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."