Deceptively Difficult Skill

I've always believed myself to be a good and responsive listener, both in my personal life and in my art. I learned long ago that listening is, by far, the most important skill for an actor to develop. Nothing can happen when actors only hear cue lines and fall in love with the sound of their well trained voices and dramatic pauses filled with tension. (That tension usually being caused by an actor consciously or unconsciously holding his breath in an attempt to sustain a prefabricated moment.) I wanted to be spontaneous and emotionally nimble on stage. I studied people. Body language, breath, intonation... any clue I could use to feed into my system I devoured with great passion. When I choose to pay attention, I can be quite astute at reading others on several different levels. I can read my immediate reactions to what the other person is giving me and consciously choose a response. I can pick apart potential motivations and circumstances behind the other person's words and actions and it helps keep me from flying off the handle- which is an old habit of mine. I am capable of performing a number of highly useful social tricks to keep myself out of trouble while occassionally being able to diffuse situations. In short, my training rocks.

Of course, the operative word here is "choose". I need to choose to use my training. I find I can use it with strangers, acquaintences. co-workers, business associates and friends- but I stink on ice when I'm with my family.

I don't mean to be a jerk at home and there ARE times when I can use those skills as a wife and a mother. But if I am really honest with myself I would have to admit I don't use those skills at home as often as I should. Perhaps it is because active listening is a lot of hard work. It requires a lot of effort from the system to take in all the information, arrange it. analyze it and react with sensitivity. Maybe I am just too tired to work that hard after 6:00PM. Maybe it is because I let my guard down at home and feel, somewhat selfishly, that those who love me most should put forth that kind of effort for me and coddle me while I am at home. Or perhaps I just fall into the role of being human when I am with my family and humans don't often put listening as their number one priority. Keeping tabs on others' emotions and your own 24 hours a day is beyond a full time job- especially when you're a hormonal wreck like me these days!

I guess every time I feel that I have really mastered something I need to take a step back, look at the whole of the situation and be prepared to eat a little humble pie. No one, but no one masters being a human being and we are all bound to have blind spots. I can fully admit to this, but it is a bit easier not to know where those blind spots are and wander through life feeling somewhat self-righteous! Having to admit to shortcomings- especially when they are shortcomings which you have already spent so much time trying to correct- is very difficult. However, this is what keeps me in my craft. There is always something more to work on. There is always some way to be better. Most of all, these lessons are applicable in my daily existence.

I'm slowly getting used to the taste of humble pie. If I can, I try to have it a la mode.

T-Shirts

Some months ago I began noticing some brilliant t-shirts. Some were political, some were just funny. I have a list of some of my favorites. This is in no particular order.

My friend Ben has a gorgeous t-shirt featuring a clown vomitting a rainbow into a toilet. I saw a black man sporting a shirt that read, "Hey Lady, I don't want your purse". Then there was the skinny guy in Alphabet City wearing a shirt with a big sandwich on it. Underneath the sandwich it said "SILF". I've had to explain that one to a surprising number of people. Which makes me a little embarrassed to have found it so funny. But I did. I found it very funny.

As I was watching my usual Sunday morning political talk shows I couldn't help but think about yet another brilliant t-shirt that I saw on the back of a man that looked an awful lot like Jerry Garcia. His shirt read, "I Never Thought I'd Miss Nixon".

Me either. But W can sure make you nostalgic for the good ol' days. I just can't fathom, for the life of me, how Richard Nixon could get nailed so completely due to runaway paranoia while this guy gets away with such amazing incompetence! A few years ago, Nixon was the demon who slipped a ruphie in America's Pepsi and stole our collective innocence. Watergate traumatized us. Now that we've got Bush, Nixon seems like that goofy uncle that drank too much at weddings and annoyed everyone but once his liver failed and he was gone forever the family started to miss his antics. I miss the days when politicians simply lied to us about break-ins and blow jobs.

I know. I can't idealize Nixon. What he did was wrong, and crazy. But the big difference here is that Nixon got called on it. Bush is going to ride out his term like a petulant debutant with "senioritis". How is that humanly possible? Is it all because of Cheney? Are we that much more frightened of Cheney? Gulp.

On the back of a Spiderman comic that I bought for my 6 year old son is an ad for some mail-order t-shirts. One of the designs features a vampiric George W. Bush going for Lady Liberty's jugular. I gave an involuntary laugh when I saw it. My son said, "Mom? Who's that guy and why is he sucking on Lady Liverby?". Sigh. How do you explain to a six year old that the president the adults in his country elected is a guy who would sanction torture, keep sick kids from receiving health care, attack the wrong country, spy on his constituency, leave American citizens stranded in putrid water and squalid conditions with no relief, and trample on the Constitution... among other things? And most of all, how do I explain all that without infecting his mind with the liberal bullshit that is so prevelant in my neck of the woods?

"Son, that's George W. Bush. He's the President of the United States and some people don't like him."

"So, they make t-shirts like this. Is he a real vampire?"

"No. Some people think that he is not living up to the promise of America and this is the way someone chose to express that. In some countries an artist might go to jail for drawing a picture like that."

"Did the guy who drew that picture go to jail?"

Pause.

"Is he in jail, Mom?"

"Probably not."

"Do you like the President?"

"I don't like the way he is being President. No."

"But do you like him?"

"I can't say whether I'd like him as a person, sweetie. He might be an okay guy to chat with at a barbeque."

"If he wanted to be friends, would you be friends with him?"

"I wish I could say that I would, but I probably wouldn't."

"Why?"

"He doesn't seem to be very sensitive to other people's problems so I can't imagine he would be that good of a friend. I want to have good friends in my life."

"Do you hate him?"

"No. I try not to hate anyone."

"Even when they hurt you?"

From my kitchen fire escape I can see the hole in the sky where two towers used to stand. I can look across my courtyard and see people who lost loved ones. People who saw unimaginable horrors. People who had to stay inside, pull their shades and lock their doors in fear of vigilante reprisals for something that they took no part in. My son is six. He has no knowledge, no reference point for these things. I know that some day he will need to understand the events that have shaped our nation over the first years of his life. I want him to understand, not to parrot his mother's position. But it is abundantly clear, with each scandal, each self-important press conference, each defiant sneer that this arrogant, condescending, cocksure jackass is America's number one security threat sitting in the White House. His refusal to listen to facts or draw rational conclusions from those facts makes me want to rip my hair out. But I've heard neighborhood children repeat the political views of their parents and even though I might agree with some views I find their inclusion in the discussion as distasteful as watching the young'uns in the Fred Phelps clan spewing their parents' hateful views.

"Even when they hurt you. Sometimes you have to work a little harder, but hate hurts no one more than the person who does the hating. Best to avoid it, son. Best to avoid it. Do those t-shirts come in extra large?"

Theater Mama

I guess it is time to come clean.

I've been absent for a while and I've let things go to seed a bit. The truth is, my husband and I are expecting another child. Which is an overly polite way to say that I'm pregnant again. For some odd reason, I find it somewhat distasteful to say that I'm pregnant. It feels somehow vulgar and I notice that people avoid saying it directly. The word is getting around and people approach me and say things like, "I've heard a rumor..." and "I hear you're expecting!", but no one says the word "pregnant". The word feels a bit like a punch in the neck. Sort of, well, shameful. I actually feel less dirty announcing "Hey everybody! I went and got myself knocked up!" than I do saying, "I'm pregnant." (In fact, that's exactly how I announced it to my fellow Playful Substance company members. It seemed an appropriate audience for that kind of announcement.) It is more than a little surprising to me that I should have such a negative reaction to a word that means something quite lovely.

On the flip side, though, I have no trouble discussing the physical and emotional experiences that go along with my tender little euphamism. Which makes my aversion to the actual word all the stanger.

I'm on the verge of entering the second trimester and the nausea and extreme fatigue have moved out of the way to make room for heartburn and psychotic mood swings. With my last...pregnancy... (shudder)... I went into a social and professional coma and did not emerge for nearly 2 years. I am acutely aware that depriving myself of these outlets lead to a doozy of a depression and I am determined to keep that from happening again. The challenge is (and there is ALWAYS a challenge) that I need to strike a rather precarious balance between my usual breakneck pace and paying attention to what my body needs. Normally, being extrememly busy makes me happy. It makes me feel vital, useful and needed. But it is also very easy to sink into the comfort of bed and a plate of spinach stuffed potatoes in a pair of yoga pants and fool myself into thinking that is exactly what my body needs. The fatigue is so convincing and energy so hard to come by. Pants don't fit. Shoes with heels are hard to manage and wouldn't it be nice to hide in a nice warm cave until I could come out pretty again?

Ah. Vanity thy name is woman. Damn straight it is.

Then there is something called "pregnant brain". Words get lost. Organizing thoughts becomes increasingly difficult and communication blunders abound. Last time I definitely had a sense that I was gestating more than a child, but also my creative ability. I couldn't write. I couldn't paint. I couldn't plan. Once my son was born, however, it all came pouring out but I had not nurtured the outlets for it. So the outlets disappeared and I was left with an overwhelming need to express, no means to express it and no audience to receive it. I am struggling with that now. I am producing a couple of shorts along with "Adventures in Mating" (see link on the right) and it is a monster battle to keep myself on task. I'd prefer sleep. I'd prefer a documentary on the Big Bang or String Theory. I'd prefer any passive bit of entertainment because I wear out so quickly these days. Of course, I know from experience that over-indulging in such things will leave me with a huge deficeit once the baby is here in the world. I may want to stop working for the time being, but it will ruin me if I do.

So. Here we go. Going through the motions so my body doesn't forget and so I don't lose myself in the process.

But the occassional spinach stuffed potato isn't so bad either.

Stories, Stories Everywhere

There is a certain joy in my morning routines. One of them is the delightful ritual of dropping my son off at his neighborhood school. Every morning I pass neighbors and nod hello. I hand out a few warm smiles and receive a few as well. My son gets high fived. We meet up with classmates on their own walks to school. The weather is crisp and pleasant and the neighbors are welcoming. Once the children line up and head in to their classes it is time for the PTA parents to make thier rounds outside, catching other parents to chat or to work out details for this bake sale and that fundraiser. All in all, it is a lovely way to spend a few minutes of my morning.

This morning, however, my deeply disturbed mind came up with a rather titilating question. If any two parents here were going to have a scandalous affair, who would be the most likely? Now, I don't suspect anyone. Let's make that clear. But, WHAT IF? Would it be the older mother whose husband works a lot and she stays at home volunteering hours and hours to various causes? Would she fall for the short, awkward but very attentive father with the indistinguishable accent? Would it be the single father with the rowdy child who woos a mother going back to school despite her husband's obvious disapproval? How about the hyper organized, Puerto Rican mom and the over protective father who has any number of reflective patches applied to his childrens' winter coats? Who could it be and, more importantly, how might that go? What would happen when word got out on the playground? Would the other parents pretend it wasn't happening? Or would they rip them to shreds? Or would that depend, entirely, upon the two parties involved? Oh how I wonder...

Appropriate Forum

Navigating my way through this new and rather restrictive view of my life in art has become tiresome and old. This occurred to me as I was trying to make my way past a pregnant woman who was slowly and unpredictably zig zagging on the sidewalk in front of me. At first, the fact that she was dressed in a huge parka and flip flops amused me. Then the crusty foam at the corners of her mouth disturbed me. The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back was represented by the handful of scratch off lottery tickets that distracted her from her surroundings and made her impossible to get around. I was impatient with myself for being impatient with her. After all, this is a woman who is clearly in some kind of trouble. However, I am not without my own concerns and I could do very little for her in a brief roadside interaction. Especially when she was completely oblivious to me and my many parcels to begin with.

Once I had finally mounted the steps to my apartment building I caught myself dissecting this woman, her situation and my responsibility to her. In my wildest super compassionate fantasies what could I do for her? Oh, and what lessons could she teach me? (God I am such an after school special.) I then forced myself to think a bit more abstractly. The absolute frustration I felt while trying to get around her is not like the daily frustration I am experiencing with my creative endeavors. It is as if I have placed a big, odd, meandering, clueless pregnant woman in front of me wherever I go!

A few months ago a fairly prominant New York playwright sampled some of my work. Well, not the kind of work I usually like to show off- he read my chicken scratchings for a scene between two characters from a play I've been kicking around that had previously not had a scene together. I wrote the scene not to have the scene in the play, but to help illuminate for me what kind of relationship was between them. I needed to explore some subtext and discover whether or not their interaction was the missing piece in this play. Clearly, he didn't quite understand why I had written it and what I had written it for. I suppose that it is possible that not everyone organizes information and creates in quite the same manner as I do. His response to me was this:

"I think you might be too young to write a family play."

Well, he's a successful writer so he must be right. Regardless of the fact that he has not seen one word of the play itself and that I didn't quite articulate to him what it was I was doing with the scene, he must know better. I've put the play away.

I've tried to take it out and work on it, but I keep judging my work as I go. This is too close to something in my real family. That is too self-indulgent. This is funny but too private. It goes on and on and on like that. In my heart I know that he was wrong. (I know for a fact that he thinks I'm a lot younger than I actually am.) I know that this play is exactly where I am at in my creative life. But the meandering pregnant lady has a sign on her back that says, "Is this really the appropriate forum?"

I am heading into a part of art and expression that is personally dangerous. I've become entangled. In a simpler times my private life was MY private life. I could do with it as I pleased. I could drink a lot, make an ass of myself, say and do whatever I felt. It didn't matter. It was just me. But now my private life isn't just my private life. Now my private life belongs to so many others whose right to privacy is just as valid as mine.

So I feel stuck behind this woman, frustrated at my observations of her but too tongue tied to make the real, honest observations from which real art grows.

I've placed a lot of restrictions on myself and those restrictions are deadening my work. But I fear lifting them. As much as what I want to express is about love I know from experience that honesty can often be mistaken for malice. In short, I haven't given myself permission to say what I want to say. To be more accurate, I should say that I haven't given myself permission to feel what I need to feel. I'm letting this woman get in my way. I don't need to knock her down or make passive aggressive sighs of discontent.

I could just get her attention and say, "excuse me".

Blog Neglected

I've been absent.

There's no two ways about it.

I'm stretched a little thin these days. Between starting a new job, trying to keep a show afloat and some personal life events I've found myself unable to comment. Not publicly anyway. What is there to say?

I'm very concerned about being self-indulgent. As a result I tend to censor myself. I don't ever want to be that person who breaks out their ten trays of vacation slides at the merest mention of "how was your vacation?". I struggle with my self-image. I would like to see myself as interesting, but mostly I see myself as an opinionated, big mouthed bore. Then my writing suffers. What do I have to write about if I don't write about myself?

Cynacism and I are involved in a battle royale. I see how self-involved people are around me and I know that must be reflected in my own behavior. I also see how absolutely everything is for sale. There is a line in "The Princess Bride" that keeps coming back to me.

"Life is pain. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something."

And that is exactly where I am at the moment. This rather dark view of clouds my normally sweet, perky demeanor. I'd be a leatherface, chain smoking, whiskey drinking, dragon lady with long acryllic nails growling at the patrons in the bowling alley bar if it weren't for the fact that I like being sober and, at 32, I still wear ponytails at the top of my skull. It's hard to be grizzled and surly when you have a ponytail flopping around on the top of your head. That's just a fact.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I've been neglecting my writing because two sides of my personality are doing battle and I don't know which one of them is going to take over. It is hard to channel my thoughts into anything coherent. So. You can start your bets now as to which one is going to win. Will it be Happy Go Lucky or the Dragon Lady?

I'm not sure which one I would like to win.

Gratuitous

Maybe it is the state of mind I'm in lately. Perhaps it is somewhat hormonal. It could even be that I am getting older and stodgier. Or maybe it is just the fact that I'm now a mother. Whatever the reason, the fact is that I find myself more and more impatient with cinematic violence.

This weekend my husband was all fired up to watch Deliverance. He had been glued to his film documentaries in his spare time all last week and I suppose it put a bug in his ear. He wasn't going to be satisfied until he watched it. God bless him, he wanted to share that experience with his darling wife. I had no desire at all to see this movie. I'd heard enough and was nervous that I would find its execution unsettling to my stomach. But that man is just so adorable, I couldn't say no.

I will admit, I have a weak constitution when it comes to these things. After many difficult years of finding excuses to chit chat with my friend's parents in the kitchen during slumber party screenings of D Grade horror flicks, I've come to think of my squeemishness as a badge of my ultimate humanity. When I watch people being murdered I can't help but imagine their last moments. It doesn't thrill me. It hurts. It actually hurts a lot.

Before the feature presentation we watched an overly reverent "making of". The 10 minute promotional film touted the author as an absolute genius, a robust Hemingway-type who laments human footprints on the majesty of nature. It made the film sound as if it was one of those "Nature Tests Man" stories that will make the viewer more appreciate the majesty of all that surrounds us. In my eyes, Deliverance did for eco-tourism what 9/11 did for air travel. The promo film was a lie. Deliverance does nothing to spur the viewer toward environmental protection. Instead it seems to make the argument that people who live an isolated life in the mountains NEED to be "civilized". Let's hurry up and build roads and Wal-Marts and get them cable so they don't go around raping tourists!

And THEN! AND THEN we need to be subjected to men making bad decision after bad decision just to give us that sick feeling of our stomachs dropping through our shoes. The text does not stop to examine their moral dilemma for longer than a cinematic nanosecond. It just plunges from one bad decision to the next. It isn't really the actions I have a particular distaste for- it's the world view I despise. This film could only be written by some macho intellectual who has gleened from his years as a university professor that humans are inherently evil and self-serving. If that is true, then why should I even care enough to pay attention to your story? If people are hard wired to make immoral choices in the absense of a governing authority then what can I learn from any story at all? The whole attitude just ticks me off.

I do not advocate that all stories must have a moral high road. But I do question why I should sit through something that offers no hope of redemption. Why should I watch something that is only going to make me sick? What good does it do to perpetuate the idea that people just plain, out and out suck?

A friend of mine recently recommended that I go to see Eastern Promises. However, she warned me that the violence is too much to take in only one... well two... maybe three parts of the film. Okay, maybe I might want to spend a good third of the film in the bathroom just to be safe because even the SOUND is horribly violent. I think I will pass. I suffer from no illusions. I know that war is hell, murder is wrong, and rape is terrifying. I don't need it spelled out for me in graphic detail. I don't think those that do need the visual representations are getting the point from the current wave of blood and guts on screen. Don't lie to me and tell me that this sensationalism is to reach some higher moral objective because it isn't working. Empathy does not seem to be on the rise in this country- but the output of blood and guts does. And really, all that does is make me sad.

The Art of the Pick Up

Anyone who has been within 10 feet of me for the last couple of months has heard me talk about it. As I type this I can hear a collective groan from the city of New York as my friends and loved ones wonder when the hell I am going to get over it.

Yeah. I was hooked on The Pick Up Artist on VH-1.

At first, I started watching because I just couldn't believe it. I'll admit, I went in with my high school feminist principles and my arms crossed and ready to be offended. But the nerdy guys were so sweet and I was hoping one of them would get laid because I wouldn't wish a sexless life on anyone.

Now, to catch you up in case you don't have cable or have more scruples than I have, the concept behind The Pick Up Artist is to take 8 guys who cannot talk to women and turn them into ladies' men. More or less. The guru on this show is a guy named Mystery who, apparently, decided to put his considerable brainpower to the task of getting laid instead of toward mastering World of Warcraft. As a result you have this tall, lanky guy who dresses more like an ex-member of The Jellyfish than your average barfly and has broken down the rules of attraction so that anyone can apply themselves and learn how to pick up women.

Of course I was skeptical. We women are complex, thinking, feeling beings and it is easy to resent the idea that some guy has created a method of getting into my pants. But, on the other hand, teaching some social skills to a few diamonds in the rough can't be all THAT bad, can it?

Well, I was hooked after the first episode. Unlike other reality shows, these guys weren't the scum of the universe. They weren't all backstabbing opportunists, but all in all, a bunch of really nice guys. With the possible exception of Pradeep who I just thought was a clueless moron at best, and a flaming asshole at worst. Yeah, it still gets my back up that he avoided elimination for so long. But I digress. The truth is, these guys just needed a little support to feel comfortable with themselves and to show the world (women) who they really are. It became an exercise in sweetness to watch every week, except for the weekly Field Tests.

In the Field Tests the fellas were taken out into the world to test their newly learned skills on real, live women. They had challenges and goals to accomplish, things like "Opening sets", "Number closing", "Bouncing", and "Kiss closing". One night they had to try to pick up a stripper. Most of these things just required a little tweaking in their social manner like being able to read body language and being able to just talk to people. These are not bad things to learn. The games were cheezy and the "Demonstrations of Higher Value" I found particularly irksome, but whatever. Those things would never work on me so have at it boys.

Then it happened.

I was in line at a coffee shop when a man behind me said, "Wow. You have such beautiful hair. That has to be your natural color." Now, this doesn't sound like a great pick up line because he could be either gay or just searching desperately for some reason to approach me. But then he added, "I'm a colorist, so I know." Okay. Still a little gay, but it was friendly and not sexually threatening (Something Mystery advocates is to keep sex out of the equation- you want nothing from her so she'll be more inclined to give freely). So I talked to him while we waited for our coffees. Here was the amazing thing, he kept the entire conversation about me. He asked me all kinds of questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers. It is at this point that I became suspicious. I was very comfortable, but I KNEW I was getting played. That suspicion was validated when he "negged" me.

Negging is a playful way to put someone down to demonstrate your higher social value. When I heard about this concept I thought it was mean and nasty and I was sure that it would be an immediate turn off. (Although, now I realize that I do it ALL THE TIME to others!) But then I got negged.

When I told him I was a writer, actor and director he said, "I had you pegged for a director. You seem so sure of yourself and actresses in this town seem so twitchy and nervous, and scrawny. But you! You seem so self possessed and you certainly don't look like you're starving."

Do you want to know the sick thing? I liked it. I'll admit it. I liked it. He had said all of these other positive things first and he was talking to me for well over 5 minutes so I knew he found me attractive. It did make me stop for a second, because I couldn't believe he had said it and before I could consciouly choose my words I had found myself falling into his trap. I started to defend myself a bit, putting myself into a weaker position. I knew I'd been had, but I actually enjoyed the game.

At the end of our little exchange he said, "So, are you going to give me your phone number or not?". I did. It was a fake number, but I felt he deserved a momentary victory for his performance. If it wasn't for the fact that I am happily married I would have given him my real phone number. I think.

I was not happy with the guy who won The Pick Up Artist. It's not that I didn't like him at all. I just thought his attitude kind of stunk. The last challenge for the final two contestants was for each of them to take a guy in need of some help and teach him all that they had learned with Mystery in 8 hours. Then they had to coach these guys while they were 'in the field'. The guy who won, Kosmo, was all stressed out and he put a lot of pressure on his pupil. Brady, the runner up, he took pride in his pupil and wanted him to do well in the field because he honestly wanted to share what he had learned. Kosmo just wanted to win. Yeah. I didn't find that particularly attractive. Oh well. Perhaps I do find it attractive, I just won't admit it to myself.

I'm learning that I can have my high fallutin ideals about men and women, but what I actually like in a man is a lot different than what I THINK I like in a man. It is for this reason I believe every woman should Tango with a good dancer. I've been to a couple of milongas and danced with some really nice guys who refused to lead. The result was, "meh". But I will never forget dancing with that man who could not have been less attractive to me from across the room. He was in his mid-forties, paunchy, wearing pleated dockers and his shirt tucked in. He invited me to dance and... I have to catch my breath just thinking about it. I told him that I had only taken a few lessons and didn't know too many steps. He gestured for me not to talk and proceeded to take me about the room. My body had no choice but to follow his and I did steps that I had never done before. It was as if he saw possibility in me and then proceeded to show me what he had seen. It was hot. So hot, in fact, that I considered becoming Catholic again just so I could confess. He gave me one dance and then left me weak in the knees and panting. I'm sure he knew.

Good for him.

Not so bad for me, either.

"You Look Great!"

Leave it to me to turn a compliment into an insult.

Lately, I've been running into a lot of people that I haven't seen in a few years. They've all said the same thing, "You look great!". Gee. Thanks. Don't sound so surprised.

In my twisted mind I hear the unspoken, "Cuz, man, the last time I saw you, you looked like crap! It's good to see you all cleaned up..." I know that isn't exactly what they are thinking, but I find it hard for my brain not to go to that negative space. I have a habit of being defeated even before I leave the gate.

I'm not alone in that. We are mired in negativity. It appears that our nation actually runs on negativity. You're damned if you do, so why try?

I'll tell you what, I really like Dennis Kucinich. That little guy has got to have some big ones to get in front of the American people and say that his gentle principles need not be comprimised just because he is running for President. To me, he's the bravest candidate running because he is positive that he can achieve his goals by keeping his eyes on the prize. I have a sneaking suspicion that he actually has a vision for what that prize actually is. All the other candidates are "playing the obstacle", to use one of my favorite phrases. There are a lot of "ifs", "buts", and "thens" in their vocabularies. They play to the negativity of the situation, the problems, the drama. "Oh! It's so HARD! But I've got the solution, if you'll let me do it and if... and but...and then..."

Kucinich doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell, but I like him. I'd like to be a little bit more like Dennis Kucinich myself.

Seeing the positive, the possibility of a situation is an exciting frame of mind. Not to mention that it is also a very creative state of mind. I'll use one of my favorite examples of making a positive choice from an acting standpoint. I'll tell this story to illustrate that positive isn't always what you think it means.

Years ago I had a revelatory moment in an acting class when my teacher declared, "Stanley Kowalski is the most patient man in the world." It was then that I GOT it. Of course, Stanley Kowalski is not the quality of "animal" or "masculine", he is a human being. From his perspective he is putting up with a lot from his sister-in-law, and he thinks that all of his actions are justified and right. An actor playing Stanley must put aside all of his ideas of what Stanley should look like, talk like, and even feel like until he has empathized with Stanley's point of view. The actor cannot, and should not, wallow in Stanley's predicament, but should use each beat, each moment, to work toward a resolution using the tools he has available.

Another example is any character about to commit suicide. Suicide is not the obstacle to the character's "happiness", it is the solution. I've seen (and sadly, been one myself) actors play suicide moments as tortured, heavy moments full of pain and doubt. The sad truth is, to that character, suicide is a release and once the decision has been made they get a little lighter. If you talk to people who have been close to anyone who has committed suicide most of them will tell you that they never saw it coming. Things seemed to be getting so much better. In reality, that person seemed better because they had just removed the last obstacle and they felt relieved.

Don't write to me and tell me that I am advocating suicide. I'm not. This is where the actor's craft gets dicey and dangerous because people tend to misinterpret the actor's empathy. I think, perhaps, our electronic age is encouraging us to ignore our capacity for empathy. We spew a lot of negativity through our various electronic boxes. We gossip, we hide our identities through screen names and say things we wouldn't say if we had to look that person in the eye. There is an entire series on cable devoted to different disasters that could annihilate the human species. Morning talk shows are filled with mealy mouthed hosts that smile vapidly as they go through their partially scripted 2 minute conversations that are really just filler to get to the real purpose of the show...to get you to watch commercials. It is hard to motivate yourself to do anything in this kind of environment. Other than to wallow in the negativity. That's a viable option.

Really, positive action isn't good or bad. Positive action is anything the moves a situation, a person, forward into the next phase and the next decision. We now have a culture that encourages stagnation. We are easier to control when we are busy chasing our tails. We can be herded to the slaughter. My urge to go to a negative place after being given a compliment is my urge to go backward to an uncomfortable place of self-loathing. It keeps me stagnant. It keeps me focused on my own personal obstacle- I don't think I'm pretty enough. If I could accept the compliment and let it make me feel good I could move on to the next thing in my life instead of obsessing about how I had let myself go for so long.

So, yeah. I actually DO look great. Thanks.

Real Make-Believe

There have been many times in my life in which I have found myself in conflict with the actor's craft. My faith in the craft that has given me so much is sometimes shaken by what I see on movie screens, in rehearsal rooms, onstage and on TV. Red carpets both attract and repulse me. Talk shows where actors make a few slick jokes and wink at the camera in an attempt to lure my film dollar make me immediately (and many times, unfairly) skeptical. I am both weary and leary of my opinions and my loyalties being bought and sold for the sake of flashy crap starring a bunch of short, skinny, pretty people in designer clothes.

Sometimes I feel my career, my artform is useless tripe.

When Will Smith was plugging "The Pursuit of Happyness" on Oprah, he told a story about a meeting he had with Nelson Mandela. He (Will Smith) was in awe of Mr. Mandela (rightfully so) and had told him that he felt his profession wasn't as worthwhile, expecially in comparison to Mandela's. According to Mr. Smith's story, Nelson Mandela told him that what he does is powerful and important.

That story should make me feel good, validated and empowered. But it doesn't. Because the context in which the tale was told leaves me cold and disgusted. It was told in the context of making a sale. It was told to make me see that this movie is as important as Nelson Mandela's struggle against Apartheid.

Well, it's not.

It just isn't. While I hold tightly to the belief that art can change the way people see the world and can spur them into action, I also know that we must keep our influence in perspective. Few people exhibit the level of strength and courage that inspire others to greatness. We can't expect a handful of mealy-mouthed celebutants to be the ones who change the world. Real society changing stuff doesn't happen in a sequinned gown on a red carpet. Social equality will never be reached in the back seat of a stretch limo even if that limo runs on bio-diesel. Real change happens on street corners, prison cells, living rooms, bars and coffee shops.

But there is no reason for me to believe that I cannot, by virtue of my chosen profession, play an integral part in change. I do not have to participate or encourage the artificiality that is celebrated in our culture. What I need to keep in mind is that there IS something true and rare about what I do.

Here is something interesting, when a person watches a compelling performance the viewer's brain kicks into overdrive- as if the events on stage or on screen are actually happening to the viewer. The experience of the viewer is in synch with the performer. Both the performer and the viewer's brains act as if the event depicted in the film or play or whatever is actually happening to them. Even though we can walk away from a performance and understand that those events did not "actually" happen, our systems feel as if it did. Our systems interpret the experience on that level of truth. In essense, this means that our make-believe experiences are real to our bodies. This is where my artform is uniquely necessary.

Acting can inspire empathy. Empathy- with proper direction- can be inspired to action.

While that calling is not as grand or as self sacrificing as that of a political dissident, it still has unlimited potential for changing the hearts and minds of others. But potential can be squandered by the celebration of the messanger and not the message.

What I am saying here is- Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back.

Bree O'Connor in "Show Business" or "Streamline Your Operation"

That title only sounds good in my head if the narrator from Rocky and Bullwinkle says it. Of course, I have no talent for puns, so I guess even that guy couldn't make it sound very good.

Sigh.

Regardless of how bad my post title is, it does shed a little light on my state of mind. My new working theory is that I should merge my personal goals with my professional goals. I cannot and I should not pursue two separate goals because I will reach neither one.

For example, I can't be both a Happy Heloise Becky Homecky Wife and Mother while also putting 100% of my energies into being an actor, director and producer. Frankly, just one of those paths is too much for any normal human to navigate. I cannot be all things to all people, nor can I be all things to myself! So I need to find a way to make my life's goals manageable. Streamlined. I need to shift my super objective away from seeking validation or needing to win toward something a little more self-fulfilling. All of my energy should be focused on being a better person for myself and for my family and for my art. This is different than having something to prove to the world outside yourself.

Here's the funny thing about life and art. You are free to choose the stakes. You can choose what is important to you and you do not need to be at the mercy of other's ideas of success. Split life goals means someone you love is going to miss out.

When my father retired I went to the festivities. I heard the speeches and listened to my father's colleagues share their memories of my father's rather distinguished career. The phrase that kept popping up in my mind is "The cobbler's kids have no shoes". My father was innovative, insightful, intelligent and forward thinking in his career. He was tired, distant and grouchy in his family. One goal had to be a priority because family and career success were not compatable goals. Family was not something a man needed to focus on in my father's generation. My father's colleagues know a much different man than the father I know. I know my father was happier at work than he was with his family. You can't run a family like you run a business or vice versa.

Or can you?

Maybe it is a different kind of family and a different kind of business, but maybe there is a way to do what you love and have your family be a part of it as well. Maybe there is a way to turn personal and professional goals inward and use those challenges to become the person you want to be as opposed to the person you feel expected to be. But maybe that would require removing preconceived notions of success and approval out of the equation. That is actually a lot scarier than it sounds. Getting others' approval is actually a lot easier than getting your own.

As I work to assemble this new philosophy I have to ask myself what I want from my family life and what I want from my working life. If I dig deep enough, I find that I want the same thing from both. I want to grow as a human being. They are simply two limbs on the same tree growing in different directions but meant to provide for the nourishment of the whole. There is no logical reason why I need to separate my career from my family or see my family as an impediment to my career.

In America, it is easy to see the obstacle. We are encouraged to "play the obstacle", which is diplomatic director speak for "crappy acting". If you play the obstacle you've given up. No one wants to watch a character that isn't actively struggling. It is boring and it makes you want to punch that guy in the neck. If it makes an audience feel that way to watch a character wallow in the face of an obstacle, imagine what it feels like in your personal life to be treated like that obstacle! I don't want that for my family.

So. A philosophy is great. It is a good start. But how do I put it into practice? I've got my company. I've got my life partner. I've got my business partner. I'm building personal and professional support networks. I've got a great show. I don't have a great audience...yet. I've got a great kid. I don't have great child care. I want another kid. I still don't have great child care. I've got a lot of know-how. I don't have a lot of capital. Okay. I don't have any capital. I could continue teaching and doing other odd (and I do mean ODD) jobs to try to support my family and my theater habit, which is what I've always done. OR I could put my head down, plow through a very rough financial time and work to make this company a success.

However, that I cannot do without the support of my family. I'm lucky though, because I think they actually like me.

Black?

On Friday night Bill Maher had Mos Def and Cornel West on his show. Mos Def was funny. Cornel West was his warm, loquascious self. Bill held his own, but he displayed some symptoms- side effects, if you will, of a brush with blackness.

Now, I don't say this to be critical. There are just some uncomfortable truths about how white people behave around anyone who is behaving "Black". This is where things get sticky for me to describe. Even my hackles raise when someone describes something as "black" because I know that "black" is a cultural generalization that falls apart whenever you start looking at the individual. But for the sake of expediency I am going to use this inaccuracy to throw some light on another inaccuracy..."white".

Mos Def brought the black with him. Cornel West luxuriated in it. Bill Maher, as I said, held his own and did not turn into a Zelig. Even so, his language got a shade blacker and there was at least one instance of awkward "white" defensiveness. I don't bring this up to dissect Bill Maher's ability to mix with other cultures or anything else related specifically to those involved with Friday's show. I only bring it up because it started me thinking about how race affects my behavior.

I am decidedly more lame than Bill Maher. Like a good liberal I am afraid of discussing race. In a ridiculous turn of Stephen Colbert-like behavior I have a tendancy to avoid even mentioning race as if I don't even see it. This summer my son had a park playdate with one of his friends who just happens to be black. I was watching both of them in a very large and busy playground when she disappeared into the crowd. I started calling for her and when she didn't come my heart started to pound and I was running all over the park to find her. Another parent asked me who I was looking for. I struggled to describe her without saying the word "black". Finally, I realized that was a stupid thing to do and while I was finally able to spit it out I felt an innocent tapping on my back and there she was, smiling at me.

Why was it so uncomfortable for me to admit to a stranger that another human being is black? I encountered a similar feeling when I tried to point out to another parent a little girl that my son had a crush on who just happens to be Asian. The one over there, with the pink backpack and black hair. No the other pink backpack. She has stragiht black hair! Oh! Why won't you just get what I am saying? Like a good liberal I sought a culturally diverse school for my son. I am so happy that my little Irishman's best friends are Arab, Hispanic, Black and Asian and that he hardly notices anything beyond "John always looks like he has a tan...". But I feel myself, somehow, unworthy to acknowledge race in any way. What if "black" is the wrong word? What if I'm a jerk for even noticing? And, ultimately, if I acknowledge race than I would have to admit to my own race and my own race is not as sexy.

I have a lot of Puerto Rican neighbors. My Spanish is terrible, but I can pick up the gist of what they're gossiping about on the stoop while we let our kids play on the sidewalk before dinnertime. I usually keep my mouth shut, not because I can't relate to them and not even because I don't understand them. To be honest, I listen to their bawdy jokes and wish I felt that comfortable. White, middle class, mommies only talk about sex in hushed tones over glasses of wine after the children are in bed. In addition to concerns about my cultural lameness I feel the unspoken accusation that my gleaming white appearance on the block is going to raise their rents next year. Regardless of my friendly intentions, my presence is part of a larger trend that shakes them at their financial foundations.

Of course, those that are homeowners on the block welcome me with open arms.

I try to be easy going. A black man that I used to work with had this t-shirt that read, "Lady, I don't want your purse". I think that is hysterical and it made me super conscious of how I treat black strangers on the street and on the train. Most of the time, I over do it. I now have this horrible, Pavlovian response to young black men. They make me yawn. If I was observing a pack of dogs I would say that the yawning dog was displaying submissiveness. Maybe the yawning dog is trying to overcompensate for the sins of the rest of the pack. How arrogant and self-important is that?

A girl I went to high school with once gave me a serious verbal bitch slapping. She said to me, "There is nothing more insulting to me than white guilt. White guilt comes from pity and let me tell you, I don't need your fucking pity." That stopped me absolutely cold. But I still don't know what to do with that. Down deep, I know that no one is asking me to DO anything except relax and be human. But I'm not really sure how to do that. I feel the constant need to try to identify myself as "one of the good guys". When it comes down to it, I think that is the heart of white lameness.

It's like those movies in the 80's about the civil rights movement. Those films were always told from the "good" white perspective. Black characters were relegated to secondary importance while some fair minded white person fought for truth, justice and the American way. This kind of liberalism is horrible, insulting and it diminishes those it pretends to lift up. It is a part of my indoctrination and I struggle to slough it off. In the crusade for equality the best I can do is be supportive and work to meet everyone somewhere in the middle. The revolution is not going to be led by this face.

Damn. This shit is hard.

Suspension of Disbelief

The more I think about it, celebrity is not a good thing.

At least not for the artform.

Or perhaps I should rephrase that... there's a certain type of celebrity that is bad for the form. Not because fame can be troubling to people who aren't prepared for it. Not because they sometimes set a bad example for our children. Not even because I, personally, tire of hearing about the troubles of the rich and famous. For me celebrity makes it harder to suspend disbelief. In fact, I often find myself going to movies because I can't help but roll my eyes and say, "Celebrity X is playing what now? Surely you jest!". Going to a film to watch a pretty person fall on their face (and hope that you might be pleasantly surprised instead) is quite a different beast from going to see just a plain, old good movie.

There's a generational gap that allows me to thouroughly enjoy just about everything on Turner Classic Movies. Sure, I now know a lot about the personal lives of Montgomery Clift, Clark Gable, Joan Crawford etc, etc, but since I'm not currently bombarded by their lives I can suspend my disblief when I see them on film. To me, James Cagney IS a real tough guy. Peter Lorre IS an opportunistic slime ball. Katherine Hepburn IS a icy cold socialite, or a queen, or a missionary, or whatever the hell she tells me she is. I believe them. I have trouble believing the actors of today.

Now, I realize that is a general statement and you can't take that to be true in every case. I believe Steve Carrell. Granted, I didn't much care for Produce Pete on The Daily Show, but I believed he could be a 40 year old virgin. I also believed he was a suicidal Proust scholar. I might even believe that he is Maxwell Smart- but the jury is still out on that one. I know Leonardo DiCaprio has beefed up quite a bit but I have trouble buying him as a guy with any kind of back bone. He still has the soft tenor voice of a high school sophmore and I can't get past his legendary cuteness. Same with Brad Pitt. I can't even watch Thelma and Louise anymore without thinking 'Hey, that's pretty, pretty Brad Pitt who cheated on his wife with a woman with bigger lips and tits." When I'm doing that I'm not watching the film, I'm dissecting a live human being and trying to pull pieces of information about their personal lives out of their performance. I'm watching something else entirely and I will tell you this- to me it is not nearly as interesting as watching a good movie.

So. Do we blame the writers? Do we blame the directors? How about the celebrities or ourselves? We could blame the news media for stooping to our level and lifting these sordid stories up from the muck of gossip and granting them official status as "news". I know it seems like a bit of a stretch to some people, but to me our overwhelming cynacism and willingness to both celebrate and destroy those we celebrate seems symptomatic of a broken culture. We numb ourselves with trans fats, high fructose corn syrup and celebrity.

Maybe I could fiddle while Rome burns, but I hate to see the stories go.

Whole Lotta Nuthin'

There is nothing like a good creative stretch when work just comes spilling out. It feels so productive and energizing and when I'm in the middle of one of these periods it can be easy to forget that I had ever concerned myself with mundane details like food and laundry. I can become quite frustrated with having to deal with everyday activities when I'm on a roll. Then it gets worse when the creative river dries up and all that I am left with is a pile of laundry and a refrigerator in desperate need of being refilled. Not to mention a husband and child who are in need of some attention as well.

I am starting to think of these lulls as a necessary part of my creative cycle. This is helping with my level of resentment once my pen runs dry. Incubation periods are necessary. If it weren't for these periods with ideas and observations clanking around in my head the creative times would not happen at all. It can be hard to be thankful for these frustratingly slow periods when I'm in the middle of them, but I need to learn to appreciate them.

Of course what makes these lulls so frustrating is the fear that I'm finished. What if my magnum opus was that dance piece I did in school with the 6'6" dancing female reproductive system with maracas for ovaries? What if that's all I've got in me? Ever? Intellectually I know that those fears are just a sign that I need to take a break. I need to relax and pick some blackberries with some good friends on a mountainside in Vermont.

So that is exactly what I am going to do.

Spiderman or Marvelling at Marvel

After an eye opening trip to the comic book store down the street and two evenings of watching Spiderman movies with my son (both of which I have seen a few times before) I am starting to have a new appreciation for super heroes and what they mean to young (and much older) boys. Certainly I have spent some time in the comic book and super hero trenches in order to win the affections of various sinewy limbed young lads with uncombed hair and untucked shirts, but I never really understood the attraction. Of course I could make the intellectual arguments about how these stories adhere to the 'hero's journey' tradition in folklore and appreciate how each villian and each hero has very personal motivations and yadda yadda yadda. I loved how there was always a tiny thread that separated the villian from the hero and the conflicts were always epic in scope. Just like the great myths I was taught to admire.

What I didn't get and am only begining to understand is the instructive quality in the hero's journey. This is something, as a woman that is saddled with much different cultural expectations, that I am excited to learn.

Now, I must preface this by pointing out where most current educational wisdom stands on this issue. I'm sure just about anyone who grew up in America understands the general attitude toward comic books. They're like candy. The assumption is that they have little literary substance and that they are just a step above watching television. You will find that preschools that cater to upwardly mobile, college educated families have policies that specifically restrict super hero play. The reasoning behind this is that the establishment considers super hero play to be "limiting" and that it does not allow the child to stretch their imaginations. When I had my brief stint running a preschool curriculum I swallowed this hook line and sinker. I am now starting to re-think my position as it seems to me this wisdom comes from a very "feminine" position, and it may not necessarily be right for boys. It certainly wouldn't be right for my boy.

First let me attack the idea that the play is too "limiting" because there are certain ideas about who the characters are from the get go and that, educators assume, leaves little room for the children to create on their own. If this is true, then how has the Commedia d'el Arte survived? In the commedia there are a certain number of archetypes and there is a definite form to them. Do acting schools touch on the commedia only to give their students a taste of theatrical history? Surely that must be a part of it, but another part is that there is great freedom within the form. Once there is an understanding of the archetype there are an infinte number of ways to play with that character and students of the art have found great joy and freedom while exploring these archetypes within themselves. It isn't the character that is limiting. Rather than ban the character we should seek to challenge assumptions about the character and about good and evil, responsibility and power because that is what a good comic book does. That is what a superhero that lasts does. The super hero looks to express and explore what it means to be a man and is often a cautionary tale for how easy it is for a man to go astray.

Since I have Spiderman on the brain, let's deal with him, shall we?

Peter Parker (and most of the major classic super heroes) operates from a distinctly male fear- if I share what I am it will endanger those I love most. While this fear manifests itself literally in the story lines (the villians always use the girlfriend as leverage) this emotional spectre has always been lurking somewhere on the horizon for most of the males I've known. He loves deeply, but for the safety of those he loves he must wall off a part of himself. The super hero has great power, but he is ultimately doomed to lonely life, constantly on guard against super villains and the demons within.

While Peter Parker has a distinct moral center the way forward for him is shadowy at best. His sense of responsibility is often at odds with his personal needs and desires and yet his sense of duty always wins out but not without a great inner struggle. Spiderman has great agility and strength, but the stronger he is the more he has to defend. The tragedy of the story is that his incredible ability isolates him and makes him, and those he loves, more vulnerable

So what is my son learning from Spiderman? Well, the circumstances are quite complex. I like the fact that no one is just plain evil. Every villian has suffered some loss or humiliation- there is always a defining moment that tells us where the human broke and crossed the line. He is also learning that being "good" is not easy and that even the strong and the brave can be tempted but that we always have choices. He already (at the age of 5) relates to the fear that I have mentioned- the fear of caring and being vulnerable is very real for him. Although Spiderman does not always make the best of choices in his personal life, we see him struggle to understand himself. I'd say that struggle is worth something.

Women say they want their men to be more open with their feelings but don't we secretly swoon when we watch Spiderman silently whisking Mary Jane away from danger? I'll admit it, I will take a quiet and firm arm around my waist over a love poem any day. One just means more than another. Super heroes understand that and maybe it isn't a bad thing for our boys to explore that, too. After all, I believe it is through stories that most of us learn about ourselves and the world around us. It is through stories that we can step outside of ourselves and look at circumstances, actions and consequences. Our boys need heroes through which they can understand themselves. It is our job, as parents and educators, to realize that our children have their own wisdom. They choose to focus on stories and characters that speak to them in a way we can't. We need not to ban super heroes but to put the heroes through their paces and allow discovery to happen. Dig deep into the characters and find out what it is that has captured the child's attention and then go a little deeper.

That is where the stories live.

Giving Direction/ Needing Direction

I had always hoped that I would have ended up being some flamboyant genius director. I wanted to be one of those revolutionary directors that could leave a welt on the text. I wanted to be visionary, loud and odd.

I'm not. The more I work as a director the more I feel I should just get out of the way. I'm starting to see my job as a director more akin to a goalie than a master artist. My job is to define the boundaries of the text and when an actor or designer gets too close to the edge my job is to kick 'em back into play.

I suppose it is more than that. Beyond defending the outer edges of the given circumstances I am also a good host. Rehearsals should be loose and enjoyable and I get to plan the working party. I suppose I also play cheerleader and mascot from time to time but other than that I don't do much. That used to bother me. I used to complain that I wasn't DOING anything and wasn't serving any useful purpose other than being a really good pre-audience laughter guage. I am a healthy laugher. But now I am seeing the subtle and quiet value of my fly on the wall style. Occassionally I give a ripping good note and I can be fairly insightful, but mostly I just watch. And when I am not watching I am pretty good at pinpointing the reasons why I am not watching. Those reasons are often the same reasons that will cause a general audience to go astray. So, I make note of it and decide how to relay that information to the actor in question. That's it. There really isn't much else to my job.

Except for my aesthetic sense, which I suppose is important. Just not day to day.

But I am learning that I cannot and should not direct myself. I freeze on myself all the time and I don't make choices. I don't know how anyone else does it. It is most definitely a skill I do not possess. You can't imagine how it pains me to say so! But, in the immortal words of Popeye, "I am what I am and that's all that I am".

Well, good. I'm glad I know that much. It keeps my head from getting too big.

Tomorrow night I will be stepping on stage in a role I would not be comfortable with if I had a million rehearsals. As it turns out, I've only had two. Due to a bizarre set of circumstances I find myself covering for an actor in the show I've been directing (see notice on the right) and I wish I had someone standing guard on the edges of the text to kick me back into play. In the two rehearsals that I've had I have paced over the same well-worn path and I am terrified of deviation. What if I get lost and there's no one to bring me back? What if, what if, what if? Sometimes, it's nice to know someone is looking out for you so you don't have to look out for yourself.

Thank God, though, that I've got some stellar actors that I know have my back.

Maybe I'll feel better about it next week.

No Dignity in Needless Self-Torture

I once saw an interview with John Partick Shanley in which he bassically said that if a project isn't working and you feel miserable you should quit. This makes some sense and, for most people, would not have stood out as anything to remember. For me, however, it was revolutionary. I felt a pathway literally fire through my brain like a hot knife through butter. What do you mean, quit? Stop doing it? What?

The idea was foreign to me and I had to sit down and really think about what it means to be a woman of my word. I think many of us "dependable people" look at the world and see how others can be, well, less dependable. It makes us double our efforts, it makes us think that our dependablity makes us special. So, for me that means I will stick with a bad job or a bad project to the point of torturing myself. I am learning that part of having personal integrity is knowing when to say, 'there is a better person for this job than me'. It is okay to learn that you have limitations and it is okay to discover that you've made a wrong turn and you need to get back to the main road- fast. Sometimes it is okay to quit.

I recently had a pleasant conversation with someone who was overwhelmed by a certain responsibility. He felt he wasn't up to the task, but also felt that he was between a rock and a hard place because he assumed no one else could do the job. I heard the struggle inside him. I know he wanted to be shot of it. The job was just too big for him, bigger and harder than he could have imagined when he said yes to the job. The job made him feel miserable. The misery spilled out into his work. His work was not up to par. Everyone suffers in the group when one person is not up to the job. He quit. He felt guilty but much lighter once it was all over.

No, it is not okay to just quit because you're feeling diva and are bored. But if the job isn't right and if you aren't right for it, there is no shame in admitting it. There is great wisdom in knowing and understanding what it right for you. Now that I consider this lessson ( which I imagine I will be practicing for years to come) I feel a sense of freedom. I don't have to be chained to things that make me miserable simply because I want to be seen as dependable. I am not doing anyone any favors by sticking it out when there is probably someone who is just right for that job right around the corner.

The Universe wants us to be free. So choose it.

Love to the MSP

I am devastated by the bridge collapse in Minneapolis last night. I am lucky, however, as my family and friends seem to have made it through the crisis unscathed. There are still a few unreturned phone calls, but the phone lines were jammed up last night and I am refusing to panic about it. The news this morning is that 20 people are reported missing and the odds of those being MY people, I hope, are slim. Even so, I can't help but feel violated.

Minnesota is supposed to be a safe place. I didn't realize how much I had counted on that until last night. I know that I, personally, have chosen to live one ring out from the Manhattan bullseye and I have come to terms with that. But I always figured that the fastidious Finns, Norewegians and Swedes would be able to keep my homestate safe from tragedy. What could ever happen in a state where they never run out of baked goods (ever), Target is always well stocked and you can always find antifreeze, lock de-icer and a customer service person who actually gives a damn about their job? Prince has famously said that he stays in Minnesota because "...the cold keeps bad people away".

Intellectually, I know our species is on borrowed time. I know that no place on earth is completely safe. But I always felt that, no matter what happens to me personally, that the people I love in Minnesota would be protected by their geography and their pleasantness. It shakes me to my core to see that is not necessarily so.

And then comes the exploitative news coverage.

They always have to push it over the edge, don't they? Like emotional vultures waiting on the scene for the river to cough up leftovers for them to devour. Reporting is one thing. Using this tragedy to speculate and spread fear about all the nation's bridges while they have their graphics department working overtime on bigger and better visuals to play on viewers' anxiety is nothing short of sick. I'm not saying that the integrity of our nation's infrastructure isn't worthy of reporting. What I am saying is that the way it is approached is tasteless and exploitative. It would be nice if reporters went out and found some news and reported it instead of waiting around for something that gets ratings and then mining the story until it is played out. What would have happened if reporters who were just out covering a beat had discovered that our infrastructure was in trouble and then told the public about it when NTSB had that assessment? What would have happened if reporters were covering something else besides Paris Hilton's jail time? What if our news media found something more important about its work than making a profit? What if the news media decided to take control and let its reporters report news instead of trying to follow the whims of a fickle and insecure public?

Am I blaming the news media for the bridge collapse? No. I doubt any newspaper article would have been able to call attention to the problem in the first place. It would be nice, though, if the media could be proactive instead of reactive. If it could be full of information instead of sensation. It would be nice if the public would demand more from the news media and turn off the crap news that just doesn't matter.

My brother was among the many phone calls I made last night. He's a lovable crumudgeon. I'll paraphrase a bit in his voice (because it's more fun for me that way) but he said, " Well you'll see what happens next. Politicians will be making laws against bridge collapses and blaming each other and wasting the tax payers time legislating on shit that doesn't need to be legislated. You see, I've always been against bridge collapses! I signed the anti-bridge collapsing bill but my opponent is clearly pro-bridge collapse. Check the record, he voted no on the anti-bridge collapsing bill! And my opponent hates puppies..." He's got a point. We have such a negative, reactionary and exploitative culture and what gets lost in the shuffle and the bluster and the self-importance are people. At least 20 people are missing in the river. 20 people from my home. I don't feel that the news media or politicians or the public at large give that the proper weight.

In fact, human life carries very little weight at all. Be it American, Sudanese, or Iraqi all life is in service of entertainment. Just wait until you see the next DATELINE: Survivor Stories and you hear the familiar cadence of the Chris Hanson voice over detailing the dramatic story of someone special who survived the collapse. They don't see the survivor. They see the survivor story- and that is different. Stories are important. I love them. I believe in them. I need them. But it is disconcerting when so many true stories are forced into the same cookie cutter format and sold prepackaged to a ravenous public that consumes so blindly and so completely. They're like army ants. They leave nothing but the bone.

My heart goes out to the MSP. There is nothing I can say that can calm the shock or take away the grief. No matter how far I roam Minnesota is where I am from.

Messiness and Spectacular Saves

Ah! The lure of live theatre is just as much about the possibility of spectacular crashes as your average NASCAR event. It is just that the crashes in live theatre tend to be less fiery and more humiliating.

I've spent many a drunken evening lifting my glass to the glory of crashing. I've extolled the virtues of a messy theatre - a survivalist theatre, if you will- to anyone who would sit and listen. Well, if my company's production of "Adventures in Mating" has taught me anything it has taught me that anyone can talk. When it comes down to it, messiness is terrifying.

When you are involved in a show that has 60 different scene combinations and a rotating cast running one night a week messiness is no longer some passionate, adolescent artistic fantasy. It is a fact of life. Sitting in the back of the theatre watching these performers that I love and trust face the Goliath of a script and an audience every week is nerve wracking. It feels like I've thrown my baby to the lions armed with a Swiss army knife and some hugs. If the lion gets too close, son, give him a big hug and hope he melts. If he doesn't, well, I hope you can jam that knife into his jugular before it's too late. If that doesn't work out, well, it was nice knowing you. Bye. Mommy loves you!

It is sick to enjoy this feeling of dread every week. We're still tinkering with the formula, but I have faith that we will be a well oiled machine in a couple of months.

Of course, when that happens we will be required to up the ante and make it just a little more dangerous.

I only hope I'll get to see Ben's fully comitted, utterly dorky air kick again. That was a thing of beauty.

In the Beginning...

If Harry Potter has taught me anything it is that selling the premise is the most important thing in storytelling.

No, you won't find any spoilers about the Deathly Hallows in here so it is safe to read on.

A multitude of literary sins can be forgiven if you can do two things. The first is to believably construct the premise of the story. The second is to avoid betraying that construct. That's it. The key is not in gags, one-liners or even artfully turned phrases. It is the framework and adherence to that framework that matters. As my teachers used to say, "Within form there is freedom!". That, my friends, is the ultimate truth.

We cannot create in chaos. We crave order, outline and form. Pathways are important. They need not always be linear, but they do need to exist. Creation is the process of order- putting details in their proper places for a purpose. The purpose is usually to entertain, but if you go just slightly deeper than that you will find the desire to place the Universe in a context that can be understood. Ah, but if I go any further I will start sounding like that jackass Aristotle. (I'm joking Aristotle! I'm joking! Don't get your toga in a knot!)

So, if I am to look at literary creation from a constructive, as opposed to deconstructive, perspective I would need to consider the world in which my journey would take place. Now, here's the question, how does one construct the literary framework that will provide enough structure to sell the premise of the story without over constructing it so as to squelch all creative discovery? How do you give yourself enough room to surprise yourself and learn something new while still giving form and shape to the general premise? How do you know when you have it just right?

I was trying ot explain to my husband some of the finer points of the seventh Harry Potter book (which I know he will never read so I am free to spoil things all I want) and found myself flitting from book to book to make some of the things from the seventh book make sense to him. I can't help but marvel at the framework that Rowling has created even if I have found her phrasing to be tiresome and repetitive at times. That repetition is forgivable, in my estimation, because the structure of the tale is so well done and she never betrays her characters or her boundaries. Truth be told, she could have written complete crap and I'd never know it because I've become so invested in the series, the characters and the outcome of the circumstances. I've bought the premise and she could pull me to the ends of the earth and I would go willingly because she has earned my trust.

As a reader I am like a skittish little squirrel (I can't imagine I'm the only one!) and I can be scared off by formless storytelling. Betray the characters for the convenience of the story and I will rail against you like a New York City pigeon at the old lady who has just run out of bread crumbs. So I am beginning to think that my focus in my own work should be on the framework. On the beginning. I've got to sell the premise.

And I maybe should stay away from metaphors for a while...

MacGyver It

I'm bored with smoke and mirrors. I tire of things blowing up and gratuitous CGI. It annoys me to see a film or theater performance where the art direction dictates and overwhelms the story as opposed to enhancing it. I prefer the aesthetics of limitation.

Limitation does not mean everything must be stripped down to a black box with a couple of apple boxes. On the contrary. It is the creative problem solving while laboring under a tight budget that results the most sumptious and luscious visuals. Cheap and creative really gets my juices flowing. I once saw some friends solve a narrative problem in their film by projecting a film of things that were on the character's mind on the hood of the character's car while he was doing a driving shot. It looked great and it quickly solved a visual and narrative dilemma. The 1971 "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" is another of my favorite examples. That was a visually creative film without the gigantic budget films we see today. The visuals support the story, they don't drive the story. That creepy sequence in the boat is terrifying (at least, it was pretty damn intense when I was a kid) and that was done with lights and projection. Oh, and the endless office...what movie was that? Was that in "The Apartment"? That huge, never ending office mostrosity was simply a trick of mirrors.

I worry that the answer to so many creative dilemmas is just "throw some money at it". This does not mean that I do not enjoy or respect the artistry of computer animation or brilliant pyrotechnics or great stunt work. I do! However any tool needs to be used with understanding of each tool's strengths and weaknesses. No tool can make up for a lack of story or character development. Not for me, anyway. To me the endless parade of nonsensical light shows, whizzes and bangs is the equivelent of watching those videos made to entertain your cat when you're away for an extended period of time.

I advocate slapdash, spit and polish productions that make things work in spite of their lack of funds. It is fun to see a show that can whisk you away on the merits of the story, I certainly wish I could see more.

Letting Be

I sometimes wonder if I have "style". My favorite artists leave a mark on their work that is so distinct, not because they have a rubber stamp of their personality that they routinely use to hold down loose ends, but because they can't help it. The way they see the world and themselves in it is so individual that it seeps into their work regardless of the medium of genre. Arthur Miller has a very distinct and curious view of the world. Billy Wilder made wildly different films and yet, as different as they are, they all have an unmistakable wit to them that crosses over from noir to comedy because of Wilder and his ever-present collaborator I.A.L Diamond. Hal Ashby's films have a bizarre and uniquely masculine sensitivity. I could watch Katherine Hepburn all day long and never tire of seeing how she transforms her "Yankee sensibility" to fit her roles. The list goes on.

How I long to emulate them. Their style, their grace and, above all, their great wit and insight. But I also know that I cannot force myself to be anyone or anything other than what I am. If I am to have a style at all it can only be defined by who and what I am. I can pay hommage to the performers/ writers/ directors I love, but I cannot be them. I have to be honest with myself.

In a way that, well, that sucks. There is no short cut to self discovery and it is hard to just be who and what you truly are. There are roles we play. I often catch myself speaking in my sisters' voices. I sound like Kristen when I tell a joke. I sound like Pam when I flirt. Sometimes I will adopt the cadence of my friends' speech. I sound like Britt when I tell a wry or dirty anecdote. When I'm with Aaron I have to force myself not to conform to his London sound. I'm a verbal Zelig, changing my speech to suit my message and my audience. Then I go home and beat myself soundly for acting such a fool. Why can't you just be yourself? You look like such an idiot! Everybody knows you're a fake and a fraud! Stupid actor! Stupid stupid actor!

Clearly, that will not help me in my quest. But it is so much easier to be angry and self- destructive than it is to be responsible for change and growth. Anger and self-hatred is easy. Acceptance is hard.

A while back a friend of mine read a script I wrote. His first comment was, "Well, it's got your fingerprints all over it". I took that as a great compliment. Then I noticed that he didn't say anything about that being a good thing. My dilemma was how to take that comment. Do I worry about what a dork I am? Or do I realize that this guy is my friend for a reason and maybe my "fingerprints" might not be among the world's greatest, but if they are uniquely mine then I guess I've accomplished something.

I've expressed my self.

The End of the World

Leave it to me to find some reason to fret about my art while I sit under a dark cloud threatening to rain armaggeddon.

I was on the train yesterday reading Aristotle's Poetics. Now, I don't normally flaunt highly intellectual reading material on the subway but since I had just finished re-reading the last two Harry Potter books (in giddy anticipation of the upcoming movie and book release) and I hadn't had time to get to the book store to pick up a new summer read I decided to chew on some literary vegetables for a while. It has been on my shelf forever and I have never read it. I have trouble reading things everyone says I "should" read. I'm a contrary pig that way. At any rate, I skipped the introduction (which is, incidentally, longer than Aristotle's actual work) and started reading.

I found myself arguing a bit with dear Aristotle. You see, I bristle at any distinction between "high" and "low" art. His first mention of comedy seemed snobby and his critical disdain for satire and parody got my back up a bit. Then there was this little nugget: "Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more limited." And so it has always been this way. Intellectuals tout their superiority over the masses and those who enjoy popular entertainment are irritated by the intellectuals' sense of self importance. So the chasm between the two grows and popular entertainment becomes raunchier and more grotesque while more "intellectual" entertainment becomes so lofty- to borrow a phrase from the character of Mozart in Peter Shaffer's "Amadeus"- they become so lofty it is as if they "shit marble".

The previews before Michael Moore's movie "Sicko" were full of this self- important, self- congratulatory air. It was so noticable that it caused my husband to quip, "Even the company logos are pretenscious." Oh look how clever and how visually stunning we are! Meanwhile the important things, I truly believe, the important messages are being delivered in comedy clubs and improv venues across the country. Subversives love these funny little hidey holes and they say whatever they want there. I'm willing to bet you that the best prophets throughout the centuries were funny. I bet Jesus had a raging sense of humor that we never hear about. How else could he command such a following? Think about it. People were no more nor less intellectual in Jesus' time. Certainly the best church experiences I ever had were while listening to priests who could set you up with a good joke and then reach through the humor with an insight that would knock you off your kneeler. So I think the "low" when done with great intelligence can be much more sublime than the "high" done with great sincerity, and ultimately it is more effective. And fun.

Intellectuals give off the reeking stench of seriousness, as if fun was beneath them. No wonder "men in general" show no interest in that kind of "learning". It is the word "capacity" with which I take issue, Aristotle (or possibly your careless translator) because I believe every human has an infinite capacity for learning. It is the desire that may or may not be lacking. Regardless, I find this schism to be dangerous in today's social and political climate.

Art and critical thinking can be great mobilizing forces in times of strife. But, if art and thought are not communicated in ways that reach people they are completely useless. As I look at where things are headed in this country I consider my own skill set and wonder what these skills are for. I am a talker. If I remain mute when I could have inspired a conversation or a debate then I have not been true to myself and my natural inclinations. If I talk, but only speak to please myself and indulge my own ego then I have not been true to my calling and I will have failed to reach anyone else. If I want my work to have meaning and to function in this society then I need to ask questions and craft my thoughts clearly and set my ego and my personal need for validation aside. I don't have to be the smartest. I have to be the bravest and most honest I can be in order for my work to be relevant. I have to get out of my own way and focus only on communicating with my audience.

And if Aristotle wants to classify my work as "low" I would wear it as a badge of honor.

On Michael Moore

I can't, in good conscience, call Michael Moore a documentarian. He is nothing of the sort. He is not a proper journalist either. He shows no interest in objectivity or even handed reporting. He has a very clear objective- he wants to win the audience over to his point of view. If I were to look at him as a documentary film maker I would be irritated. I would be pissed as hell as his films, entertaining though they are, are not documentaries. Regardless of the fact that my own personal politics are somewhat in line with Mr. Moore's, I do criticize his films' catagorization as documentary. They simply are not.

So it is a good thing that I can see him for what he really is... a writer (an essayist to be precise) who discovered that he could make a convincing argument on film that more people would see than would ever read anything he ever wrote. If I look at him as such, then I can sit back and enjoy his films with a third less guilt and pissiness.

I recently saw Moore's most recent film, "Sicko", which has been applauded by some of his most vociferous detractors. I was curious. None of the information was necessarily new to me, but Moore has a talent for putting things in a context that can get under your skin. He also has a talent for putting just the right, vomit inducing clips of W and Cheney in just the right place to make you want to pull all your flesh off and chew it until the urge to repeatedly pummel them (Dick and W, that is) in the face subsides. His use of music is more than a little heavy handed at times and he dismisses the idea that there might be issues with socialized medicine. I know why he dismisses it and I even agree with his overall assessment, but I think the omission weakens his argument to a certain degree.

However, I thought the film was affecting and more powerful than "Farenheit 9/11". I left the theater tired and red in the face from crying- as did a good portion of the audience who saw it with me including the solid looking, middle aged white guy in a suit who sat across the aisle from me. I felt for the people who appeared in the film and their stories touched me deeply. However, I am left with little to do now that the lights are up and the film is over. I feel empty and helpless. He made some veiled suggestion that we take to the streets, that we organize and vote... but organize for what? Vote for whom? You have my attention. You have my will.

Now tell me what I can do.

Ever Get the Feeling You've Been Cheated?

This quote pops into my mind so frequently it is somewhat disturbing.

For those of you unfamiliar with the quote, allow me to brush past a little piece of punk history. During a concert in 1977 or 78' John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, of the Sex Pistols mused the above mentioned line to the audience. If you watch the footage you'll see a somewhat crestfallen Lydon staring into the sea of onlookers looking befuddled and disappointed. If I remember correctly (and I might not) the song preceeding this moment was "No Fun". Indeed.

What intrigues me about this moment is how honest it is. The bluster falls away for minute and all that is left is a young man disenchanted with his fame. I've seen interviews where he asserts that this moment was for the band and that, "...the easiest thing in the world to do is to stop. If you don't want to be a pop star anymore, just stop...". I am fascinated by that. I am fascinated by what that means and am fascinated by how he didn't "just stop" and I wonder if it is humanly possible to maintain any kind of integrity in the face of money/ fame. He walked away. Sometimes we just have to eat. Sometimes we just have something to say. Sometimes we just need to be stroked.

Most artists- performers in particular- are hard wired to seek a certain amount of attention. How do we steer clear of arrogance and self indulgence when the business, the public and sometimes even the art itself encourages us to dive in? Even on the smallest of scales there is temptation to serve yourself over anything or anyone else. There have been times which I, as an audience member, have been eternally grateful for the artist's instinct to amuse him/herself. After all, half the reasons to watch something like "The Carol Burnett Show" are to watch these actors crack each other up. Tim Conway was terribly self indulgent that way- picking on poor Harvey Korman like that. And yet I love it. There is joy in it. Conversely, however, I tire of watching Robin Williams desperately try to keep people laughing at his manic state because I feel the real Robin is somehow hidden. Worse yet is watching Jim Carrey mug for love and affection with his elastic face or Chris Farley degrade himself in a very desperate and self destructive plea for attention. This is not to say that I haven't found some things funny or even entertaining about these performers, but sometimes it is more than too much and I am left feeling more sad than I feel entertained.

I digress more than a bit here because Lydon's comment is more about the emptiness left behind. Being a product, a commodity, is so often much more than people bargain for and the halls of many rehab facilities can attest to this simple fact. Being a product can't be good for a person. And yet, that is what the industry demands.

Then I think about Dave Chappelle. He did not walk away from his experience unscathed, I'm sure, but he seems to have managed himself from a very true place- a very self aware and honest place. How many of us can do that? I've sold myself for so much less than was offered him. Once again, sometimes we have to eat.

Where is the line? For sure, each of us has a different line. Some won't do "under fives", some won't do extra work, others won't work for a penny less that $20 million. All we really have to rely on is our gut instincts, but what if our gut instincts are the instincts which keep us quiet and our work stuffed in dark, seldom opened dresser drawers?

I have a middle aged friend who only hints at having ever been involved in the theatre. I know him as a dedicated father and lover of film. He has never let on to me his ambitions, however, I discovered today that he has a vast body of unproduced work just waiting. It seemed a cautionary tale to me that one could reach an age where they have never spoken of their life's work and therefor their life's work is never spoken of. How close does one hold the cards? How do you choose what to do with your work? How do you decide what to do with yourself?

As for me, I fear my own self-indulgence (after all, I did once convince a 6'6" classmate to dress up like a female reproductive system complete with maracas for ovaries just to amuse myself...) and my suceptibility to flattery. I worry about my arrogance and my ego becoming so inflated that it pops. I worry about being stolen from, bought and sold. I worry about the entertainment that is out there today and how it is made by committee and focus group instead of by artist and ensemble. I worry about honest questioning and different viewpoints disappearing in a world of pre-fabricated, die cut, corporate thinking. I worry about finding myself empty one night, staring at an audience of my own making while I have nothing left to give them but an already uttered query.

Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?

Ensemble

There is nothing better or more satisfying than finding people with whom you enjoy working. Personal chemistry is, indeed, an elusive thing but a good working relationship is not that hard if you know how to get off on the right foot.

The best way to promote the creation of a good ensemble is to be a good ensemble member yourself. Then surround yourself with people who are also good ensemble members. People who love the work in themselves more than themselves in the work are a joy to work with. If you love working with these people you will be more open to them and they will, in turn, be more open to you. The magic of an ensemble is in the openness, the trust that is created between cast and crew which leads to great explorations and incredible personal risks. A company should be about lifting each player- and by player I mean performer, administrator, box office staff, stage manager, prop master, etc- up toward their personal best and beyond. If you can find that in yourself you are more likely to find and join or create a brilliant ensemble.

If you can't, you'll be doing something else entirely.

As always, the choice is yours.

The Theatre I Want

The classics and I don't get along. And that isn't because I don't love them. It isn't because I no longer find them vital. It isn't even because they are so frequently done poorly. It is because I am an American. Specifically, I am an American who was taught to revere classical work as one would admire the craftsmanship of a Ming vase or an Egyptian artifact. They are old. They are delicate. They are needed and desired and therefor must only be observed from behind glass in order to guarantee their preservation. Playing with them is verboeten.

I suppose this is a variation on my Godot lament, but I'd like to take it a step further and explore what I really want from a theatre. From MY theatre! I want classics that can withstand my artistic teething and I want new works that are as strong as those classics. I want a rough and messy theatre with mistakes and passion. I want a theatre that does not follow another model simply because that is "just the way it is done" in American theatre. I want to reject the notion that bigger is better. I want an almost libertarian theatre. I want to bring back the kitchen sink and open wide its cabinets to peer at the dusty cleaning products, sloppy looking trash can and the refuse that has fallen behind it. I want magical forests made entirely out of gobos, blue lights and maybe discarded soup cans. I want music and silence, sex and virginity, decorum and depravity.

I can't remember what play it was that I saw with Judi Densch but I do remember her saying something to the effect of 'If you don't like the theatre then by all means, stop going.'. Yes! Absolutely! I've no interest in forcing people to love or understand the theatre. MY theatre. I will not be a whining Democrat begging disenfranchised soccer moms to rejoin the flock. I want a theatre that is what it is. I want to run it as if I am independently wealthy and it doesn't matter if people see it or like it. I want a theatre with big brass balls that clang like cathedral bells. I want to be afraid and I want to do it anyway. I want to be right and I want to be proven wrong. I want my theatre to be a witty, ribald, respectful, thoughtful, open sore. I want an audience that can't stop themselves from picking at it.

How's that for a mission statement?

Note to Actors: Be Human

Actors can be very frustrating creatures.

Last week I met a fellow at a bar and we struck up a conversation out of boredom. After about 5 minutes I realized that this guy was just going to keep talking and that he was not going to take enough interest in me to even ask my name. He was treating me as a test audience for some poorly written monologue he had bouncing around in his head. After about 10 minutes it became clear that it did not matter who or what I was, he was, literally, just talking to hear himself talk. After 15 minutes or so I was finally able to get a word in edgewise and I asked him...

"Are you an actor?"

He looked at me with great surprise. Since we had been discussing a local building development he could not fathom how I would have known his calling.

"Yes. How'd you know?"

I am too polite to say, 'Because you are clearly a self-absorbed ass and way too interested in your own feelings and observations about the world to actually include another human being in your conversation', but that was what I was thinking.

Now, the truth is, the best actors I know aren't like that. The best actors that I know use the skills they need in their professional life in their personal interactions. The best actors I know are not trying to 'create a scene' with the people in their lives being unwitting players in their self-constructed little dramas (with themselves as the stars!) but are listening and reacting to people in honest ways. Nothing is more obnoxious that having a long conversation with another person who is so self-involved that they don't even think of asking, 'Hey- how are you doing?'.

I was in the position to be working in a group with a particular actor who clearly took no notice of me, even though we had to work together. He just didn't find me interesting enough at first glance. That was crystal clear. He likes women who are taller, thinner and hair flippier. Perhaps I was too polite or even too quiet (I can be quiet sometimes, believe it or not) for him to take an interest in the lady in the countless black knit outfits. After some careful observation I decided to make a wager with myself. I gave myself five minutes on our last day of assigned interaction to get his attention and then see if I could keep that attention for the remainder of the project. I did. It was embarrassingly easy.

All I had to do was make three dirty references, casting myself as the naughty librarian type and BAM he was mine for the evening. After the first joke, he was a bit shocked. Just shocked enough to start directing his little monologue about his professional discoveries in my direction. After the second joke, he started to smile at me and then began to engage me in his discussion and asking my opinion. After the third joke he began laughing a little too loudly at everything I said and finally, after a few weeks of working in the same group and being largely ignored by him, he began to ask questions about me. But if you see what I did there and analyze what happened you might need to take a shower.

It wasn't until there was a hint of sex and the promise some imaginary titilation (and when there's imaginary titilation, then maybe a real sexual encounter could follow- couldn't it?) that I could get even the smallest bit of this actor's attention. It wasn't until the idea was placed in his mind that I could be of some service (real or imagined) to him in some way that I could get him to value my input as an artist. Sadly, a lot of actors (male AND female) operate this way. I am probably guilty of it myself. I hope not to this extent, but I'm sure I've made snap judgements like this before.

Now, I'm sure these two fellows are good to their friends and have nice points about them, but to me they came off as complete asses. Their behavior illustrates to me that if I am as self absorbed as they are that I could really miss out on opportunities to grow and to understand other human beings. After all, I know what I can bring to the table and I know these two gentlemen were missing it and were missing it because of their snap judgments about me and their own, inflexible personal conversational agendas. I'm making an effort to let other people in and allow myself to be changed by them.

It was pretty mean of me to manipulate that guy, but in a way I'm impressed with myself for having called it. I'm also disappointed in the knowledge that I used to bring out the sexual references on instinct. It is a cheap way to get someone's attention, but it works with the self-involved regardless of their sexual orientation. It is a tactic that gets results. Obviously I have filed that one away into my bag of tricks, but to be honest, I feel pretty gross about it.

I shouldn't have to display myself in that way in order for my ideas to get any respect.

But then again...Mae West is one of my heroes...

What's a girl to do?