I am a terrible friend, sister, daughter, knitter, and blogger

I am in the final stages of the diss, about 20 pages to go on the last real chapter, a conclusion chapter (which, I've already determined, will be short and sweet), loads of revisions, some images, and a defense.

I'm also fighting the clock. I MUST finish this chapter this week. I MUST get a defense date scheduled, and this defense date MUST be before the end of the year or else my committee chair will scuttle back to Rome and the whole thing will delayed until Fall 2008. Which is unacceptable.

And so I am head-down, trying to finish. And therefore I can only send sporadic emails to whomever happens to send me an email first (reply is so much easier than compose), make occasional phone calls only to my parents (I don't want them to worry; I figure everyone else can deal), knit nothing, and, well, write this one post and this one post alone.

But here's a recap of what's been happening in the months since I posted:

• ATHE was a success and New Orleans was fun
• My honey and I vacationed in Maine and Nova Scotia - amazing!
• I started back up on the yoga
• I went back to smoking, quit, and now occasionally smoke
• My honey and I did an amazing group ride over the historic bridges of downtown LA
• We cast our play
• I started a dramaturgy blog for the show
  
• I agreed to write an article in the middle of this diss-ness
• My honey and I chanced upon a Punk Rock Puppet Show and Spoken Word event on a corner in Koreatown

I'm sure there's more, but that's what I remember right at this moment. And now, back to the diss.

There is a world outside of my dissertation

I've been so wrapped up in pounding out this chapter while concurrently getting the ATHE stuff together, directing my staged reading, and planning for Devildare auditions that I feel like I am cut off from the rest of the world. More specifically, I feel that I am cut off from the political realm that, normally, is at the forefront of my mind. Just to prove that I am not the total diss navel-gazer I feel that I am, I want to sound off about a few recent political issues that have managed to force their way into my consciousness.

• Planned Parenthood funding-cut amendment fails! Thank goodness for that. With the recent Supreme Court ruling against the open communication and decision-making of a woman and her doctor, I was beginning to feel like we were turning back a century (or more) to a time when old, white men got to make all the decisions for women. Don't get me wrong, they are most definitely doing that now, and it is repugnant to think that somehow this is considered okay (poor, weak, emotional women just don't know what's best for themselves), but at least Planned Parenthood can continue to do the good work it does. In this era of reduced rights and crappy health care, I have turned to PP for my own health care and am thankful that it exists because without it, I would be forced to take stupid chances and forego my reproductive health care because I just don't have the money to go somewhere else. And I consider myself to be, socially if not economically, in a very favorable position. I am educated; intelligent; in a stable, monogomous relationship with an amazingly thoughtful and caring man; not without access to financial assistance (although I am unemployed (sort of), this is only a temporary situation and is indeed a luxury at that, allowing me to finish my diss, graduate, and get a very respected and secure job once I am done); I live in a progressive state that values women and their health; plus I'm white, which alone grants me a lot more freedom in decision-making than many other women. Yet without PP, I would be screwed (no pun intended). I'm glad this crazy Republican didn't get to fuck with my body.
• Bush, Gonzales, Cheney. Good Lord are these the worst criminals in history? It makes me sick to hear any of them speak, and it turns my stomach to see how they have completely taken away so many of our collective rights, how they have completely bungled the "War on Terror," how they have forced a lot of crazy faith-based programs down our throats (Hello, abstinence-only education? It doesn't work, and it masks its misogyny (again, women can't be trusted to know how their bodies even work, much less can they decide what to do with them) with bullshit morality from a very skewed, particularist reading of the Bible), how they have literally shat all over The Constitution. To quote my play, I dream of attaching electrodes to their respective genitals and torturing them Gitmo-style. I would never do this, of course, because I don't believe in torture, but they do, so in a way I guess they have it coming.
• Michael Vick and dog fighting. Okay, this one came to me in an email, without which I wouldn't have known about it and in response to which I took about the lamest amount of "action" one can take - I signed an Internet Petition. Woo-hoo! Watch the world change with my measly e-signature. Dog fighting? Really? That's how you get your rocks off? Gross. Barbaric. Unbelievable. Although I suppose it isn't surprising that the ritualized violence of football would bleed into the overt violence of cruelly treating other animals for one's personal pleasure.
  
• The primaries. Can we somehow get away from soundbites and hand raising and actually talk about something? Something other than $400 haircuts and cleavage and who's using what name and who's black and eloquent? And please, please, please, something besides who has how much money? For the record, I am, per my usual, currently backing the long shots: Dennis Kucinich and, slightly less improbably, Bill Richardson.

See, I do know that there is a world outside of my diss. That is all.

Things That Have Happened; Hollywood Bowl

I've been busy:

• Organized for ATHE
• Made a quick trip back to Minnesota
• Directed a staged reading at NOTE that went off really well
• Suffered from an unpleasant stomach bug
• Wrote a few more pages
  
• Went crazy, got uncrazy

Hollywood Bowl:

Mark this under events that could only happen in Los Angeles. We scored box seats - box seats! (Thanks Richie!) - to the Hollywood Bowl for Cafe Tacuba. Imagine the most beautiful summer night you could ask for, a nice bike ride (with a deadly hill I had to walk my fixie up at the end), some delicious fizzy wine, a cool breeze, and 18,000 people grooving to the incredibly groovy sounds of this amazing band. The band only spoke really fast Spanish that I couldn't understand (although at least half of the audience could), but they laid down incredible beats that were universal in their commuinicative coolness. Me and my honey danced. So did the band. My honey acknowledged that he had a slight man-crush on lead singer "Pinche Juan," Ruben Isaac Albarran Ortega (because his spinny dance moves and Mush Mouth hat cannot be beat), while I preferred guitarist/keyboardist "Meme," Emmanuel del Real Diaz (because I like 'em long and lanky; cf. Adam "MCA" Yauch, Big George Hincapie, and most of all, my honey himself). The best part was seeing their smiles - and yes, we were so close that we could actually see them without the aid of the Jumboscreen - as they left the stage, knowing they had nailed this show just like everyone there knew they had nailed it.

So great.

And I thought California summers were for laying on the beach

So busy. So very very busy.

1. Trying to get this chapter going.
2. Coordinating ATHE project.
3. Working on two plays.
4. Balancing our budget (stress).
5. Running annoying errands that take three times as long as they should.

It leaves no energy for blogging, alas.

Signs That I Am Old

1. I've complained several times about the impending increase in the price of stamps.

2. My honey and I were thrilled to make the Early Bird Special at Clancy's Crab Shack last night.

3. I have called friends to marvel about the cleaning powers of the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

4. My honey and I purchased comfort insoles for our shoes and more than once commented on how comfortable they are.

5. My legs hurt! (Said in the voice of Homer Simpson's relative)

Hooray Hooray!

The chapter is done.

Sort of.

I need to set it aside for a few days, give it a good going-over, and then send it off to the more critical eyes of my advisor.

And what better way to put some distance between the chapter and me than a fun fun Cinco de Mayo? A dear friend from junior high is coming into town and we predict a night of pleasant conversation over margaritas at the house of a mutual friend in Brentwood.

Also on the list of weekend activities is the probable purchase of a new mattress, brunch with friends, and the opening of a joint account for me and my honey. Fabulous!

I'm Awake!

With not much to say, sadly.

Last night I couldn't fall asleep until 5:30 am. Why? My brain refused to turn itself off for the night, so I lay in bed thinking rambling, meaningless thoughts until I got frustrated enough to get up, post some El Vez photos to my flickr account, and basically waste time. After I grew bored with that activity, I lay in bed again, again thinking rambling, meaningless thoughts until finally, finally, Morpheus descended.

So then I slept too late and now I'm up again, working on the chapter. Almost done with the summary of the image in advertising and ready to move on to outlining the final summary point of the contemporary North American consumer culture scholars, authentiticy and authority.

What else?

Tomorrow I am going to the wine bar with my friends the Heathers for a little girls' night out.

Tomorrow morning I will have to call my boss, Captain Chaotica, to (happily) turn down his emergency Can You Work For Me? request on account of said plans with the Heathers.

Tomorrow I should figure out the casting for the play I am curating in July and send out requests for readers.

Tomorrow, if I work hard (and by this I mean pull an all-nighter to avoid sleeping all day), I might finish this chapter.

Happy May Day!

How have you spent your May Day?

I celebrated by officially becoming Californian. My new license picture looks like a mug shot. Unlike in Minnesota, they don't say, "Smile!" here, and I am left looking perpetually sullen. Or stoned.

(Don't worry, I wasn't stoned.)

Did you know I had to take a written exam? I studied. Still, I got one wrong. It will be forever etched into my brain that, in a business district, it is only legal to perform U-Turns in an intersection where no sign prohibits them.

My favorite part of the day was when, after getting my test graded, the guy who graded my test handed it back to me and said, "Just give this to that guy over there," where over there was literally one foot away. And the guy who graded my test was closer to that guy over there than I was.

Your tax dollars at work.

And if not yours, then mine.

The Question of the Day

What should I do with my hair?

If you know me, you know I am always changing my hair. Only I don't know what to do with it now. It's at one of those horrible grown-out stages. I'm going to blonde it up again for summer (it feels like summer here in LA already), and I do want it a little longer, but that's all I know. And I feel I should know more if I'm going to drop some big dollars on another cut at the tres chic Beverly Hills Salon.

Knitting Machine

I've been a knitting addict lately. Two purses, a pair of fingerless gloves, and some arm warmers have all spilled off my needles. It's a way to feel productive while wasting time in front of the TV. And if this doesn't completely capture the guilt of underproductivity that plagues all grad students, I don't know what does. It isn't okay to just watch TV to zone out for a while - No! - my hands must be busy even if my brain isn't.

Still, the chapter plods along. Getting close to the end now.

And theatre stuff is picking up, too. I'm starting to make some good contacts here and am beginning work on a crazy Evel Kneivel inspired piece as well as a staged reading. I think I'm getting out of the bike shop just in time to make some things happen.

All of which means I am feeling a bit more grounded here lately. Could it be that I am starting to become an Angeleno?

I'm The Girl For Whom They Invented Incentive Programs

Last month, in preparation for the big conference in Kansas, I went to a super ritzy Beverly Hills Salon. I paid $105 for a haircut. $105! The results were great, sort of. I mean, I got a fantastic haircut and fantastic color. The kind of haircut that you don't have to do anything to and it still looks good. The rich, pretty red color I requested. I just looked a little more like an almost 35 year-old woman than my inner almost 35 year-old woman wants to look.

But I signed up for this incentive program. And to my great joy, a $24 coupon arrived in the mail for me this week. $24 free dollars! So I trotted my happy ass back to the salon today to cash in the rewards, mostly because I misread the ticket and thought it expired on Saturday when it actually expired a year from Saturday.

But such details didn't stop me! I quickly grabbed some conditioner, and because I had about $10 left to spend, I thought I would pick up some new eyeshadow. All of my current eyeshadow is old, and cheap, and kind of ugly. So the makeup lady swooped in on me, washed off my face and worked some magic. PMS zits disappeared! My eyes were dramatic, yet natural! A subtle pink glow emanated from my cheeks!

So instead of buying one shade of eyeshadow, I bought three. And a compact to put them in. And a fancy makeup brush. I did manage to refrain from the concealer and the blush and powder, but only just. I spent some $55 over the $24 free dollars I had intended to spend. And yet I still feel as if I got a great deal. I don't think, "Wow! I shouldn't have blown $55 on makeup!" I think, "Wow! I saved $24 that I would have spent anyway!"

I also consulted with my stylist. We have plans to grow into a longer (not long), hopefully more youthful and funky style. I fear, however, that I have outgrown my funkiness and will have to accept my fast-approaching middle agedness. I'm fighting it, though. I also requested a call from my colorist. I want to bring back the blonde for summer, but I feel I should consult with her, if only because that is one of the perks of spending big bucks at a Beverly Hills Salon.

So I Quit. And Then Came the Heart Attack.

I finally had it with the bike shop. One too many days of sitting alone at the counter waiting for the boss man to arrive. One too many instances of having given much more than was required of me and then being asked to give just a little bit more. One too many apologies to customers when shit entirely beyond my control was fucked up. One too many times of not having the information I need to do the simplest of tasks. One too many times of being asked to say a little white lie so that the shop doesn’t look like the total Flakesville that it is. One too many days of being forced to bear the responsibility for Captain Chaotica’s stressed-out life, troubled interpersonal relationships, medical problems, and poor managerial decisions.

Of course I didn’t mention that these were my real reasons for putting in an unheard of One Month’s Notice (because I am a softie and really don’t want to make my departure too stressful to the already overstressed Captain) because, really, what good would that do? Would the Captain learn anything from the truth, or in any way alter his behavior? Not Likely. Especially as the Captain is really operating in pure survival mode, almost drowning under the burden of his reality but somehow managing to keep his chin just barely above the surface.

Honestly, the moment I quit, I felt the weight taken off of me. That’s how bad the situation had become, having almost imperceptibly shifted from slightly annoying to completely unbearable over the course of my two months there. And once that weight was off, I no longer was embittered; just happy that in one month’s time, I will have moved on. I could suddenly see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and I knew that it was beautiful.

Also I’ve started being completely rude to customers who annoy me, a skill honed during my many many years waiting tables at Perkins.

Annoying Guy: You just give these water bottles out, right?
Me: No. They cost $3.99. (A price I made up on the spot).
AG: But I had to wait longer than the time you told me. Shouldn’t I get it for free?
Me: No, you shouldn’t get it for free. But if it will shut you up, you can have it.
AG: (embarrassed) I mean, it’s free advertising for you.
Me: You want the free water bottle. Take the free water bottle. Just admit that you want the free water bottle because you’re greedy, not because you are altruistically looking to advertise our shop.
AG: Um, thanks for the water bottle.

So Tuesday I was going in to work. I told the Captain I would be there between 3:30 and 4:00 and I arrived at the 4:00 end of the equation, albeit still on time. And because I was still on time, I sort of maliciously took pleasure in the fact that he had to be on the receiving end of the waiting game. He had to wonder just when I would walk through the door. He had to want to leave, need to leave, and know that he was stuck there until my happy ass showed up. It was delicious. And short-lived.

I walked in to find that the Captain, who has a long history of horrible horrible heart problems, had just called 911. The store or his life in the store had literally pushed him over the edge (or swallowed him under, if I want to keep my metaphors consistent). He was wheeled out of the store on a gurney under the care and supervision of the LAFD and has been in the hospital ever since.

And who, you may ask, is holding down the fort?

You know who.

Apparently, I'm Bebe

I even took the quiz twice to make sure I gave the most honest answers because I figured on the first time around I would try to beat the test, even though I'm not exactly sure how one beats the Which South Park Girl Am I test. And twice I was Bebe.

So call me Bebe, Baby.

Tour of California

Apologies in advance for anyone who isn't totally insane about cycling. Check back tomorrow for another post.

My honey and I went down to Long Beach last week to catch the final stage of the Tour of California. It was so cool! Even cooler than last year!

We took the train down; despite rumors to the contrary, Los Angeles does have public transport. In fact, walking around Union Station (one of the nicest train stations in the world, I'm convinced), it becomes obvious what a stellar public transport system it was meant to be before the car and tire companies started throwing money at the politicians of the 1940s to turn LA into a car town. Union Station is enormous, a hub meant to handle throngs of people with easy and located so as to efficiently connect people to both the local stops and other towns throughout Southern California. If only the connecting lines and subways (there are some subway lines, just not what had originally been programmed) had been built. Instead it's overkill, long hallways that echo with the footsteps of the few people walking them.

But the train was pretty awesome and convenient. We went past the Watts Towers and decided that we would take another day trip to the towers sometime in the future. Only a few weirdoes, too. The man with too much mucous behind us who snorted and swallowed, snorted and swallowed. The racist black dude who wouldn't make room for the wheelchair-bound black dude ("I ain't moving, coz!") because he thought Mr. Wheelie was Mexican; Mr. W responded by stretching out his leg (not sure why the wheelchair) and putting his foot right on the handhold that RBD was using. Once RBD figured out Mr. W was, in fact, not Mexican, he fled the train in embarrassment. At which point Snotty (a white dude) got up and apologized to Mr. W and they bonded over being displaced New Yorkers.

When we got to Long Beach, we sort of ambled our way toward the race route, stopping at a kickass bookstore and at a Bucky's, you know, taking our time. As we walked by one of the big hotels, we noticed the team cars lined up outside and decided we should cruise the hotel. Who walks by us in the parking lot? World Champion and Olympic Gold Medalist Paolo Bettini, that's who! Holy crap the guy's legs are bigger around than he is tall, I swear. In the lobby Stewie O'Grady chatted with Thor Hushovd, Fast Freddie Rodriguez and Chris Horner sported their pregnancy test-sponsored kits, the T-Mobile guys (with German mullets) strolled to their efficiently lined up bikes, and a few Liquigas Italians (no doubt rock star huge in Italy) walked around, confused in their anonymity.

The race was great. More star spottings on the bikes: Bobby Julich, Ivan Basso, Levi Leipheimer. I stood in shock, hearing that my All-Time Favorite US Rider, George Hincapie, broke his wrist (in mile 5 of a 100+ stage that he not only finished, but dominated as the super-domestique he is) and was out of the T of C and the Spring Classics. I waved to Johan in the car and he waved back. And in possibly my best moment, while everyone was watching the huge TV screen as the Peter Gunn theme played at the start of the race, Floyd Landis walked right past me, no more than a foot away and under supervision of an entourage of besuited and beshaded guys (lawyers, no doubt). No one except me noticed. I said, "Alright Floyd!" (eloquent, I know), and he totally gave me an appreciative smile and nod, and all the heads around me snapped as they figured out why this one little lady was cheering for Floyd. Plus we talked to Levi's mom (the whole family comes out in Levi T-Shirts; no wonder he's the best of the best or else he'd be the kid that got beat up and made fun of on the playground). She was so nice! Plus, she expressed her motherly nervousness at each of the moments that made the race so incredibly good this year - the first time trial, the massive attack by Jens Voight and his amazing time trial (followed by Levi's even more amazing time trial), the ingenious tactics of Riis when he sent O'Grady out and the Discos perfect counter-domination - and her whole demeanor reminded me that these guys really are guys, guys with moms who feel the intricacies of the sport like moms and not like fans.

Captain Chaotica

So my little part time under the table gig is slowly driving me crazy. My boss is Captain Chaotica. His super power is that everything he touches turns to chaos. Mechanics go to jail, reasonable college boys have breakdowns because of traffic and quit after only four hours, semi-reliable sales people quit via poorly typed letter shoved through the mail slot, and there I sit at the counter, hour after interminable hour.

I was going to write more about what has been going on, topics including but not limited to: my hair, my recent argument, my dissertation, my theatre work, my exciting trip to Long Beach to see the Final Stage of the Tour of California. Then I decided that I should try to get myself back in the habit of posting, so I deleted all those other tidbits, vowing to write more, and to write posts that are actually cohesive. You know, add an element of style or something.

I'll Take Manhattan

Manhattan, Kansas, that is.

Today I finalized my travel plans for the K State Cultural Studies Entertainment Conference coming up at the start of March. Flight, car, hotel. Check, check, check.

But wait, aren't you forgetting something?

Forgetting something? No, I don't think so. I mean, I've even got my hair appointment set for next week and am planning to purchase a couple of new, conference-appropriate outfits after that.

Something big?

No. Nothing. Not at all. Big? What is big?

Really? Think very hard...

Yes! No! Maybe?

Don't you have a paper to write? Isn't that, after all, what you DO at conferences? Deliver papers? Share ideas?

Um, er, yeah, well...

So that's what I'm doing right now. Writing a conference paper. I have 56 words. 56 whole words, 19 of which are a quote from an email. I think it's safe to say that I'm in a bit of an academic rut right now. Thinking is hard! Focusing is even harder! Which is why, upon writing these 56 words, I decided I ought to take a break, do a little blogging to get the creative juices flowing.

It's because of procrastination skills this honed that I don't yet have my PhD.

Third Night Not So Much A Charm

So three incredible nights out in a row is a bit much to ask for, even in Los Angeles. On Saturday night I went to see a play, one that I was very excited about because it was penned by a playwright I love and got good reviews in the LA Weekly.

Not so hot a show in my book. Call me crazy, but when things happen - like murders or seductions or screams or weird interludes - people in the scene should react. They might not have to react realistically (in fact, please don't), but they should somehow acknowledge that something is happening a mere two or three feet away from them. Also, lines should be said at different paces, just as movement should occur. Also, not every word is as important as every other word; sometimes the idea behind a long long list is that you don't catch every item on it. Also, even if it is a tragedy, not every moment needs to oppress me with its goddamn heaviness. Also, people should move from time to time, even if they are delivering a long monologue. Finally, a director shouldn't rely completely on the text to convey to the audience all the emotions and issues and meanings and events in the story. Because if it were just a matter of reading out loud, then there's no real reason to stage it, and no real reason for a director.

February Starts with a Musical Bang

I've been missmusicclub this month (all two days of it). On Thursday, my honey and I reunited with our past (sordid as it is) by seeing Mike Dillon's GoGo Jungle. Dillon, the former front man from one of our college era's favorite college bands (do you follow me?), Billy Goat, is now a punk rock vibraphonist. And if you don't know what a punk rock vibraphonist is, so much the sorrier is your life.

Last night, after burgers with friends at the tres chic Hotel Roosevelt, my honey and I went to the Hotel Cafe to see my new favorite singer/songwriter Jim Bianco. I really appreciated the tightness of the ensemble and the complex originality of the music. But I also must admit that I'd go down like a sucker for any band that features dark, sexy lyrics; a clarinet/trumpet/accordion/piano playing multi-instrumentalist who also sings harmony; and a guitar player who looks like Michael Palin performing completely unironically as an 80s icon.

Final January Check-In

Whoops! The month has slipped away from me, filled as it was with way too many ups and downs. The ups: Will Power (Hip Hop Theatre, not self help) workshop and interview in Minneapolis, fun catching up with family and friends, the end of my immediate financial woes in sight. The downs: not enough writing, not enough money, lingering feelings of disconnect. Sometimes Los Angeles makes me feel like the stupid, plain girl mooning around at the back of the high school cafegymatorium at the big dance, bad sound echoing around her and the bad lighting making her feel all the more conspicuous.

It's Happening

For New Year's Eve, my honey and I drove down to San Diego. We got off the 5 to get gas and decided to take the old 101 through lots of small beach towns, driving south with the ocean immediately to our right. It was a really awesome diversion.

We got to our hotel on Harbor Island (a.k.a. the airport, but a randomly picturesque and peaceful airport at that), which we had hotwired for cheap; our room was in a unattached side tower not anywhere near the main hotel, which was great because the main hotel was full of people in fancy hoochie dresses ready to ring in 2007 at the Airport Sheraton. That is to say, not our kind of people. After smuggling our contraband booze into the room (no outside alcohol allowed), we pretty much holed up inside, drinking, talking, relaxing. At midnight, we popped the champagne and watched the fireworks over the harbor from our patio. We screamed "Happy New Year" into the night, and people we couldn't see who were standing on their balconies watching the fireworks screamed back. It was perfect.

The next day, we dallied in San Diego for a bit, walking along the harbor and strolling through Balboa Park before heading back to LA, up the coast on the 101 again until we had to get back on the 5.

On the way back into the city, my honey asleep beside me as I drove in the early evening, I saw the downtown skyline (a beautiful skyline) and thought, "We're home."