Recent Events

I don't usually document events in this blog, but I figure an occasional 'this is what I've been up to lately' update would be appropriate.

I have emerged pleased and triumphant following the marvelous birthday trifecta of the pass two weeks. It began with Allen's 'Big Lebowski in Little China' themed birthday party. Lil' bit Levine was an excellent co-hostess to the event, also celebrating the birthday of James Galloway (responsible for half the faux-Norris sightings around the world). The evening was complete with old bathrobes, Chinese lanterns, White Russians, and many fabulous friends. Many thanks to Morgan Holleman and Tony Ledesma of Boheme for contributing to making the evening a
blast.






Shortly on the heels of Allen's birthday came my big brother's 40th. We enjoyed wine and cake at the Corkscrew in his honor... and both my father and great Uncle Charlie came out to celebrate. The only snafu was the cake- Robert had told mother he liked German chocolate cake. Unfortunately, he didn't quite know what German chocolate cake was. My outrageously selfless act of ordering a cake for my brother that I would not touch (due to my aversion to coconut) was completely in vain- since Robert can't stand coconut either. Alas, you win some and you lose some. Otherwise, a good time was had by all...

Lastly, my dear friend Cynthia had a birthday this last weekend. We started out the evening right with balloons, confetti, margaritas, and Mexican food at Las Alamedas... then swooped over to the Black Swan at the Omni Hotel for drinks and dancing. Adorned with a pink birthday crown and sunglasses, Cynthia was positively glowing all evening.

Aside from birthday party planning, I've been on the mend... the crud that's been going around finally got a hold of me. However, I am pleased to say I am on the up and up.

The last pertinent update is that I am in the home stretch of rehearsals for the upcoming Tamarie Cooper Show, care of Catastrophic Theatre, at Stages Theatre. The show features the hilarious and fabulous Tamarie Cooper and is a complete blast. I play everything from a screaming baby to a Busby Berkley girl. We added the band (which is wonderful) last night, and we open up next weekend. Definitely worth seeing! http://www.thecatastrophictheatre.com/

(And while I'm on that note, I am inserting a shamless plug for my own theatre company's current escapade: The War of the Roses. Imagine the cycle of eight Shakespeare history plays presented at together, through the lens of 8 different directors. A daring experiment in theatre... come see. http://www.novaartsproject.com/ )

That has been the bulk of what has occupied my spare time recently. Onwards...

Sugar-Lips

I have an ongoing joke with a friend of mine in which, during our email banter, we challenge each other to come up with the most ridiculous terms of endearment for the other. I don't really know how this got started, but when he would address our emails to "sugar lips" or "love-muffin," I couldn't resist. Even though I know it's a silly joke, it never ceases to put a smile on my face. It reminds me of this article I once read by Garrison Keillor- which he referenced when he recently appeared with the Progressive Forum (where I met him).

http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2006/10/18/keillor/

I finally have the maturity to appreciate the charms of the good ol' South- it only took me the greater part of three decades to do so. People sometimes observe that I don't sound like I'm from Texas, but I used to receive that comment all the time. Less so now. Why? Because I no longer strain to neutralize my Southern accent- I've even grown to kind of like the drawl that occasionally slips into my speech. More than that, I like how I feel when I call someone "sweetie" or "darlin" or "sugar." And I like meaning it when I do.

PS: Even those voting for Obama or Hillary might call you "precious."

Terms of endearment

Why do Southern folks elect regressive, warmongering politicians but still call you "sunshine" when they serve your coffee?
By Garrison Keillor

Oct. 18, 2006 I was misunderstood growing up and have often been misunderstood since, but then so is everyone else. People are busy, and you can't expect them to drop everything and try to understand you. If you want to be understood, practice kindness and mercy. Kindness is seldom mistaken for anything else. Small kindnesses reverberate a long time in people's hearts.
A woman checking I.D.s at the airport saw me coming the other day and said, "Good morning, sunshine." She didn't know me from Adam. She glanced at my driver's license and said, "Have a good flight, darling." This was in the South, of course -- in Austin, Texas, to be exact. Northern women would no sooner address a strange man as "sunshine" than they would ask if you wanted to see their underwear. But that woman's "sunshine" shone on me for the rest of the day, and a week later I still remember it. Like I remember old waitresses in diners who addressed everyone as "love." "Care for more coffee, love?" Yes, dear. And you left a quarter tip instead of a dime. Fifteen cents for a little endearment.

On the flight from Austin, I sat next to a black woman my age from Alabama who was in a chatty mood. I said, "You've seen a lot of history in Alabama." She said, "And it isn't over yet." We got to talking about Dr. King and his family, and she blurted out, "I just cannot forgive those children of his for never giving their mother a grandbaby. Four healthy children. I don't know their sexual orientation, but you would think that one of them could've produced one baby for Mrs. King to hold. She died without ever getting those babies to hold in her arms. Do you have grandbabies?" I said I have two. "I've got two," she said, "and every time I look at them, that's me. They're the continuation of me." She patted my hand. "I am going to pray for your grandchildren. Tell me their names." So I did. When the plane pulled up to the gate in Chicago, she touched my knee and said, "It was good talking with you, darling."

Up here in the north, a man wouldn't touch a stranger on the knee or address her as "darling," lest he be reported to the Attitude Police, but once in Nashville, Tenn., a lady said to me, "Sweeten up to me now," meaning "Give me a squeeze," so I did, of course. She smelled of lavender and talcum and lemons. Everyone craves a little sweetening now and then, but in Minnesota we don't squeeze easily or address each other as "darling."
I went to a big dinner of diehard liberals in Texas and was darlinged left and right and sweetied and even occasionally precioused, but if you were among Democrats in Minnesota, you might think you were at a meeting of Mormon actuaries. We offer a cold handshake and a thin smile, and that's all you get from us. We are wary of the big grin and the shoulder squeeze, the trademarks of the con man, and we resist being drawn into friendly banter with strangers for fear we'll end up with a truckload of aluminum siding or a set of encyclopedias.
We're burdened by the need to be cool. When I was in college, I read Kafka and Camus and tried to write like them, in flat, non-American English, as if writing under the influence of a migraine, until it slowly dawned on me that I was missing the basic experiences that had formed them. Enduring high school is not the same as growing up Jewish in Prague or fighting in the French resistance. I had no solid basis for being cool in that existential motorcycle James Dean absurdist chain-smoking hero sort of way, so I gave up being cool and settled for being pleasant. And now I see teenagers locked up in iPods, looking sour and sleepy and hostile, and I hate to see them reliving that part of my life.

If we can't talk to strangers, if there is no public life in America, then it's no wonder politics is so out of whack. And yet in the South, which has produced the most regressive politicians this side of Sudan, who are proud of bad government and lousy wars, in which a disproportionate number of young Southern men die, you keep running into the friendliest people on earth. Explain that to me, sunshine. Sweeten up here and tell me why these good people keep electing those dreadful idiots.
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(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)

Houston Press Review: Loving 'Love Loves a Pornographer'

Thanks, DL!!!

Loving Love Loves a Pornographer
Nova Arts Project surprises with a wicked Victorian comedy-of-manners parody

By D.L. Groover
Published: April 17, 2008

Barnevelder Movement/Arts Complex
2201 Preston, 713-623-4033

Details:
Through April 26. $15-$30.

It takes a few minutes to become acclimated to Nova Arts Project's immaculate staging of Love Loves a Pornographer, Jeff Goode's wicked parody of a late Victorian comedy of manners. This isn't because the satire is odd and edgy — it's downright classical, if truth be told — but because we don't expect something quite like this from the avant-garde troupe, certainly not after its surreal tempOdyssey, wacky, CSI: Denmark-inspired Hamlet or crazy-quilt Oedipus3. Goode's beguiling sex comedy begins with an obsequious butler, a fine old English country house and fine English landed gentry, who seem to have crash-landed from an unknown play by Pinero, Shaw and, most assuredly, Wilde. Epigrams, waistcoats, dueling pistols — this is not typical Nova territory. But once we shake our head clear of expectations, allow the radiant cast to work its definite magic and relax into Goode's extremely funny play, we're bathed in first-class entertainment all the way. Love is the cleverest play on either side of the bayou this month.

A prolific playwright, Goode has unbridled humor, an ink-blot view of the world and an absolute love of words — qualities that serve him perfectly in Love, his loving, anachronistic tribute to, and parody of, Oscar Wilde. It's difficult to spoof Wilde, since his arch style pricked his own society and class. Of course, Wilde's shallowness and pretense hid great depth, but he wasn't about to say so. Goode takes Wilde's basic tenets — superficial characters, witty dialogue, mistaken/misplaced identities, sublimated sex, tony language – and flicks them with his own brand of body English. Love never falters or loses momentum, it just moves faster and more furiously, making the plot funnier as it becomes more convoluted and improbable. This is a neat trick for any writer, and Goode pulls it off brilliantly. Wilde is definitely smiling.

Love is no slavish imitator, though, and pulls some neat tricks all its own. Fennimore, the Butler, sits offstage at a table loaded with props and reads a newspaper when not "on." Daughter Emily wears proper Victorian garb, yet sports sneakers and striped socks. Earl, Emily's American fiancé, wears 21st-century casual. A child's crayon drawing is talked about as if it were a Gainsborough, and Fennimore uses a TV clicker to announce the act titles. These delectable postmodern deconstructions cheekily add to the fun. The play almost pops in 3-D.

Any detailed description threatens to deflate this finely crafted confection by revealing its numerous twists and surprises, but here are some basics — believe it or not, they're interconnected. Lord Cyril Loveworthy (Seán Patrick Judge) supplements his income by writing pornography under a pseudonym. His nemesis, Reverend Miles Monger (Timothy Evers), the influential literary critic of the Times of London and a sanctimonious prig, might be on intimate terms with Lady Lillian, Cyril's wife (Jenni Rebecca Stephenson). Out of jealousy, might Cyril be dallying with Millicent, Monger's lovely but frustrated wife (Melissa Davis)? Daughter Emily (Katrina Ellsworth) has returned from travels in America not with a genuine earl, as was expected, but with Earl (Bobby Haworth), a questionable mountain man who sells unsavory literature in Flagstaff, Arizona. Mrs. Monger may have committed suicide in the garden, but the guests spend time arguing over who has the proper social standing to investigate. Fennimore (Wayne Barnhill) is chastised for swooning when he should leave that to his betters.

Of course, in plays like this, no one is ever who they seem, and reversals and surprises are a matter of course. Goode keeps us guessing — and listening. Timed to perfection, the words, barbed and dangerous, or flighty and shallow as the clueless characters spouting them, swirl like clouds. Love is intricately structured to allow the witty Wilde-like throwaways their deserved position front and center, such as Lady Lillian's wonderful "No married woman should be left alone with a firearm. The temptation is simply too great." Or Monger's: "Money should never be earned, when it can be inherited."

Under Rob Kimbro's faceted direction, the cast of seven is a dream. Judge is particularly effective in relaying Lord Loveworthy's commanding tone and haughty sense of entitlement. But it is Evers, as the smug Monger, who steals the show with his marvelously twitchy performance. Encased in costumer Kiza Moore's straitlaced greatcoat, with hair combed straight down, glasses nailed to the very tip of his nose, and those long bony fingers constantly on the prowl over his watch chain, he's a George Cruikshank illustration come to life. Self-righteous and proud of it, his dirty little secret drives the play, and Evers takes the wheel with glee.

Amazingly smart and very funny, Love Loves a Pornographer has class, style and wit. The comedy, whose world premiere was only five months ago, proves that new, fresh theater doesn't have to be dumbed down to work like gangbusters. It just has to be good — or better, Goode.

Houston Chronicle review for 'Love Loves a Pornographer'

Ingenious wordplay drives Pornographer

By EVERETT EVANS
Copyright 2008 Houston Chronicle

Sometimes you can pinpoint the exact moment when a play irrevocably pulls you into its corner.

With Jeff Goode's Love Loves a Pornographer, getting a nifty Houston premiere courtesy of Nova Arts Project, it's this inspired bit of verbal lunacy:

"Your latest creation elicits illicit elations."

Goode's playful homage to drawing room comedy has already rhapsodized about "savage enravagements" and tossed off wry epigrams such as "A man should take pride in his livelihood, however shameful." Not to mention the priggish antagonist who, described as "rakish," defends himself with this choice retort: "In my entire life, I have never been rakish with so much as a leaf-strewn lawn."

Yet for me, it was that "illicit elations" line that put the play over the top. Despite a few lulls here and there and a sense of winding down near the close, Pornographer can be recommended for the sheer merriment of its ingenious wordplay and the fun this cast generates delivering it. It's the heightened language that's supposed to sound like stage talk, not everyday talk.

Premiered in December by Los Angeles' Circle X Theatre Company, Pornographer starts out as a tribute to, or spoof of, Victorian drawing room comedy as epitomized by Oscar Wilde. Yet midway, it acquires a more modernist bent — as if a play by John Guare or Christopher Durang or Paul Rudnick had wandered in and mingled with the earlier model.

Famed novelist Lord Cyril Loveworthy and his wife, Lady Lillian, entertain the Rev. Miles Monger, who also happens to be the Times of London's lead literary critic, and his wife, Millicent. Lord Loveworthy, whose writing is respected but not sufficiently lucrative, tries to blackmail Rev. Monger into a favorable review of his next book. Lord Loveworthy needs the boost so that he can finance the wedding of his daughter, Emily.

Emily arrives with the man she plans to marry — not "an earl" as her parents had misunderstood, but Earl, a scruffy bookseller Emily met in Flagstaff, Arizona. While the other characters are steadfastly British and Victorian in speech and attire, Earl is thoroughly contemporary and American. Before long, other anachronisms creep into the scene. One character leafs through an issue of Vanity Fair. Another sips not from a teacup but a can of soft drink.

The thunderbolt is the revelation that Earl's bookstore specializes in erotica. "Earl is a pornographer" Emily announces, the punchline just before intermission (at which the butler faints dead away.) The second half is (as the butler announces) "a series of shocking revelations." All pertain to which of the other characters are secret readers of the star author whose work Earl sells, or have secretly written those books, or even secretly inspired the whole series through real-life experiences recounted in a diary.

Was every Victorian a secret hedonist? As one character observes, "You make this licentiousness sound almost medicinal."

An exercise in theatrical style, Pornographer marks a change of pace for the young Nova Arts group. Director Rob Kimbro generally keeps things crisp, brisk and light of touch. Apart from a few hesitant moments (and remember, many of these lines are a mouthful), this team gives the play a capable rendition.

Sean Patrick Judge makes Lord Loveworthy sly, condescending and morally slippery. Given many of the script's most potentially tongue-tangling lines, he handles them with authority. Timothy Evers makes an amusing foil as the stuffy, stodgy Miles Monger — prim, prudish and sourly disapproving.s

Jenni Rebecca Stephenson brings haughty confidence to Lady Loveworthy. Melissa N. Davis' Millicent Monger is particularly appealing, indefatigably cheery with an unabashedly saucy streak.

Bobby Haworth's laid-back Earl Kant seems to have wandered in from another play, continent and century, which is exactly the point. Katrina Ellsworth shows daughter Emily's increasing iconclasm and rebelliousness.

As the butler, Wayne Barnhill, formerly of Infernal Bridegroom, has a droll way of being unflappably obliging to his "betters" yet at the same time mocking them.

You might say that while Love Loves a Pornographer is not quite Wilde, it's certainly very Goode.

LOVE LOVES A PORNOGRAPHER

• When: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays, through April 26
• Where: Nova Arts Project, at Barnevelder Movement/Arts Complex, 2201 Preston

• Tickets: $15-$30; 713-623-4033

http://www.novaartsproject.com/

houston arts: damn straight

Arts have $600M effect on Houston

Houston Business Journal - by Christine Hall Reporter

Cultural arts may not bring in as much money as the oil and gas industry, but a report released Monday shows the sector is a valuable part of the Houston economy.

"The Business of the Arts: A Look into The Economic Impact of the Arts on the Houston Region" showed that in 2004, the nonprofit arts in Houston brought in $626.3 million, supported 14,115 full-time jobs and generated $69.5 million in local and state government revenue.

Mayor Bill White, at a luncheon, said Houston is one of the up-and-coming venues in the arts world. "We want people 50 years or 100 years from now to talk about the explosion in Houston arts," he said.

The study also found that the 9.2 million people who said they attended an arts and cultural event in 2004 was twice the number of people attending events related to Houston's three major league professional sports teams in 2005.

The 1.6 million visitors to Houston who attended cultural events in 2004 spent $132 million in addition to the cost of their tickets, the survey found.

"Houston is not just a good places for the arts, it is one of the best," said Larry Faulkner, president of Houston Endowment Inc., a philanthropic institution founded in 1937 by Jesse and Mary Gibbs Jones.

"The arts are a powerful business asset and one we need to have for Houston to remain a leading city in the future and to keep its extraordinary economic vitality," he said.
Volunteerism was also a big factor in Houston's cultural events, according to the study. More than 34,000 individuals volunteered for arts and cultural organizations in 2004, contributing more than 650,000 hours worth more than $11.2 million.

Funding for the project, consulted by St. Louis-based AMS Planning & Research, was provided by The Brown Foundation, Houston Endowment and The Wortham Foundation.

disjointed part 1: hamlet & local street artists

so today's blog will be an amalgam of things. usually, i will see, hear, experience something that inspires me to write. but in this case, several days have passed in which things got me as far as *thinking* about blogging, but not actually writing. so...here goes. (if typos abound, it is my cold medicine kicking in. i am pretty sick.) in no particular order:

1. hamlet. as of today, 64 movies appear on imdb under the name of hamlet. 64. so i have never actually seen the version with ethan hawke. until this evening. mixed feelings. casting sam shephard as hamlet's ghost=brilliant. i buy ethan hawke as hamlet...he is surely capable. and julia stiles, fair enough. (although i prefer her in contemporary movies based on shakespearean themes...think 'O' and '10 things i hate about you.') but kyle maclachlan as claudius and bill murray as polonius? no. kyle maclachlan is about the most uncompelling claudius i have EVER seen. ever. and bill murray, god love him, should never ever do shakespeare again. his casual air completely works against the poetry of the language. i am not as schooled in the bard as i'd like, but that casting choice seems reasonable only in the most superficial way. (i see that this job fell right after rushmore and thus, he was still climbing the come-back trail.)

on the whole, i am typing this as the movie is playing, so it obviously hasn't successfully grabbed my attention enough to focus. from a directorial perspective, i do not believe the concept has been well-defined. i don't mind the updated angle, but everything has been rendered so casual and nonchalant that i fail to see the theatricality of the piece. the world of the play is not as dire or as extreme as it need be for the plot to seem plausible. it aims at edgy and lands at luke-warm. so angsty on hawke's part that it almost feels more like dawson's creek meets cruel intentions. (but without as much sex or eye-candy. sadly. even i can tolerate sarah michelle gellar for the glib ryan phillipe and a good soundtrack.) i digress. consider baz lurhmann's romeo and juliet, which i think is absolutely brilliant by comparison. sure, the psychadelic, ADD-inspired images and pace can grow a bit tiresome and at the time, i remember finding details (such as the engraved 'longsword' on the guns) a little clumsy. but i also was completely caught up in the world that lurhmann created...and all the elements worked together to reinforce the impact of the environment, despite a few missteps. (plus, mercutio as a drag queen was probably one of the most brilliant and yet, seemingly obvious choices i have ever seen. i have always found mercutio prone to queening out, especially in the nureyev/fontaine ballet version... mercutio takes about 20 minutes to die in one long, drawn-out roll around the floor.) point being, you either loved lurhmann's version or hated it. i can't say i find hawke's version particularly inspiring either way. (i now laugh b/c i call it hawke'sversion of hamlet versus lurhmann's version of r&j. where is the director? who is almereyda? directed...an episode of deadwood?)

*so i MUST pause here, as we have arrived at the play part. (i am clinging on to see jeffrey wright as the gravedigger, in hopes that he will redeem what is becoming an increasingly bad movie.) the play. or movie in this case. *sigh* i don't even know what to say in response to that almodovar meets fellini meets donna reed tidbit. the high point is when hamlet leaves the theatre and jumps into the taxi with r&g and the cab meows at them. (i REALLY missed the fact the cabs don't meow anymore and was totally disappointed the last time i was in NYC.)

*i do like ophelia's mad scene in the guggenheim. the primal scream over the balcony was a genuinely nice touch.

OK...one last thought before moving on to other topics. looking at the cast list for hamlet, it all seems like a decent idea...with the exception of kyle maclachlan. (seriously, his most memorable movie role was in showgirls. he should thank sex in the city for redeeming him to some degree.) one the whole, it appears as though the director had only a vague idea of what he wanted and failed to fully utilize some of the talent he had at his disposal. only hawke and stiles (and diane verona as gertrude) seem to have a full grasp on the gravity of the content. so far, i give it a D.

2. graffiti. i have become increasingly aware recently of some of the graffiti appearing in my neighborhood. mind you, i am not talking about tagging.

i have noticed 'give up' for years. then, i noticed knitta...then the little tile pac-mans (who does that, by the way? i LOVE it.) i now have noticed the toothy ghost faces on windows...and on some signs and walls. and i must admit that, though more crude in style and destructive in medium, i think they are pretty cute. (want to see one? look closely at the 'shoot em up' posters plastered on the side of the convenience store catty-corner to brasil.) apparently, these ghosts are the work of 'ack.' i have not seen these new faces on private property yet, so some questions arise. especially in light of the new developments on 'give up.' i have seen two of his razor blades covered over with what appears to be...a rabbit? at first glance, it looked like a bunny. then, just a blob to obscure the blade...then, after seeing a similarly shaped blob over another razor blade, i think a bunny again...? in any case, it adds 'never' to the 'give up' mantra. interesting. and i must say, i am totally intrigued. i want to know more. if you live/work in the montrose/museum district area and you haven't noticed these things, open up your eyes, friends! anyways, i find myself amused/interested/curious by all this, but i wonder where we draw the line. while i enjoy these little curiosities, i imagine they annoy others. and of course, i imagine city officials aren't loving these additions to the urban landscape. so, where is the balance? i would like the feedback of my friends on this one. what are your thoughts?

white linen nights

perhaps i should move. this city can sometimes be claustrophobic. not sure if i like it or if it is suffocating. i think i like it, but i may sound peevish for the sake of this blog. if you're not in the mood for a self-indulgent recount of last night's happenings, stop here.
so last night: white linen night in the heights. whatever that means. in my case, it meant buying a little white and red linen number i would have never bought had there not been a dress code directive.

so M has a birthday today. we started our celebrations late afternoon...at the b-day party of a recent acquaintance of hers. i did not know said acquaintance, nor anyone mentioned when M is relating her chance meeting. so, i figure i won't know anyone...until i walk in and see a friend of an ex-boyfriend that i haven't seen in about 8 years. 1st random encounter.

we proceed to a series of galleries in the area. at the 3rd stop, run into miss N and gang, shoulder in sling and all...still looking astoundingly beautiful. (how does she do that?) didn't know miss N was going to be around, but not surprised, as i know N through the art set. as always, thrilled to see her. and meet her mom. (spoke with a fantastic collaborative artist...friend of M's. want one of his prints.) M and i part ways with miss N, and when waiting for the shuttle proves futile, M runs into two random friends of hers, and we catch a ride to 19th street with them. (we'll call these two gorgeous 1 and gorgeous 2. as is expected when meeting two dapperly dressed, GQ-inspired-if-it-weren't-so-cliched-not-to-mention-passe guys, they were a couple.) gorgeous 1 met M through a party i think. gorgeous 2 works for magazine. said magazine did feature last oct or nov on my theatre and partners. gorgeous 2 happened to work on that article. he also worked on recent article in same publication featuring M. random 2.

19th street. after 2 minutes, i see friend with whom i went to the music school. with wife. (fondest memory of music school friend was, after his systematically sitting next to me every day in theory and unmistakably hitting on me, finding out he had been dating a girl forever. coincidentally, his present wife. go figure.) that being said, s'all water under the bridge, but i nonetheless wasn't up to niceties, so M and i duck into a shop. where she runs into another acquaintance. exchange pleasantries with acquaintance and his side-kick in electric blue (apparently, he didn't get the white memo) and agree to meet for a drink next door at shade.

once next door at shade, we see not acquaintance and electric blue, but another friend of ours, S. didn't know S was going to be around. S is at the bar waiting for his entourage...i say this not due to S's pretense, but because S retains the sort of style that makes you wonder if he invented the white linen shirt. (although his was off-white... beige, if you will.) and furthermore, he also seems like a person who should have an entourage...mostly because of how the word sounds when said with his name. (i like to give S a hard time. he likes it.) since S is more or less stuck, we bid him farewell and continue our journey.

shortly thereafter, we run into acquaintance and blue-boy again. the crowds are getting thicker. it's becoming more and more difficult to navigate the aisles of the stores and innards of the galleries. M and i somehow run into the b-day posse again at M2. while there, i run into another unrelated person, kitty L. very happy to see miss kitty. (going to see her this eve.) we speak of perhaps onion creek later.

M and i depart M2 and make our way back the other direction, parting ways with all of the above. hear from D (i'll refer to him as brainiac) who i texted earlier that day. he's on his way to join. M and i are over 19th street at this point. crowded. like mardi gras, but significantly less colorful...

while waiting for shuttle, run into S again. and run into H, another friend of ours, who was also with her mother. (H is one of the coolest cats i know, but we are on our way out...so we bid her adieu.) brainiac swoops in and we make our way to onion creek...but not before stopping at the rockin party at coldwell banker. (seriously. who knew.) i, in a sudden fervor for exercise, suggest we walk to onion creek. (about 12 blocks, though i don't immediately realize this.) M suggests i make no more suggestions.

at onion creek, M runs into even more people she knows. i am more focused on my pizza. mister N finally arrives for the evening. (he promised to interrupt his med school apps for one drink with us.) mr. N and brainiac hit it off. of course. (why do all my guy friends have man-crushes on brainiac? really. it's an unexplained phenomenon.)

anyways...brainiac eventually ducks out and darling mister N brings M and i back to my car. we decide to cap the night off with a birthday drink. we end up at the social (the grand reopening). we see miss N there...by design this time, not chance. despite the good company, i remember why i so intensely disliked the social in the first place. (give me a good dive any day.) after being chatted up by one too many indistinguishable, jeans-and-button-down-clad guys, we lose track of miss N. M and i decide to make our escape while we can-we'll call miss N later. funny enough, miss N had the same idea-we reconvene in the parking lot and part ways for the evening.

M and i still haven't had our birthday libation. we stop by cobain. we leave cobain. like, 2 minutes later. it's like a cleaner social, but with no more character. equally difficult for us to digest. so, the journey continues. to poison girl...an old standard.

M and i sit on the back patio. we overhear a conversation about etymology. over beers. (etymology? seriously? ...at poison girl?) i can't help myself, so i lean over and ask what this heated etymology debate was about. as it was....about the word 'clue.' apparently, the origin of the word had something to do with yarn or disease or i-don't-know-what. in any case, this exceptionally nerdy guy (i normally find nerdy guys kind of attractive, but since he was one of those self-righteous, let-me-thrill-you-with-my-vast-knowledge-of-everything-including-but-not-limited-to-world-of-warcraft kinda guys, this 'nerdy' is not meant as a compliment) passionately rattled on to the point M's eyes started glazing over. i invited it. my bad.
i finally figure that asking this guy to get his crew to sing happy birthday to M might be an effective way to shut him up, so i do. to which he replies, 'i don't know.' (what?! are you kidding me?!) he and his emo-er-than-thou were too busy lamenting the folly of the uninitiated for a little good-natured birthday wish? lame. finally, we rally a birthday cry from the patio. good enough, i suppose.

at that point, this guy in what appears to be a velvet jacket shuffles by. (let me insert here that i have deep respect and admiration for anyone who will wear a velvet jacket outdoors in houston in august...a true sacrifice for fashion.) he walks inside..almost...but turns around to tell me he likes my dress. M and i think this is sweet. velvet-jacket-guy looks vaguely familiar. M and i finally decide to leave, but not after the obligatory nod at the etymology-police for their half-assed birthday song. as i am walking by velvet-jacket-guy, i realize i know where i knew him. myspace. (isn't it strange how you can know everything about someone without ever having met them? this periodically freaks me out, but it's a small price to pay in order to exercise some exhibitionist tendencies of mine. i mean, c'mon....let's be honest with ourselves.*) in any case, this guy had a particularly unusual facial expression in his profile picture and was, thus, memorable. as i pass him, i thank him for the compliment and he introduces himself. i think it might be fun to freak him out, so i pull the whole i-know-who-you-are routine. alas, he doesn't seem freaked out. i'm slightly disappointed. M and i leave, and i take her home.

(* i need to write a separate blog about my marvel at people refusing to post info on myspace or other blogs/websites etc. with the false notion that a good stalker won't find other ways to divine crucial information about you. particularly people thrust into the public eye for whatever reason. i mean, who are we kidding here?)

at this point, i don't feel like going home. i call J, lovely bartendress extraordinaire. a good friend of hers is there at the bar. i join them and chat with said friend, R. never met her. very fun and charming. R, as it turns out, has just passed the bar, moved to houston from austin, and is starting work as a lawyer. i joke that 90% of my childhood friends are lawyers...which is actually true. she tells me she's sorry. i tell her that it's actually a wonderful thing- i will be well-represented no matter who i murder or who sues me. (actually, now that i think about it, why is that? why ARE all my childhood friends lawyers? why am i such a loser?) anyways, i mention that my friend works for fulbright. well.......guess who else will be working for fulbright. "who is your friend? oh? really?! she was my recruiter. i know her really well. you've known her since you were 10? wow." we proceed to go through the laundry list of people we know in common. and so it goes.

R asks me what i do. i tell her where i work. random friendly guy at bar with girlfriend (who must be a cool cat if he's still there at 3 AM) overhears. "you work there? oh, i work at the alley." random. then, we proceed to go through the laundry list of people he and i know in common. and so it goes...and i start to think i'm living in the twilight zone.
and i like it most days. and nights. like last.
that's all.

my thoughts on NYC and houston

having just returned from NYC, i must admit that i had an absolute blast. but while i was there, i spent a great deal of time meditating on the merits of the city as a whole...or more specifically, what i, personally, do or do not like about it. let me begin by giving a bit of backstory...i was born and raised in houston. sugar land to be exact, the heart of suburban life. in fact, of my friend's parents, 9 out of 10 of them actually owned suburbans. a cliche if there ever was one. (however, i would argue that sugar land is a lesser offender than some suburbs, for it was more common than not for my friends and neighbors to make frequent trips downtown for culture, shopping, adventure, etc...whereas many suburbs are isolating in their self-sufficiency.) i digress.

for as long as i could remember, i ached to get out of houston...and to leave texas altogether. as a kid, i hated everything about texas. i turned up my nose at cowboy hats and pickup trucks and country music. i even made a conscious effort (as a child, mind you) to avoid speaking with any type of texas drawl or twang. i literally did not say "ya'll" until I was 22 years old. (and hell will freeze over the day i say "fixin' to.") furthermore, my mother was from the north and always peppered my upbringing with a bit of yankee elitism. and through her acquaintances and work ties, she exposed me at a very young age to a side of houston that i think escapes even most natives. in the art scene, she became acquainted with the people responsible for the menil museum, the orange show, and a greater part of the work at the MFAH...along with visionary artists doing work that would make a large impact across the country. not mere dilettantes or neophytes, but cultured, sophisticated people with the world at their fingertips...who CHOSE houston as their home base. (lest we forget that houston's art collections are considered among the best in the world!) but i didn't appreciate any of this as an adolescent...

given my attitude, i was thrilled the first time i visited new york. i was fourteen, and in a way, i felt like i had found my niche. (again, another cliche.) i hated the tourist traps and found myself silently judging the people running around with cameras. i was a native at heart, of course. i walked the streets, doing my best to blend in...never betraying the fact that i was a texas girl. after several visits and spending a decent amount of time there, i had the act down well enough. i fit in. (i laugh about this now, as NYC is full of millions of people essentially acting as though they're not tourists.) and then, one day on the subway, in an effort to push past a crowd and find a place to stand, i clumsily elbowed a group of people. i turned around and apologized...just a small acknowledgement of the fact i could have seriously maimed someone...but not anything profuse. and the people just stared at me. coldly. and so, i just shrugged, figuring that they were simply rude. but not quite satisfied with that, i turned around and bluntly asked why they were just staring at me. (i guess it never occurred to me that they might not speak my language.) but they responded, "you're not from here, are you?" and i answered that i wasn't and asked if it was my accent or clothes that gave me away...and their response: "no, it's because if you were from here, you would have never apologized." interesting. i didn't think too much about that at the time.

somewhere along the line, decisions about college were made. i desperately wanted to run away to NYC, but for many reasons (financial ones being no small consideration), i remained here...in some ways, with a foot halfway out the door. but a few trips to NYC later, i remember walking the streets and suddenly being struck with a severe case of homesickness. initially dismissing it as depression or loneliness, i took a good look at the city before me and noticed that no one around me really looked happy. millions of people brushing past one another with barely a word spoken between them. how could one experience such a sensation of isolation standing in a square with a crowd of a thousand other people? was it my imagination? was it mere prejudice, ignorance, or inexperience? or is it a case of personal preference? i guess i will never really know. but it was at that moment that i decided i loved my home...that i loved texas and houston. that i loved the fact i could easily strike up conversations with people in line at the grocery store. that i could walk 2 blocks and see some of the greatest art in the world. that i could watch our opera with the knowledge that it is one of the best companies in the country. that i could spend time with some of the most brilliant minds our nation has to offer (NASA and the medical center). and that i don't need to feel like an outsider for being cordial, kind, and polite. today, i proudly say "ya'll"...and i even came to enjoy donning my cowboy hat and boots!

granted, i don't have the impression that all new yorkers are rude jerks. quite the contrary, i talked to plenty of natives over the last week who were very pleasant and polite. (one of the things i love most about nicky is that he will walk up to anyone and unabashedly start talking to them.) so, we chipperly embraced our (relative) tourist status and asked people where to go and what to do when my ideas and knowledge had exhausted itself...oftentimes being pointed in the best directions. most everyone was cordial...even the gangsters we asked for directions when we got lost in the bronx. sure, we took some big chances on getting mugged or taken advantage of...but the results were well worth it. and i finally found myself more amused by the other tourists than annoyed. they looked so happy and eager to take in the city...so why is it necessary or attractive to find that annoying? and then, it occurred to me: it's not that i don't like new york or new yorkers...it's that i don't like all the pretentious assholes PRETENDING to be new yorkers. those who flock to new york for their fifteen minutes who adopt an attitude and play the game to the extent that they feel they have the right to show disdain for those who don't. what a bunch of posers.

which leads me to my next point: why i doubt i will ever move to NYC. for as long as i can remember, people have told me that i need to move to NYC. perhaps this is what created my false admiration for all things new york in the first place. first, for my dance...then, my musical theatre...then, my opera...and now, my directing. "oh, if you really want to have a SERIOUS career, you HAVE to move to new york." blah, blah, blah. sure, i have no doubt that one is exposed to more opportunity in nyc. yes, the theatre scene is thriving and valued in a unique way...far more than it is here in houston. yes, you are surrounded by a creative buzz of activity and fascinating people. yes, working in nyc lends a certain degree of merit to one's work experience. yes, that can create opportunities elsewhere. i realize all this. BUT i have watched friend after friend pick up and move to nyc or LA. and i have seen friend after friend pick up and move back...with a few more credits on their resume, but no more happy or fulfilled than when they left. no doubt, they are picking up and moving these places with 3/4 of the population who does the exact same thing they do. every other young, attractive person you run into on the street in nyc is a singer, actor, dancer, playwright, director, etc. in some ways, it's as cliched as the tourist with the camera. and so, i started asking these people about their work...their work aside from their waiting job or bartending job, that is.

to one particularly attractive, svelte, and bubbly waitress:
"you're an actress, yes?"
"how'd you know?!"
"wild guess. so, what shows have you done up here?"
"on broadway?"
"sure."
"well, none...but i've been doing a lot of auditioning."
"that's great. best of luck with that. any work with any off-broadway theatres?"
"how off?"
"well, doesn't matter...i'm a huge fan of the vortex and the wooster group. but i'd love to hear about ANY of the smaller, more independent theatres..."
"well, i haven't really worked with anyone...recently...uh, yet. but i've been working with an acting coach. and taking dance classes."
"cool. there's so many great places to take class. so...how long have you been here?"
"3 years."
(silence.)

for a long, long time, i bought into this mindset. first it was financial reasons for staying in houston, then i figured it was fear keeping me here. fear of the unknown. fear of failure. and perhaps it WAS fear once upon a time...but not anymore. you see, i'm not judging these aspiring artists. NOT AT ALL. nor is it jealousy. to the contrary, i have the utmost respect for those who just pick up and go for it. i admire their courage and their stamina. and i'm sure there are incredible rewards from the exciting experiences, as well as having the chance to work where so much is brewing. indeed, one of my dearest friends has recently made the move...and he's already gotten work. and i have another on the eve of his move. BUT, on the other hand, i recognize that i'm not sure nyc is for me.

the realization came to me when i was in college that i had a different set of values than some of my peers. it occurred to me that fame really meant nothing to me. in my heart, there is no difference between my personally being at the top of my game and my having the broadway/professional credits or applause to affirm it. having battled periodic bouts with depression, i finally became certain that success by means of fame, fortune, and professional success (as defined by others) would never equal happiness for me. and i've done just enough contracting to know how i feel about being on the road directing. and granted, the very nature of the business dictates that it is necessary for an artist to be appreciated/recognized by others to get work to support his or herself. but to me, the most satisfying aspects of my journey as an artist are personal ones. and now, the only times i feel especially hungry for outside applause and recognition is when i'm not personally confident that my art was honest or well-conceived or well-executed. i need the pat on the back most when i need to compensate for something. my mentor taught to me to look inward in these instances...and i now see how right he was.

in retrospect, a great deal of these realizations came with big changes in how i view art...a shift in my perspective on aesthetics. with it, came a new appreciation for different types of art. abstraction and impressionism became more fascinating to me. but both deal with a more personal viewpoint, as opposed to a standard absolute. subjectivity is king...which leads me closer to my ultimate point: TO EACH, HIS OR HER OWN. i no longer feel like i need to make an excuse for why i am still living in houston. (in hindsight, BOO on the petty people who ever made me feel that way.) i LOVE houston. and i LOVE my friends...and i am meeting new, exciting people here at home every single day. people who exist with inspiration. who, for lack of a better expression, suck the marrow out of life. and furthermore, i have the best group of pals and partners with my theatre...people who don't live and breathe art alone, but instead, live full lives so that they have a fullness of spirit to bring to their art. whose interests range from philosophy to astrophysics to ballet, etc. we love each other; we hate each other; but we always have fun. one friday, a week or so ago, i was running off to rehearsal for our next show, and someone remarked that it sucked that i had rehearsal on a weekend...to which i replied that it didn't really matter, because i would want to hang out with my nova peeps anyways...and how lucky am i to have that! we are striving to do something HERE. for those that complain that our theatre scene in houston is not what it could be, let's work together to change it. i just recently had this conversation with an "experienced" actor/dancer/choreographer who did her time in nyc, and she just shook her head in judgement at me. i'm sure she thought i needed my head examined...but if you can forgive my honesty, she has always struck me as a bitter, small-minded person. and perhaps i am foolish, but if her experience has not filled her with joy and fulfillment, who is she (or anyone else for that matter) to judge what keeps my cup brimming? (of course, it's not my place to judge her either...it's quite possible she feels very fulfilled...with a mere propensity to be unpleasant.) to be sure, my peers (within nova and other companies) and i have a long way to go, but we're eager...and we fail and fall on our faces, but we're enthusiastic (and probably naive) and learning so much and enjoying every second. why would i leave what i have at my feet here? houston has SO much potential...it's like a field that's only been partially sown. i can understand leaving for more opportunities, but what about staying and CREATING those opportunities? sure, there is thrill in the struggle... but is it not equally exhilirating to struggle to create something new, expose new audiences, and open people's eyes to what's possible here? and what is already available in our back yards? i have many friends (my HYPA pals among them) who are committed to doing just that (developing and cultivating audiences)...which is why i will be the first one to smack you upside the head if you complain about houston in front of me OR tell me that there's nothing to do. a city is exactly what we make it. i take no issue with those who leave to seek greener pastures for themselves, but don't you dare tell me my city isn't worth the effort. remember, in the wise words of the shins: "you're not obliged to swallow anything you despise."

so, in conclusion, if you're going to be the 780th person to suggest that i move to nyc, save your breath. this girl's not budging just yet. it's not my severe claustrophobia or the fact i think nyc is filthy or even the nyc attitude-posers....nor is it that i don't realize i have something to learn and could benefit from journeying onward...it's that i enjoy all the gifts and blessings i have at my feet right now here in houston. and i haven't yet had my fill.

the end.

art on wheels

so, i attended yesterday's art car parade with some pals. thanks to michael, the arts initiative, and the cart-bar! much, much fun!




were many fantastic cars, but the one that made me the happiest was this one, the sashimi tabernacle choir car:

brilliant! simply brilliant! kudos to the team that brought us a crustaceous beethoven's 9th!
250 fish and lobsters singing and moving in unison. priceless.

divine humor

ah....the byzantine chapel. the one at the menil. if you haven't seen it, you must make plans to do so. immediately. simply beautiful. the frescos are lovely, but the place itself is magical. in my opinion, much more so than the rothko. i walked in and the only light in the room was that coming from the two candles flanking the pews....excepting that on the frescos themselves. the rest of the altar was simply glowing...an other-wordly translucent white halo against the stark black of the walls. i walked in and sat in the back pew and just stared. and stared. i felt almost paralyzed. i couldn't take my eyes from the fresco just above the altar. from where i was sitting, you only saw the image of an angel...an angel staring back at me with a face of sublime peace and gentleness. did i feel like the angel was looking at me? yes, i did. which is why i sat there silently for what must have been a half-hour. and in that time i felt so calm and satisfied.

how can one deny the existence of the divine? it was in the air...in the birds singing outside the chapel...the water dripping off the leaves in the trees outside...the glow of the altar...even in the squeak of the shoes worn by the people walking by my pew. i don't know exactly what that means...but i feel it is true with every inch of my being. i sat there and stared and couldn't help but cry...just a little. but not tears of sadness, but those of joy. of appreciation. i thought of my family...of my friends...of my life...and i just felt so very grateful and blessed. and content. with all of life's trials, could it be any sweeter than this?

and then, someone's cell phone rang. one of those generic nokia rings. and the woman, embarassed, rushed outside...rifling through her purse to grab and silence the offending device. and it put the biggest smile on my face. and instead of being annoyed, it made me laugh. here i am, having this intense moment when someone's cell phone rings....breaking the mood. but not really. isn't that what life is? isn't it the little surprises and problematic occurrences that make it that much more fun? i think so.

after watching the woman rush out of the room, i looked back at the angel looming above in the fresco....and i couldn't help but notice a hint of a smirk on her face.