Real love requires 2" heels, at least.
tweet this
That Ken Ludwig. Man. He can't write a play without causing serious damage to the ankles. (That's what my feet are saying, anyway. Ah, well, there's a price to be paid for anything, huh?) I'm sorry if this comes across, at first, like a shameless plug for the current production of Leading Ladies that I'm in - it wouldn't matter anyway, if it did; we're practically sold out for the rest of this run. We've only got one more week, and then...it's curtains. Literally. But, out of the goodness of my heart, and since I'm a Christian man (from the waist up, anyway), I'll gladly give you the...
Why I Don't Live at the P.O.
In Small Town America, you've got your churches (lots of them; 28 Baptist churches exist in my hometown of 3,000 people, alone), and you've got your grocery stores, which, in a quick-fire pinch, also serve as make-shift churches. They just follow a different line of worship, a la gossip and such. I attend the grocery store with far more regularity, I'm ashamed to say. But, it's only because there's no set, organized amount of time one must spend in a grocery store. There's also no special music, or altar calls. Those can tend toward embarrassment, from time to time. The gist of this comparision...
It takes a Village and Xanax: Tacoma Tales, Part 1
Things I remember about Tacoma, and its people: 1) it's not Seattle; 2) I had to fly on a plane to get to it; 3) they fully believe in a Farmer's Market - despite the fact that, in my estimation, there were probably only two or three actual farmers at the market; 4) they want everywhere you turn to be something worth looking at; 5) so, that means there's a lot of random art and sculptures everywhere; 6) Sundays are just as dead there as here, and 7) did I mention I had to fly on a plane...
That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.
I'm considering penning a memoir. I'm serious. I'm sure there's a finer art to it than what I'm putting to paper. No, I know there is as evidenced by PaperGirlMemoir's blog. I enjoy her blog, among several others, those detailing their writing journeys. I suppose she's serving as a "model," though she has a much better, cleaner handle on how to go about writing one than I do. I tend to ramble. (I'm pretending it's my style, so don't say anything). At first, I thought, why on earth would I think anyone wants to read a memoir by me. And then, I...
The monk on a yellow motorcycle.
Again, with the dreams. I'm having such dreams, lately. A flood. Minus the ark. I think they're so vehement and vivid because I'm knuckles-down and knee-deep in rehearsals for The Complete Works of William Shakespeare [abridged]. We open next week, and I'm stressed, to be sure. But so long as I can get that stress out in my dreams, and not on the stage, perhaps, perchance, it will be all right. After all, the Bard said, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Heaven help me indeed, if this is part of my philosophy. Earth, I...
Like mother, like martini…
See, this is how it started. I was filling out one of those ridiculous questionnaires - you know the type that base a great deal of your personality on random, pointless questions that once they've summarized your responses you find that it is at once both complete fluff and somehow absolutely accurate - they've all but infected Facebook. Yeah, so that's what I was doing instead of working...or, as I like to say, it was my smoke break...but, since I don't smoke, I just take 10-15, or 40 minutes or whatever and browse through onion.com or cnn.com or engrish.com, etc.
Advertise With Us
