Commence. head-scratching. now.

purple is a fly i never thought i'd own. it's a blammerific fabulousity that my mother never doubted suited me. WHY? because purple was always her favorite color. carpet-purple-curtains-purple-dresses-purple-myrtle-purple-people-eater. it begs the question.

dif-fur-ent-ly than blue begs the love of my life-love, cookie monster. "oh, for the love of cookie monster," would my grandmother exclaim! "for the love of cookie monster!"

NO. Scratch that.

Scratch what?

"go scratch your ass," gramma might actually. say, that is. might. actually. say. familyism. 40 in a kitchen on a sunday afternoon. maybe brooklynism, going nether to scratch. maybe 66th-street-ism. 4th from the corner.

or all things 1159.

"11:59!" screameth the mozzarella mob before ball-dropping. before the bells. 1159. a house of yesterdays.

rendezvous on the white wall. hide behind the garbage cans.

duck.

Ducky is coming. And he's going to tease me.

but scratch "for the love of cookie monster." scratch. off the scorecard. (Henderson and his god-for-effin-saken hammie, what's the good of season tickets with a team of prima donnas? next year, get a puppy.) or down his back. hiiiiiis. back. MINE. Replace with:

more likely Meema-sim, "what's that got to do with the price of fish?" what, indeed.

Reply: "fat gives you fat," crusty-burnt potatoes are worth a flying elbow.

brats.

AND

it has everything to do with the price of one pair of yellow-wheeled rollerstakes. and a poster of Miss Piggy.

tutto.

Stir and enjoy.

I Put the "Pro" in "Procrastination": Meet My Dream Guy

If it were up to me, more intelligent, attractive, adventurous men would be found like this: shirtless, barefoot, in a perfectly worn pair of jeans, sprawled in (my) bed.

Back in November, I was walking through Barnes & Noble when this postcard jumped out at me. Back in November, I was actually getting productive work done on my new play. I bought the postcard, tucked it into my notebook, and have been carrying it around ever since.

I don't write physical descriptions into my character notes, because I don't want directors and actors to feel limited by them. I have written and will continue to write characters for specific actors that I know, but even when I know who will likely be playing a role, I still don't write the description in.

Because I carry my notebook everywhere, denim boy made it to Thanksgiving dinner. Lisa took one look at it and said "That's the guy from your play."

Come again?

"The guy from your play. The character. That's him, right? That's why you've got the picture in your notebook."

Psychic, much?

Yes. That's him. That's why I bought the postcard. Everyone, meet Damon. Or at least, his bottom half.

My characters routinely visit my dreams, in some form or another, and this photo jarred me into some hazy dream recollection. Oh yeah, and it turned me on. It captures the balance of virility and vulnerability that I imagine the character to possess. So yes, he's my "dream guy"; i.e., he'll haunt me at least until the play is done.

Except, recently, he's been curiously absent. (I think he's on strike because I've been paying too much attention to the blog.) So today, I did what any self-respecting music-obsessed procrastinator would do after being deserted by the person of their dreams. I made him a playlist. Damon, this one's for you.

(Yes, I just addressed a fictional character.)

(Yes, I just dedicated a CD to him.)

(Yes, he has very eclectic taste in music.)

(Feel free to direct your comments at Damon. Maybe that'll make him come out and play again.)

This is Your Life (featuring Tyler Durden) The Dust Brothers [from Fight Club]
Believe Franka Potente [from Run Lola Run]
Ripper Sole Stomp [from Tank Girl]
Call Me (E-Smoove's Beat Vocal Mix) Blondie
Sunglasses at Night Corey Hart
Mrs. Robinson The Lemonheads
The Boys of Summer The Ataris
Paint it Black Rolling Stones
Baba O'Riley The Who
I Will Follow U2
Pour Some Sugar on Me Def Leppard
Talk Dirty to Me Poison
Panama Van Halen
Dangerous Type Letters to Cleo
Hit Me With Your Best Shot Pat Benatar
99 Red Balloons Nena
Let's Go Crazy Prince
It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) R.E.M.
Blitzkrieg Bop The Ramones
Time Bomb Rancid
Add It Up Violent Femmes


By the way, the photo is actually a 1993 portrait of Moby by photographer Wolfgang Tillmans. I rather enjoy the whole photograph, but many of my girlfriends can't abide a man so...uh...scrawny. I hate to use that word, because I'm all for men with lean bodies. So I cropped the photo. I didn't want you to get as distracted as they were by the negative.

What It's Like to Be Me, Vol. II: Sexy If and Only If Math Turns You On

My father’s birthday. We go to Atlantic City to play poker. I can’t play poker recreationally. I start counting cards, calculating probabilities, and wishing I could be one of those evil geniuses who beats casinos out of large sums of money. Also, I would rather spend discretionary funds on new shoes than on gambling. I have no problem spending $20 on a dessert plate.

Last winter. My brother decides he will no longer play Clue with me. He takes one of my used note sheets—a pattern of checks and x’s and question marks that makes no sense to anyone but me—and hangs it up in the kitchen as a reminder. Grocery list; important phone numbers; reasons why no one should play logic games with my sister. I don’t know why he would do that; I'm sure he won the most that night.

Thanksgiving dinner: My cousin is in the midst of an LSAT prep course. His girlfriend is a grad student in accounting.
Girlfriend: I should have taken a prep course for the GMAT.
Me: I love the GMAT!
Girlfriend: (laughs)
My brother: She’s not kidding.
Girlfriend: But I thought you were a writer.
Me: Did I mention I used to work in test prep?

A few summers ago. The Public Theater produces Shakespeare in the Park each year. Most of the free tickets are distributed at the Public and the Delacorte Theatre in Manhattan, but representatives are also sent to the outer boroughs on certain Saturdays. Usually, the line in Staten Island is negligible, but this time my friends and I arrive to find a crowd already gathered. We get in line anyway.

People behind us: I think they only have 100 tickets.
Me: Then we probably should just leave.
Them: Huh?
Me: Well, there are 140 people in front of us. Give or take.
Them: Did you count?
Me: No.
Them: Estimation?
Me: Eyeball.

When an employee distributes numbers, I am #141.

Me: Did I mention I used to count crowds every day?


1994, or thereabouts. It is my job to inventory everything in the movie theater. Every night. Five concession stands and a stockroom. In each stand, there are four sizes of soda cups, four sizes of popcorn cups, about 20 different types of candy, and a few random items. There are hundreds of each. Total number of entries on the spreadsheet: 180. Give or take. I complete it in 50 minutes. Give or take.

Lately, things are disappearing. Money? Cups? Candy? I know my counts are perfect; the problem is somewhere else. Someone on staff is way too comfortable. My boss thinks my “emotional state” due to my “asshole boyfriend” would compromise my math. Silly man. I may have been crying in the kitchen, but math is beautiful because it is not arbitrary like an insecure nineteen-year-old actor. I go home before 1am.

When I arrive the next morning, he has recounted everything. I am fuming.
Me: Fine, if you’d rather not sleep.
Him: Well, I had to find the mistakes.
Me: Where were they?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: Did you find the money? Did you find the mistakes?
Him: There was a nacho dish hidden in the kitchen.
Me: HUH?
Him: Someone hid a nacho dish.
Me: You didn’t find any mistakes, did you?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: So you’re buying me lunch all week, huh?

Justified gloating is sweet. Like all the ice cream sundaes he bought me.