropolis. 5 1/2 hours from Chicago, 3 hours from Memphis. Perfect! I'll just go ahead and book... wait...Metropolis? Like Superman-Metropolis? Could it possibly be true that I'd be visting the homes of 2 Superheroes in one trip?? It was destiny. Booked and Confirmed.
We're going to Motherfuckin' Cheers Dude Metropolis.

Questions I am considering. Do the people of Metropolis, Illinois celebrate their landmark-ness? Are there postcards bearing the Superman Logo? Is the Hard Rock Cafe-Metropolis leaking Superman all over its patrons? Is there a burger joint that features "The Jimmy Olsen" comprised of an extremely rare patty of beef and All American Cheese? Are there autographed photos of Christopher Reeve at the trendy hair salon while the old barbers across the street thumb their noses and point to their signed photos of George Reeves AND Kirk Alyn, and in gravelly voices wax nostaligic about the days of REAL men who played Real Supermen?? These are burning questions. Questions I will have answered.

So, today begins the first leg of the journey. First stop: Superman Town.

A Metaphor.

It's hard to leave baggage on the carousel. Even when you know it's just full of shit you don't need and will just throw in a closet where it will ultimately make it impossible to store anything else in said closet. That red light starts flashing and the buzzer sounds and you're frantically searching for that stupid fucking bag that you know you should just throw away...but the thought of doing that just makes you panic more. That bag has been good to you. It's carried some good stuff that kept you protected from the cold. You try and imagine life without the baggage. How light you'd feel. How easily you'd move through big crowds not having to say "excuse me, excuse me, I'm sorry, Sorry!" How you could stand on the El and not piss people off with your cumbersome baggage that keeps slamming them in the back when the train comes to a sudden stop. How lovely it would be to stand up straight, unburdened.

But, the pull is too great. That red light is flashing and the buzzer is buzzing and here comes that lovely, tacky, plaid, heavy, beat up baggage.

Beginnings...

My first role as an Actor:
The show: Peter Pan
The Role: Smee
I was 6 years old.

I’ve always wanted to be on stage. The earliest inclination of this I can remember occurred after seeing a production of Annie when I was 6. I know I was 6 because my dad was living on Orchard Street in Lincoln Park, and that’s where he was living when I got my ears pierced as a 6th birthday present. (A story for another day) Anyway, he was dating a girl named Laura (with whom we saw the show) and the day we went to the show, I think I remember going to the record store and picking up the soundtrack. On Vinyl. Which would be played non-stop so that I could learn all the parts so that one day I could have my pick of the roles.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be Annie because I really loved “It’s a Hard Knock Life” and I wasn’t positive that Annie got to sing that song. Plus, I was having trouble hitting all the notes on “Maybe”. But, I really loved “I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here.” It was a true artist’s dilemma.

But I digress. I remember being just absolutely awe-struck by what I saw on that stage. On the way to the car I prattled on and asked all kinds of questions. The question, and answer I remember (which came from Laura) was:
“Where does Annie go now?”
“Well, I suppose she puts on her street clothes and goes home.”

Street clothes. That sounded so cool.

So, one summer, not too long after this fated trip to the theater, my mother signed me up for drama camp.

“Fox n Tails” Drama Camp. Well, I’ll tell ya. It wasn’t so much a drama camp as it was a day care center. I don’t remember taking one damn acting class, but I do remember damn naps. I suppose the “End of the Summer Show” was what gave it its theatrical institution status.

That show was Peter Pan.

I had seen Sandy Duncan in Peter Pan, and I remember wanting SO much to be Wendy. Beautiful Wendy in her pink nightgown with the poofy sleeves and her pink ballet slippers. Yes, I remember her shoes. It’s one of the first things I noticed on any character. Even Barbie. If she had bad shoes, I didn’t want the doll. Olivier needed to know what kind of nose the character had, I needed to know what shoes.

I was perfect for Wendy. I had the long brown hair. I had the nightgowns. (I was WAY into nightgowns at that age. If I wasn’t in my school uniform, I was in my nightgown. Shut up. It was Princess-y. I was 6.)

Audition day. They lined us up. And basically, it went like this: If you wanted a role, you stepped forward and delivered the line they fed you appropriate for that character. So, on down the line we went. For some reason though, I felt the need to read for EVERY character. I was like a girl possessed Some of the lines:

Hook: It’s Peter Pan! Shoot him down!”
Smee: “What’s the plan, Captain?”
And Wendy: “Boy, why are you crying?”

I knew that reading for all the parts was ludicrous, but the Star in me couldn’t stop the 6 year old from being ridiculously over-eager and needing to please.

Well, it came time for the end of the day circle. And this was where our fates were sealed for the rest of the summer.

I waited to hear my name…well, I heard it all right. What I didn’t hear was “Wendy” after it. What I heard was : “Smee”.

Smee? But, he was a pirate! And Old… and… FAT …and a MAN!!!!!
I busted out crying. I couldn’t stop. I was horrified. A girl next to me evilly whispered:
“You’ll have to stuff a pillow in your shirt!” That made me cry harder. I was disrupting the circle. My counselor sent me home.

I walked my devastated little self across the park, went into the house and sought out my mom. I told her the HORRIBLE news. And do you know what she said? Here’s what she DIDN’T say.
“WHAT???? MY DAUGHTER DID NOT GET THE PART OF WENDY??? I’M MACHING RIGHT OVER TO THAT DAMN CAMP AND GIVING THEM WHAT_FOR!!” No. My mother said: “But, Laura, Smee is the best part! He’s funny!” Traitor! I didn’t WANT to be funny. I wanted to be PRETTY AND WEAR A GODDAMN PINK NIGHTGOWN AND GODDAMN PINK BALLET SLIPPERS!!!

I was devastated. I dreaded going to stupid camp. The other girls around me were merciless. They made fun of me whenever they could.

But then, a miracle. We were getting a new camper. A boy. A boy who could play Smee. And so, it was done. I gave up the role, and as we didn’t have enough boys to play Lost Boys, I was recast as a “Lost-Girl”. Thank the Lord. But the Lord works in mysterious ways….

Not long after that, I was struck down with the nastiest case of the stomach flu in the history on stomach flues. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t move for fear of throwing up. For two weeks this went on. I missed 2 weeks of camp (in essence, the entire rehearsal process) and on the night of the show, my mother was putting my hair in pigtails asking me how I felt. I felt fine, but that was the nature of this illness. I could be fine one minute and on the floor writhing in pain the next. I got scared. I didn’t want to get sick on stage. They even offered to have a cot set up in case I needed to lie down. But, I declined. I just wanted to go home. And home I went.

Years later, I look back on this and realize what a big mistake I made in turning down that role. I would have been hysterical. A 6 year old girl playing Smee? Making funny pirate faces, rubbing my hands together in a comically conspiratorial manner…the comedy practically writes itself. And my mom knew! I thought she was crazy, but she knew.

Moral of the story. The lead is not necessarily the best, and the seemingly insignificant and secondary can be the most recognized.

Never let vanity get in the way of having fun.

And I never do.
HEEEEEEEY PAAATHEY!!!

when your past comes back to haunt you

So, I have a past.
We all do.
Snow pants
Video games. Hot Chocolate.
waking a drunk mother
to take you to school.
Staying home cuz she couldn't.
Sprinklers
dandelions and cottonwood trees
a belt across the legs.
uniforms school supplies
macaroni ornaments
waiting for dad to come
to hear your violin knowing
he's just
not.
Highschool, new friends
just wanting to fit in.
Drugs, alchohol, hey mom's
not around, why not?
Musicals, dances, exams
Watching your mom get beat up
and calling the cops.
Dad moving to the Left Coast
Leaving you alone.
Failing grades.
A boyfriend, love at 16, bequested virginity.
And then away to college.
Breakup, move on, get lost.
Come home, New school new man,
new friends
new life,
more shows, graduation.
Heartbreak.
And then begin the 20's
Searching, finding,
wondering what's wrong with you.
Love two more times Heartbreak twice as
hard.
Alcohol, drugs, anything to numb the pain.
Seminars, therapy, anything to get well.
Jobs gained, jobs lost.
approach 30.
Not knowing what to do with all
the love you have to give when
no one will accept it. No one
wants it. So,
save it for yourself. Save it for
family. Save it for friends.
And try to smile. And look back
proudly and see who you've become.
A lot can happen in a day, a month,
2 months, 3. It's all relative.
I'm proud of you.

Let's Build a Rocket Ship and Find Our Own Planet. I Mean It!

http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L04128460.htm
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2005/football/ncaa/04/05/
arkansas.jerseys.ap/index.html

These articles are two examples of why
I am hereby becoming an Activist Against Activism.

I tried to write about the Pope article yesterday, but I think His Holiness took issue with some of the more colorful language I was using, and caused the entire site to go down. Sorry, fellow bloggers.

Anyway, things are getting WAAAAY out of hand here. People have nothing better to do these days than finding retarded (that's right, I said RETARDED)things to bitch about. MY CHILD WASN'T PICKED FIRST IN GYM CLASS!!! CALL THE ACLU!!!

And What? Governments aren't allowed to show sympathy and respect for the MILLIONS of people mourning the loss of a, face it, pretty great guy? And why? Because it OFFENDS non-Catholics. People, this world is becoming way too sensitive. READ THAT SECOND ARTICLE.

Breast Cancer survivors are offended because some kids are using pink jerseys to practice in. What? Think about it. Cancer SURVIVORS have nothing better to do than pick on a football team because they're wearing pink? Are you fucking kidding me? GO WATCH A SUNSET YOU ASSHOLES! GOD JUST GAVE YOU ANOTHER LEASE ON LIFE. USE IT WISELY!! And, what the fuck? now suddenly these people have the market cornered on the color pink?? What's going to happen when next Valentine's Day rolls around? It's a COLOR!!!!! A FUCKING COLOR! A COLOR IN A CRAYOLA BOX OF 64. Oh my God. That's next. It's not going to be just "pink". It's gonna be called "Breast Cancer Survivor and Support."

I've had it. These days, everything is offensive. College mascots are being changed...well, except for Notre Dame. And look at that asshole. Some leprauchaun looking thing,stereotypically, and most likely drunkenly, running around picking fights with people. Because Irish people are violent. And drunk. But do you see the Irish getting all up in arms? No. And why? BECAUSE WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT. We have a sense of humor about ourselves. 800 years of oppression has taught us a little something about patience and PRIORITIES.

One of which is beer. And lots of it.

Disclaimer: I can say all of the above because A. I'm Catholic. B. My grandmother is a breast cancer survivor. and C. I'm Irish.

So, if I've offended anyone? Tell it to someone who gives a shit and in the mean time, go outside today. The sun's out. And there some flowers to appreciate.

Time for a Nice Rant.

http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L04128460.htm

OK. So, it's gotten so bad around here that when one of the most influential people of the 20th-21st Century dies (and no, I don't mean Terry Schiavo), governments are not allowed to show a sign of mourning and respect because "It favors one Religion over another."

Fucking France. Fucking everyone in the world who has nothing better to goddamn do than look for signs that they're being alienated, left out, persecuted, or not picked first in fucking gym class.

I've had it. I can't take this anymore. One woman's death becomes fodder for a bi-partisan circus. The Pontiff is finally at peace. And what happens? These fat, rich assholes jump on it like they're five years old and there's only 1 piece of candy left. It's retarded.

A Holy man died. Whether you goddamn agree with his ideals or religious views, the fact is, he was a holy man. And a good man. You may not agree with him, but those are the views of his Church. Does that make him bad? No. It makes him faithful. Where has respect for the faithful gone?

Some flags were lowered. Why? Because the man died. And he was a man who earned a lot of respect. And my God, the dude was shot, he had Parkinsons, and God knows what the hell else and he hung on.

Everyone needs to take a step back and seriously reassess.
Let's, I don't know, try loving each other... better yet, how 'bout we try RESPECTING each other.

And no, I'm not going to even entertain the idea that I'm being hypocritical. This whole thing is retarded.
Re.tar.ded.