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Opening night of Zippy went pretty well. A few mishaps here and there, including a scene over which we somehow managed to leapfrog (resulting in a set change not happening), but nothing too horrendous. My wingspan didn't demolish the set, although the geography of the curtains had changed since the last time I wore them, so I kinda had to fake it getting on and offstage. Overall, it was par for the opening night course, and not too bad for what was only our second time performing it from start to finish. The audience reaction was much stronger than any of us expected—they really seemed to enjoy it, for all of its willing absurdity and non-sequiturishness. Of course, there was a fairly high percentage of mostly guestlisted friends, including much of the cast of Clue, Embeth, Sean Kelly from Spanganga, and a number of other people I recognized but couldn't quite place. We'll see what happens with an audience who (Embeth's gracious ticket purchase notwithstanding) actually paid. As always, the real drama was backstage, before and sometimes during the show. It happens in the best of circumstances, but much moreso for a production as accelerated as this one. The tension was thick, and the collective crank-o-meter was edging into the infrared. Some things for which I got snarked at weren't my fault—to an outside observer, the word "fault" wouldn't apply at all—but I also knew from experience that attempting to defend myself would just make things worse. I felt like the proverbial cat locked in a roomful of emotional, self-propelled rocking chairs; my tail kept getting caught no matter how much I tried to keep it tucked between my legs, and there was no bed under which I could hide. Before getting into costume or made up I was able to get a few minutes in an isolated corner, working through it as best as I could while trying not to cry. no, it isn't right and it isn't fair, you don't deserve it but it isn't personal, and things will probably get worse before they get better, but for now, for right now, you've got to keep it together, or at least channel it into your performance, something, but don't let them find you sobbing like a fucking prima donna— Getting the wig and makeup and wings to behave had been a fairly smooth process the night before; for no good reason, it took much longer this time. Though my eyes were long since dry, I was still feeling unsettled and unfocused when I hit the stage, just a few minutes after I was put together. I didn't blow any of my lines or marks, however, and I got the impression from Embeth that it added to the performance. I looked wholesome as fuck on the surface (I've never looked more like my mother, in fact), but inside I was still the fragile girl with the smudged eyeshadow and scarred arm, struggling to maintain her composure. Very Method.
11:04pm Although I didn't have any meltdowns (quasi- or otherwise) before the show, the second night of Zippy didn't go quite so well. The audience was smaller and less responsive, and more than a few lines and cues were blown. My microphone also didn't work due to dead batteries on the receiving end, but after hearing my perform my scenes without it, Jim is no longer convinced that it's even necessary. Even—especially?—for the singing. There goes another crutch. Mr. Steve's pictures from the dress rehearsal are up. I know how to tie a slipknot now.
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Having looked at some of the pictures Maddy took of me last night, I can only reach one conclusion: the people who say I look like Karen Carpenter really need to start smoking a better grade of crack. Use Arm and Hammer baking soda instead of the Safeway brand, or something. Oh, I don't look bad—and Maddy did not overdo the eyeshadow, in spite of what I said earlier—but I'm not quite seeing the Carpenterishness myself. I suppose it's different from the audience's perspective. I hope. The tricky part is getting on and off stage without my wings catching on the curtain or Pamela's backdrops. Some night, though, I'll pull a Rube Goldberg and the entire set will come crashing down behind me. It's inevitable, the "unifying accident" Spalding Gray described as happening in all plays. (I will slam them with my wings!) I just hope it happens sooner rather than later. Wanna get it over with. To answer my question from a few days ago, Omewenne herself contacted me. She's living in the Netherlands and doing just fine.
9:01am I finally cancelled the July 23 reading in San Diego. It felt very counterproductive and wrong to do so, but, in fact, Lynnee is right: our target audience is going to be elsewhere, so there isn't much point. Don't know what we're going to be doing that night instead. That was the only gig I could scrounge up, and I'd actually rather not go to the other event—I love hearing both Bucky and Michelle read, but it's not like it's hard to find them here in town. They're featuring at K'vetch on Sunday, for pete's sake. Then again, will I be at K'vetch? Will I even leave the house on Sunday after the such a brutal week? That remains to be seen.
2:54pm There's a company picnic this afternoon which I am not attending. It isn't mandatory, and My Boss hasn't given me any static about RSVPing in the negative. That would require speaking to me at all, which I'm happy to report he still does not do. Besides, he probably wouldn't accept a play opening as an excuse, even one I'm in—certainly not a play at a dinky little theater in the Mission, a part of town he says he hates and tries to avoid. Hooray for small miracles.
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Yawn. And ouch. I'm dead tired, and my neck is killing me. My upper back, on the other hand, is doing just fine. Guess the physical gremlin decided to move north. Last night's Zippy rehearsal was pretty intense, with millions of little conflicts and snapping and grousing and even a bit of clipboard-throwing and stomping. We have a lot of work to do before opening on Friday, and not much time in which to do it. I'm confident we'll pull it together, though. These are the times that my film school experience comes in handy, since the sets of the student films I worked on were not exactly tension-free. The trick is to embrace the chaos, to thrive on it. everything's flying apart at the seams? good! that's the way i like it! at least it isn't boring! More recently, I'm reminded of rehearsals for Night and Hitch-hiker's Guide; it didn't seem like either of those would be ready for opening night, either, yet we managed to make it happen. Sure, both plays improved throughout their runs—and I still maintain that my two-night Twilight Zone episode would have been gangbusters by the third night—but that's to be expected. In any event, all I can do now is show up, know my lines, not suck (my rendition of "Superstar" notwithstanding), help when I can help and be out of the way the rest of the time. No point in stressing about it.
12:10pm this is what it looks like when the darkness gathers.
1:41pm No wonder my neck hurts—it's whiplash from getting jerked around. A couple months after My Boss's spiel about how this department is the real cash cow and if I work over here I'll quote-share in the bounty-unquote and definitely get a raise (in a couple months), my hours are getting reduced. Seems there just isn't enough work to make this department profitable, and none is coming in the foreseeable future. Mind you, the other major department is hiring a new person to keep up with their workload, so it isn't that the company is hurting, exactly. The sales team simply isn't able to sell our clients on my department's services, ergo we've become a liability. My Supervisor talked to My Boss about the possibility of me moving into a number-crunching job in the other department so I could still work a full week, but it was shot down. Not surprising, even though earlier this year he seemed all hot and bothered about the idea of me working over there. Very, very typical. If I asked him about it (which I'm not gonna), he'd probably deny having ever said anything. Oh well. It'll be nice to have Fridays off. More time to write, work out...and, yeah, look for a new job.
sometime after midnight Dress rehearsal was tonight. We made it through pretty smoothly, as I knew we would. It's a good, small group of actors working from a brilliant script with a great crew supporting us. Another week of rehearsal would be ideal, but we're going to kick much ass when we open tomorrow. Erin found a new wig for me, sort of a Dick Van Dyke-era Mary Tyler Moore flip number with soft bangs. Jim officially vetoed my usual makeup, so Maddy did me up in what I guess is more a subtle and traditional style, if somewhat heavy on the light blue eyeshadow. The result, according to Erin and others? More than ever (if I ever actually did before, which is questionable), I look like Karen fuckin' Carpenter. How weird is that? When I made my appearance on stage, in front of a very small audience which included Denzil's spouse Pamela, their daughter Cara and the photographer who was witness when Maddy and I got married, there was applause. Man, that felt weird. I can only hope actual paying audiences are as generous. Guess I'll find out tomorrow night.
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It's a nice feeling to know you've inspired good writing, however indirectly: after reading the SI page I linked to couple days ago, wench77 wrote this. I'd like to think it's something I would have written if I'd had the time—she even quotes from the parts of the article which leapt out at me—but, well, I really haven't had the time lately, and she puts it better than I could have anyway. Very much worth a look. Still very tired from a late night of Zippy rehearsals. The next few days will be the same, leading up to our opening on Friday. Sleep is for the weak. Or the weekend, at least. I probably won't then, either.
11:53pm I really don't have enough lines in the play to justify forgetting them three nights before we open. Bryce or Mikl-Em, sure, since they're the leads and have half the dialogue. I, on the other hand, have no excuse. Maybe it was the nitrous and/or the absinthe this weekend? Naah—my memory sucked to begin with.
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Colin Powell performing "YMCA" at a security conference in Jakarta? Goddamn. That's almost enough to make me a patriot. Evidently, it's tradition at the ASEAN Regional Forum (ARF! ARF!) for diplomats do a musical number at the end. That may be the neatest thing I've ever heard. Seriously. I believe the world would be a better place if this sort of thing happened more often. For that matter, ARF is the best political acronym since CREEP. Maddy wonders if Powell knows how incredibly gay the song is. I'd certainly like to think so.
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Nitrous, grass, Coil, Decasia, god.
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I've been lied to. Who hasn't?
11:48pm Photographic self-portrait of a depressed angel in an ill-fitting wig. (Those wings should be higher up on the back, too.) Erin suggested that I may get to use my regular hair after all, which can be made to resemble the shape of Karen Carpenter's hair if not the color, so the wig issue is potentially moot. Of course, I especially like the picture because I don't look like I've put on as much weight as it feels like I have. Ribbage! My halo is still up in the air (ba-BOOM! thank you! i'll be here all week! try the veal!), although Jim did rig up a nifty wireless mic to make my voice sound more ethereal and stuff. It should also compensate somewhat for the deficiencies of my singing. Either that, or it'll exacerbate them. Not sure yet. Even if it isn't reflected in the story or dialogue, it's helpful to establish a backstory for a character in order to understand and thus portray them better. I've decided that as part of her celestial penance, which includes the less-than-choice gig of being Zippy's guardian angel in the first place, Karen is no longer able to undereat. (Of course, angels don't have time to eat, because they're all trying to find room on that pin.) (Thus raising the important theological question, how many angels can dance on Zippy's head?) Since removing the means of one maladaptive coping mechanism doesn't make the underlying issues go away, she's moved on to something which The Powers That Be aren't watching out for: SI. I realize my psychological logic is a tad fuzzy (if SI and anorexia came from the same emotional place, I'd be a lot thinner), but I'm not trying to be Freudian or Jungian so much as Stanislavskian.
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I scared Chicken with my wings. Chicken being the resident cat at The Dark Room, one of the few leftovers from Mission Records. He's a large gray tabby with slightly crossed eyes, ears which suggest he's been in more than one scuffle in his time, and while he's very affectionate, he's selective about it. (My blouse was covered in his fur by the end of Tuesday night.) His primary domain is the backyard and the kitchen; him venturing further into the building than that is a rather controversial issue. Like an unneutered male of any species he has a tendency to mark his territory, and, unlike his old owners, the current occupants of the space don't care for the smell of urine. Last night, I tried on Costume Plan B, a slip/dress we found at the Goodwill. It has that seventies post-hippie look that Erin was looking for while still being plausibly angelic, and, much to my relief, it isn't a pantsuit. Needs to be taken in a little, and it's seethrough so I'll have to wear something under it, but otherwise, it works. Even if it is white, which it kinda has to be. (Where is Omewenne these days? Am I her successor? Am I following in her footsteps, or retreading the same ground?) Although Erin is unhappy with it and there's about a ninety-five percent chance that it won't be used in the play, I put on the wig. The play opens in just over a week, so I figured I might as well get as used to the feel of my overall costume as possible. Jim, who hadn't seen me in the wig before, said I looked like Courteney Cox. Oh, man, what a cruel thing to say. (I had something of a crush on her as a teenager.) Even beyond that, it continued to be narcissistically fascinating to see myself with short hair and no bangs. It's a bob, technically, not a boy cut, but still shorter than it's been in about fourteen years. And it's my natural haircolor, or at least a very close approximation thereof. Rather flattering on me, all things considered. (The issue of my hair in the play remains unresolved.) I hadn't much makeup on before that, so I darkened my eyes and put on some lipstick to round things out. Erin hinted that she might be willing to compromise and let me wear gothy makeup during the play itself, but I'm not holding my breath. I'm kinda torn on the issue myself; it's Karen Carpenter, sure, but it's dead Karen Carpenter... Seeing my reflection throughout the evening, a thought kept coming back: well, i'll be goddamned. i look like a girl. it worked. it actually worked. and i look pretty sexy to boot, even with short brown hair and wearing white. Something tells me I'll always have those moments, regardless of how many years go by. I kinda hope I do. It's a good feeling. Finally, the wings, a large white feathery pair which Erin bought off the wall at Mission Thrift. Maddy and I actually have a pair of wings which I got her for thirtieth birthday, but, as should come as no surprise, they're black. Not entirely appropriate for an angel. (als das kind kind war...) Erin's pair, in addition to being more flat-out angelish, also have a pair of convenient shoulder straps for easy access. Rather important, that. A little over two years ago, there was a spoken word event called We Will Slam Them with Our Wings. I wish I still had the fly0r for that. So, in what currently passed for full-on angel regalia, I went into the kitchen. Chicken was sitting just inside the door to the backyard. When he saw me, he let a low pitched meow (not so much a growl as a "What the fuck?" sound), turned, and ran outside. It took me a few seconds to realize what had freaked him out. Chicken recognizes me when I'm dressed normally, but he doesn't know me that well, so he probably didn't know what to make of this large winged creature. Maybe he thought it was one of the many birds he's taken down in his time, back for revenge. Fortunately, I know a thing or two about connecting with reticent cats, so before too long he was letting me pet him again. But I could tell he was keeping a crossed eye on those wings, juuuuust in case.
7:35pm Turns out Maddy had the foresight to keep the fly0r. See? I told you! We will slam them with our wings! We will! That's such a great title. I need to ask Michelle if I can steal it. Speaking of such things, Andrew Gould from the Parlour Club in West Hollywood sent me the fly0r for my show with Lynnee later this month. Guess I was wrong about the gun picture being useless for promotional purposes. And my name's even spelled right.
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