Tuesday, February 21, 2012

It's a Date (I lost track of what number it should be)

The following mini-paragraphs are actual descriptions of four of my "perfect" matches:

I'm a man that love GOD, family, and loving 2 others as well. I attend church regularly, a member o na, drug free and continously growing.I love longs walks, gazing at the stars, and cuddling (*query*  Who are these "2 others"?  Would they be part of our relationship??)

I am looking for women to have some fun in bRIMINGHAM Al.I am 5 feet 10 tall and I am about 215 Lb Hazes eye black and gray hair.So of you are looking for a men send me a email. ( Sadly, I do not live in "bRIMINGHAM", but I am a sucker for hazes eye)

im 5 9 167 lbs s&p hair dont do drugs am on dis like camping fishing bowling im just plain ole guy likes people likes cooking out or going out some an good movies  (*query*  Do you mean "I am on dis website" or "I am on disability?  Is there a difference?)

I have been single for a long time, I guest it time to move forward in life.  (guest you'll be moving foward without me)

I know these websites are for entertainment purposes only (much like horoscopes and IRS notices), so I don't believe that real people write these.  I mean, they are written by real people, but people that are paid to do this, (like writing jaunty verses for greeting cards) not actual people looking to date actual other people. 
I've recently been on a couple of dates with guys I met online, and it ended up just depressing us both.  Which I did not find entertaining.    
So I guess I'll just stick to making quasi-witty snappy comebacks to my perfect matches. Or maybe I could get a job at one of these "top-notch" dating sites, writing this schlock:
am having been divorce loan time now and ready to moo on.  I like going out but am okey if u wont to stay homo, 2
Yup--I have found my new career. . . . .

Friday, February 17, 2012

Sixth of the Year

I often dream of joining the 21st century.  So many of the rest of you seem to be enjoying it.

My computer skills are negligible.  I don't skype or tweet or voit or gavotte or do any other of those spiffy high-tech thingys.  I do not own a laptop, an ipad, an MP3 player or any music playing device smaller than a backpack. I do not own a Keurig coffee maker.  Even my microwave only works half the time. 

But mostly I feel old-fashioned because my workplace is in a timewarp, circa 1959.  Here are the two latest examples:

My one boss said to me today, "We have a potential intern coming in today.  Her name is Bass-Bassa--Bassi--she's really foreign."  Not, "she's from Angola" or "she's from Turkey"; because countries are irrelevant.  What matters is that she talks funny and wouldn't know who Nick Saban was if she slept with him.  (Which He would never do, of course, because she's a foreigner.)  I stubbed out my Lucky Strike in my metal ashtray, adjusted the tiny velvet bow stuck in my bouffant and said, "Gotcha, Boss! I'll keep an eye out for the gook!"  And scene.  From "Picnic".

When we remodeled our offices, I asked for a coat rack, so I could put my seedy blue coat somewhere other than the floor.  My request was ignored, so I took it on myself to order one (take that, Rick Santorum!).  I jury-rigged it together yesterday (my mechanical skills suck, #1 reason why I didn't go into technical theatre).  My other (even yuckier) boss walked by my bunker and said, "Got yourself a new rack, huh?"  This is a man who has already taken a trip or two down the Sexual Harrassment Highway, but he won't let that stop him from gunning up that on ramp.  I put down my steno pad, adjusted the seams in my nylons and said, "Oooo…good one, Boss.  Why doncha pat my ass for good measure?"  And scene.  This one's a bit more, "The Ice Man Cometh", don't you think?

Well, at least it's Friday.  Soon I can climb into my Ford Fairlane, head home, strap on my apron, pour myself and the hubby a couple of martoonis and fix a big roast beef dinner with all the trimmings.  Afterwards, we'll put a Jack Jones record on the hi-fi and hold hands sitting three feet apart on the sofa. 

Aw, fuck it, I'll just go to rehearsal.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Fifth of the Year

Okay, we open next week and I'm pretty secure on my lines (I'm sure I'll regret that statement) and I am bored, so Back to Blogging.

I just got off three days of jury duty and I recognized a phenomenon I noticed the last three times I pulled JD.  (BTW, I think I've done my Civic Duty, guys, go extort money from the sewer system or something and leave me alone.)  At the beginning of the week, the room is pretty quiet, and people don't talk to each other, but by the end of the week (i.e. two days later) chatty little groups have formed and everyone's BFF.  Not me, of course, that ain't my thing.  My few forays into the world of Smalltalk with Civilians have always ended up the same way.  I'm holding my own for a few minutes, being totally original by commenting on how bad traffic is on Hwy. 280 or Roll Tide/War Eagle and then someone will say something and I spew out a comment I think is funny.  Cue Deathly Silence and Incredulous Stares.  Civilians slowly cross downstage right and exeunt.  (God bless you.)

The fact that I'm Socially Inept bothered me for years.  I'm an improvist, for Chrissake, I should be able to talk to a stranger or two.  Granted, most of my improv scenes involve situations akin to a zombie apocalypse and me saying "fuck" a lot, but that could make for a fun conversation, too, right?  Guess not.   

Anyroad, like so many other weird aspects of my personality, I have come to accept my inability to connect with Civilians.  It gives me a great opportunity to observe people without actually having to interact (and therefore alienate) them.  Someday I will make good use of all the information I've gathered--write a novel where people are in a  zombie apocalypse and have to escape on Hwy. 280 during rush hour, or something.  Meanwhile, I feel that Overwhelming Awkwardness descending on me that happens when I can't think of anything to say. . . .

Roll Tide, Buddy.  

Friday, February 3, 2012

Fourth of the Year

A friend of mine once told me, "I am only truly happy when I'm in a show."  I feel the same way.  I think it's because acting is the only thing I can do well.  Also, I'm extremely awkward socially, and rehearsing/performance allows me to have some social interaction without a lot of the awkwardness.  Otherwise, it's just me and the Kindle on my porch.  Which is cool, but not 100% of the time.

It's taken me a while to work out this formula, but I'm pretty pleased with it. (Most days.  Some days I'm just resigned to it, but those are days where I crash my car or sprain my ankle or have a hemorrhoid lanced, which was pretty much January.)  I have been uber lucky in the past year to be able to do so many wonderful shows, and I'm hoping I'll get cast a lot this year, but, of course, there are never any guarantees.  And, just like if you're into horses, you get to enjoy(?) the smell of horseshit, I enjoy(?) the whole auditioning-getting/not getting cast process.  And if that sounds like I'm equating auditioning to horseshit, well, {snappy retort unavailable}.

Anyroad, the reason I'm boring you all with this TMI-ish crap is that rehearsing a play like Hamlet, as I am now, is wonderful and intense, but also creatively draining, as you can probably tell from this lackluster post.  So it will be a while before I'm back in the blog saddle again, fascinating you all with my brilliant insights on shit that doesn't matter and, occasionally, shit that does.  

Until then, the play's the thing.  Peace out.