to say nothing of the dog

Friday, August 27, 2004

Fog of Blog

Bleh, I apparently posted the same post twice. Anyway, the contract is signed, the Coyote and I are rehearsing tomorrow--in preparation of performance at Wally the Ex-Boat Lord's SeptemberFest, a few days after my 25th birthday. And you know what makes a very nice birthday present? Full underwriting of artistic endeavours! A five here, a ten there, a $1000 somewhere else...

In other, weirder and sadder news: recently, through a strange Internet happenstance, I've recently become an avid reader of infertility blogs. I, who have no children, am not pregnant, and who does not plan on being pregnant, am rapidly consuming the stories of women desperate for children. They manage to be funny! How? This is just astonishing to me. And two of them recently had miscarriages or negatives. This makes me so sad and worried for them. Check out for some amazing (and amazingly talented) women.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Doing the Wiggle Dance

There's a dance that The Boy does, a little wiggle dance, a little shimmy with a shake at the end. He does it when he's happy. I occasionally request it, because I find it so damn adorable, this manifestation of joy.

I'm doing the Wiggle Dance myself right now (even as I type! It's very challenging!). That's because.......

I'm gonna sign a contract for a space! Contract! Space! Contract! Space! Everybody do the wiggle dance!

What space, you may or may not ask? For what purpose would a space be necessary?

For a PLAY! I love PLAYS! I love to act and direct and produce them! All at once! And then I love to have heart attacks from stress!

December, folks, will see a hopefully brilliantly directed and imaginatively acted piece of work, written by a playwright that fascinates me.

More shall come, we shall be assured of that.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Moral Quandary

Last night, I was offered a part--and it was a good part too, emotional, juicy, and Shakespearean. The theatre company was in a bind, and so they said "Hey! You've come highly recommended! Memorize this part and don't suck by Sunday!"

As a New York actor, I have a knee-jerk response to "You're wonderful! I want to hire you, darling!" It involves oral gratification. HOWEVER: the putative play would have run over the time when I was supposed to tape the wedding of a sister of the best friend of my fiance. A committment that I asked The Boy to fulfill, as a favor, because we're getting married next year and the last wedding that I saw was as a half-blind 14-year old.

I want to say that I remembered all of my committments and didn't promise two things at once. That, of course, did not happen. So I stayed up until two, sitting in the tub, trying to stuff "If the king is dead, what would betide of me?" into my head, while attempting to ignore the cloud of doom that emanates from The Boy when he gets pissed off.

It took my father, The Boy, and several other dog-owners to make me realize that the knee-jerk reaction was a good way to fail at several things--the part (because who memorizes Shakespeare in five days?), the committment, and in some part, my relationship. Because that's how actors torpedo relationships--they let their schedules dictate their lives, and forget that there's anybody else who has a say.

Friday, August 13, 2004

I am not West Virginian.

I'm originally from Ohio. In Ohio, there may be Confederate flags flying in the towns south of Canton, there might be only three counties in the entire state that vote Democrat (Cuyahoga, Trumbull, and someplace in Columbus), and there might be race riots in Cincinnati. We have a greater brain drain than mine after the night when I toasted the death of Marlon Brando with a different shot for each of his major movies. We might have a river that caught on fire--twice.

But at least we're not West Virginian.

Every Ohioan feels it is his or her birthright to imply, state and out-and-out slander West Virginia in all of its cousin-marrying, inbred, and deformed glory. We like it. We take pride in picking on this moutainous, shut-in, and uncouth region. Like any bully, it reassures us of our superiority (as, generally, we're a little touchy in the self-esteem).

So imagine my HORROR when the super of my building mistook Adam (my fiance) for my brother.

Monday, August 09, 2004

I am a big freakin' geek.

So, I was sitting in the mildly overpriced vegetarian restaurant today, celebrating getting my headshots by ordering the cheapest thing on the menu, reading my sci-fi novel (complete with embarrassing cover), when David Duchovny, his mother, and his daughter walk into the place and sit down right next to me.

Fizzing all over with excitement, I did NOT ask for his autograph on my book, my headshot, or any body parts. Or even talk to him.

I did, however, glance over so many times that I'm sure I look like I had Tourette's syndrome.

Oh, David Duchovny--your hair is really bad.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Satellite of Love

Now, I've been thinking about Lou Reed. Junkie, artist, poet, but also--weird lyrics. (Shut up, Elmer. Elmer thinks that the lyrics are deeply meaningful, referencing the '70s Andy Warhol Pop-Art Punk Rock scene. His barking tells me so.)

I'm just not sure. What the hell does "Satellite of Love" MEAN? First, it's referencing a satellite. Maybe how good it feels to be in love? As if, perhaps, your darling carries you into another world? Then--Mars. Soon to be full of parking cars. Use, degradation, pollution in an otherwise unspoiled setting. Mr. Reed goes on to tell us (very coyly) that he's been told that whatever her or his name is has been bold with Harry, Mark, and Tom. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday with Harry, Mark, and Tom. Wow. Babydoll is getting a LOT of love.

Then Satellite of Love, over and over!

Who knows. A sad and pitiful tale of sex addiction and substance abuse, no doubt. Really pretty song, though.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004


Okay, so the dog and the cat are the cutest creatures on the face of the planet. They have their own fan club, friends of Adam's and mine come over for pet therapy--when the sad barren loneliness of life without pets overwhelms them. They snuggle, lick, and otherwise caress us. It's good, right?

EXCEPT, when, of course, it's summer and their fur feathers the air and carpets the apartment, when it mixes with the damn FISH SAUCE (a condiment made from stewing anchovies in their own brine...yes, I know) flavoring the broccoli stir-fry that the boy made last night. When do I discover this? Right now! Eating my broccoli flavored fish sauce stir-fry! The hair marinated for the past 15 hours!

So, it should actually taste pretty good.


Monday, August 02, 2004



The title refers to Elmer, the pug with many names.

This blog was created to publicize...well, Elmer, and Squirrel (his cat cohort), as well as upcoming projects of my own. As well as to air out my nasty love of cliches.

Expect more in the days and months to come.


your mama says "TEST!"