Though I have been awake when the sun was rising more times than I care or am able to count, the only two times I've ever purposefully witnessed the event directly – actually set out specifically to watch the sun rise as opposed to, say, squinting out the driver's side window while speeding down the Parkway at 5:45AM and wondering why I can never seem to leave New York at a remotely reasonable hour – both took place, as it happens, on the Delaware Avenue end of the South Street walkway.
I started doing theatre in grade school (I just realized I've been doing shows for TWENTY YEARS, and god that's frightening), but I didn't get serious about it until I did Anything Goes in the fall of my senior year of high school.
(Interesting side note: no less than three other high schools around here were doing the same show at the same time, and when I got to the theatre at LaSalle there was this whole great big lot of us who had all been in separate productions of Anything Goes within like three weeks of each other.)
Even for those who at that age realize they're pretty good at this stuff and get vaguely serious about it and may want to keep on doing it, high school theatre is something of a fool's errand. It's a bit like that statistic you hear about athletes: only 2% of high school athletes will play college ball, and only 2% of those will turn pro. I'd wager the percentages for folks who do theatre in high school are roughly the same. Of the 50 or so people I worked with on that production of Anything Goes way back when – by far the largest show I ever did in high school – precisely two do professional theatre work, and I'm one of them. (Okay, 4%, fuck off.) People fall off the bandwagon, discover other interests, get sick of doing tons of hard work for nothing. I've heard "discover girls" mentioned in that list when talking to people about this phenomenon, but only someone who's never met the kind of girls who work in the theatre would say something like that.
After a high school show closes you have the "cast party" at someone's house, where their parents serve soda and chips and whatnot and your drama teachers are there and you talk about how great everyone was – everyone in a high school show is great, if the talk is to be believed – and you hang out for a little bit. After that ends you go to someone else's house who has more permissive parents for the REAL cast party where you give that person's mother your car keys and everyone sits around and gets blitzed. (Oddly enough I was NOT one of those people; I didn't start drinking until college.)
The real cast party for Anything Goes was at some guy's house in Society Hill – can't remember who it was – and there were about 30 of us spread out over the entire third floor of one of those gigantic townhouses that you see all around the pub. Most of the people there were heavily invested into getting drunk. I remember at one point that I got into a heated discussion – at the age of 16, before film school was even a fleeting thought in my head – about why The Empire Strikes Back was CLEARLY a far superior movie to Return of the Jedi and how anyone who thought otherwise was obviously retarded.
There was one other guy there who wasn't drinking – Christ, I can't remember his name either, but I do remember he was blind in one eye because he took a paintball to the cornea the year before – and at around 6:00AM, when most of the rest of the party was either drunk, passed out, or having sex in one of the 27 bedrooms, he suggested that since we were sober and wide awake, hey, you want to go watch the sunrise?
I thought, I've never done that. Why the fuck not?
We drove over to the parking lot in front of Downey's - I DO remember that was the second time in one night and, swear to God, second of only two times I ever violated my Cinderella licence – and ambled over the South Street walkway to watch the sun come up over Camden. This was before the USS New Jersey was there, so it was just pink skies and industrial wasteland on the other side of the river. It was early November and it was absolutely freezing, but we just stood there for a solid twenty minutes in silence watching the sun come up, and when it was finally finished he just turned to me and said, "pretty cool, huh?"
I had to admit that he was right.
The second time I watched the sun come up from the South Street walkway was this past Saturday morning after a very, very, very long night of celebrating my 30th birthday. I was by myself this time, largely because I hate the world and everything in it.
The party itself went smashingly well – I believe over the entire course of the evening we had about 60 people go through the Rigger Bar, including at one bizarre point a sizeable delegation from the Pennsylvania Ballet. I am not making this up. I went outside for a cigarette around 10:30 and when I came back in there was a very large bunch of very small women standing in a cluster in the middle of the room. Not knowing who these women were or how they got there, I shouted "who the fuck are they?" at no one in particular.
My friend Mike came over to me and said, "they're ballerinas."
I said, I thought not unreasonably, "who the fuck are they?" again.
"The Pennsylvania Ballet is having a party next door," Mike said. "I went in there and invited them over here."
"They look like they're 14," I said. I had never seen so many tiny little ostensibly-adults in one place before.
"I think the one might be," Mike said.
"I can't live in this world," I said.
People continued to come and go, mostly coming and not going, and the bar got filled pretty nicely. What was supposed to be the highlight of my evening happened around 11, when a large group of Chelsea friends of mine arrived from New York, including a young lady who I had hoped, at the very least, to get a word in edgewise with at some point over the course of the following 12 hours.
This did not happen, and thus begins my hatred of the world and all its contents.
This did not happen because amongst the group of folks who came down from New York was this douche nozzle who was cockblocking me like fucking Mike Munchak in a Nashville whorehouse. When I say I couldn't get a word in edgewise I mean this quite literally. This guy made any attempt at conversation impossible – and we're not talking conversation like, "so, your hotel room or mine once we're done here?" I mean "so, how was the train ride?" conversation. I couldn't get more than eight seconds of one-on-one with this woman without him showing up and – I am not making this up – positioning himself in such a way that no one – myself included, and I feel I'm the most important actor in this particular drama – could even LOOK at this woman without craning their head around this fuckwad. I couldn't make EYE CONTACT with her.
It actually got a point where my FRIENDS were getting angry at this guy. I had to turn down repeated offers of, alternatively, throwing him into the Delaware River, beating him up under the stairs out the back of the pub, and things that began with, "I have this knife in my car, and…" I made a for-me rare determination that violence was not the answer and I would solve this problem in a civilized way.
Later in the evening when we learn that – and this is the best part - he is GOING OUT WITH SOMEONE ELSE, I started to feel my sense of Zen calmness slipping away and began to get seriously pissed off.
As Kyra was kicking us out of the bar around 2:20 a group consisting of Chelsea fans from Philly and New York who had all gotten rooms at the Society Hill Sheraton – we had a game on at 7AM, so it was determined we'd just crash for a few hours two blocks from the pub – headed back to the hotel, and on the way back and in the rooms I again had to deal with this fucking muppet making any attempt at even casual conversation with the woman I invited to the party specifically so I could HAVE a conversation or two, or three, or perhaps slightly more than a conversation with completely impossible.
It is also important to note at this point that at this time I am, as per usual, the only sober person in the group.
When the small party in the New York people's hotel room turned into, quite literally, a beer-throwing fight, and I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't so much as going to say hello to this woman until the entropic heat death of the universe thanks to this cockblocking kumquat, I decided to head up to the room we of the Philly persuasion had gotten and try to get a whopping three hours of sleep before the match.
About ten minutes after I got down there my friend Tim rolls in and all I can say is that he is fucking DRUNK. I mean, wow. I learned later that he had polished off most of a mini-keg of Heineken in the New York room, and after screwing around for maybe 90 seconds he flops down on the floor and promptly passes out. I was lying awake in the bed, thinking that interfering jackasses aside, and making a note to thank my "friends" for bringing the jackass in the first place, I came to the conclusion that all things considered it was still a pretty damn good birthday. Maybe turning 30 isn't so bad after all.
About two minutes after coming to said conclusion, at almost exactly 4AM, Tim begins to snore.
Well, "snore" isn't exactly the right word for it. The proper description would be something more along the lines of, "at 4AM Tim began to emit noises of roughly the decibel level and vibrational magnitude of a 400-horsepower Evinrude outboard yacht engine."
Let me tell you something, folks – when I was a bouncer at a city pool, way back in my youth, I used to sleep in the pump house of a 40,000 gallon pool, which at the time I roughly equated to sleeping inside a jet engine. I used to sleep like a fucking ROCK in there.
Friday night, I was lying awake listening to these frightening noises coming from my friend, and I couldn't sleep to save my life. I actually – and yet again I am not making this up – attempted to hypnotize myself so as to be able to enter a state in which I would be able to get at least a modicum of restful sleep. (Yes, I actually know how to hypnotize myself.) I could not. The noise was unbearable.
At 5:30AM I said, out loud – since I knew my other friend Ron, who was also bunking in the room, was as wide awake as I was – "oh, fuck all THIS," and took my pillow and blanket into the bathroom, closed the door, and sacked out in the bathtub. I have done this before on road trips when a bed was not an option. It's actually not that uncomfortable, almost womb-like.
On my 30th birthday, lying in a bathtub, in the dark, with a blanket over my head, with the bathroom door closed, I can still hear Tim snoring.
It is loud enough to keep me awake.
Oh, God.
At one point I decided to try the age-old method of counting sheep – in my case, just counting up very slowly in my head – in a last ditch attempt to get maybe an hour of sleep before I had to get up for the match. When I reached NINE HUNDRED, I pulled my cell phone out of the soap dish, saw that it was 6:15 and said, "fuck it, SSD opens soon, might as well get some breakfast."
I showered, changed into my Chelsea kit, and walked down to South Street. I picked up an Inquirer at the WaWa and walked over to the South Street Diner at about 6:35 to see that it didn't open until 7. Hmph.
I looked out towards Front Street and saw the sky starting to turn pink and said out loud to no one in particular,
"we're sober and wide awake, hey, you want to go watch the sunrise?"
So there I am, standing on the river end of the South Street walkway, about a month past 13 years to the day from the last time, watching the sun rise over the USS New Jersey.
When 7AM came I went back to SSD, availed myself of the best French Toast in Philadelphia, and headed to the pub to watch Chelsea beat West Ham 1-0 and stare at the back of that guy's head (conveniently placed directly between me and the woman in question, who I have now completely given up on ever saying another word to ever again).
As the day wore on I went home, got some sleep, watched my DVR of Navy destroying a hapless Army, made plans to watch the Ricky Hatton fight next week, and got some more sleep. Things returned to normal, at least as normal as they get around here.
Looking back at the whole experience of turning 30 I have come to the following conclusion:
I have faced, stared down, grappled with and survived thirty years of the weirdest, most ridiculous, most bizarre, most nerve-rattling insanity the universe can throw at anyone. And I won every time.
Thirty years down, a hundred to go. A hundred if those sons of bitches are LUCKY. I don't know about you, but I plan to live forever.
The last thirty years is the best you got?
Bring it on, motherfuckers.
JLK
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Your "Why, Jose, Why?" Quizo Update
I was at the bar on Wednesday night for my show - a little bit on that in a little bit - when my phone rang. It was Bill, a friend of mine who is a supporter of Manchester United.
"You been reading the papers?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm at the pub for my show. What's up?"
"Your boy Mourinho just quit Chelsea. It's all over the fucking news," Bill said.
"Yeah, very funny." I am certain this is a windup.
"I'm serious! The board had some kinda bust-up with Mourinho, he walked the fuck out."
"Come on, man, this isn't funny," I say, though I am starting to get worried. I'm fairly certain Bill wouldn't mess with me in this way, but I'm not 100% sure. Then my phone beeps. I have a new text message. I keep talking. "Where'd you read that?"
"It was in the Sun!" Bill says, indignant. The Sun is vaguely the British equivalent of the New York Post - they are not above completely making things up if it suits their bizarre pseudo-journalistic aims. "After your pissant little draw last night - "
"Come on, Bill," I interrupt him. "You oughta know better than to trust what you read in the fucking Sun..." My phone beeps for a text message again.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
Then it beeps for an incoming phone call.
It is at about this point I realize this is not a windup.
Jose Mourinho has quit his job as manager of Chelsea.
As shocking as the news was at the time what would come over the next four days would devolve very quickly from bad to worse to ridiculous, the most egregious element being that Jose was actually FIRED. Five trophies in three years? Not good enough. I won't go over the entire story in detail here - if you're really interested there are a number of very interesting articles on the subject in The Guardian - but suffice it to say Chelsea has, in the course of the last five days, gone from nouveau-riche international football powerhouse to broken, dejected laughingstock.
I was at the pub again yesterday to watch the Chelsea-United match and Brian of Alias Pseudonym Undercover made the comment that "firing Mourinho is like firing Bill Belicheck." I responded that no, not exactly, firing Mourinho now is like firing Bill Walsh three days before the 1988 NFC Championship. It is lunacy. It TRANSCENDS lunacy. It is a decision that exists in some dimension of capricious, brain-damaged insanity beyond the bounds of known time and space. Did you see that movie "Event Horizon?" It's like the evil dimension in that. I know, the movie sucks, yes, but it has Sam Neill and Larry "I Refuse To Call Him Laurence" Fishburne and it works for the analogy I am trying to create here.
On the plus side, after Chelsea's loss to United yesterday morning, the Eagles went and scored eight touchdowns, even if those throwback uniforms are truly hideous. I hope you weren't playing fantasy football against anyone who had an Eagle on their team. Ouch. Of course, I played against a guy who had Tom Brady. And Marion Barber. And my first five draft picks COMBINED for a total of seven points yesterday. God, I hate the world.
On the show tip, I'll toss up the URL for the thing one more time - www.phillybinge.com - but basically if you don't tell me in the next, like, twenty-four hours when you're coming, guess what? You're probably not going to get tickets. Dealer's Choice is the best show and the hottest ticket in Philly. Everybody and their goddamn brother is coming to see this thing this week. When I said last time that if you roll up at 7:45 on some show night you were probably going to get seats, but they wouldn't be very good? Yeah, I lied. If you roll up at 7:45 some show night without reservations you're not going to get a seat. Bummer for you. Good for me, as this thing ended up costing dump trucks full of money, but bummer for you. It's really quite good. Remarkably good, in fact. It's a shame so many of our fine Quizo folk probably won't get to see it. Like I said - you've got maybe 24 hours before the run sells out. Get on it.
The only downside of producing the hottest show in Philly is that I constantly get asked the question "so what are you doing next?" It felt weird saying "nothing" or evading the question, so now I've settled on the answer, "it's this great new show called 'Going Back To College For My Education Degree.' It's really long and tickets are REALLY expensive."
JLK
"You been reading the papers?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm at the pub for my show. What's up?"
"Your boy Mourinho just quit Chelsea. It's all over the fucking news," Bill said.
"Yeah, very funny." I am certain this is a windup.
"I'm serious! The board had some kinda bust-up with Mourinho, he walked the fuck out."
"Come on, man, this isn't funny," I say, though I am starting to get worried. I'm fairly certain Bill wouldn't mess with me in this way, but I'm not 100% sure. Then my phone beeps. I have a new text message. I keep talking. "Where'd you read that?"
"It was in the Sun!" Bill says, indignant. The Sun is vaguely the British equivalent of the New York Post - they are not above completely making things up if it suits their bizarre pseudo-journalistic aims. "After your pissant little draw last night - "
"Come on, Bill," I interrupt him. "You oughta know better than to trust what you read in the fucking Sun..." My phone beeps for a text message again.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
Then it beeps for an incoming phone call.
It is at about this point I realize this is not a windup.
Jose Mourinho has quit his job as manager of Chelsea.
As shocking as the news was at the time what would come over the next four days would devolve very quickly from bad to worse to ridiculous, the most egregious element being that Jose was actually FIRED. Five trophies in three years? Not good enough. I won't go over the entire story in detail here - if you're really interested there are a number of very interesting articles on the subject in The Guardian - but suffice it to say Chelsea has, in the course of the last five days, gone from nouveau-riche international football powerhouse to broken, dejected laughingstock.
I was at the pub again yesterday to watch the Chelsea-United match and Brian of Alias Pseudonym Undercover made the comment that "firing Mourinho is like firing Bill Belicheck." I responded that no, not exactly, firing Mourinho now is like firing Bill Walsh three days before the 1988 NFC Championship. It is lunacy. It TRANSCENDS lunacy. It is a decision that exists in some dimension of capricious, brain-damaged insanity beyond the bounds of known time and space. Did you see that movie "Event Horizon?" It's like the evil dimension in that. I know, the movie sucks, yes, but it has Sam Neill and Larry "I Refuse To Call Him Laurence" Fishburne and it works for the analogy I am trying to create here.
On the plus side, after Chelsea's loss to United yesterday morning, the Eagles went and scored eight touchdowns, even if those throwback uniforms are truly hideous. I hope you weren't playing fantasy football against anyone who had an Eagle on their team. Ouch. Of course, I played against a guy who had Tom Brady. And Marion Barber. And my first five draft picks COMBINED for a total of seven points yesterday. God, I hate the world.
On the show tip, I'll toss up the URL for the thing one more time - www.phillybinge.com - but basically if you don't tell me in the next, like, twenty-four hours when you're coming, guess what? You're probably not going to get tickets. Dealer's Choice is the best show and the hottest ticket in Philly. Everybody and their goddamn brother is coming to see this thing this week. When I said last time that if you roll up at 7:45 on some show night you were probably going to get seats, but they wouldn't be very good? Yeah, I lied. If you roll up at 7:45 some show night without reservations you're not going to get a seat. Bummer for you. Good for me, as this thing ended up costing dump trucks full of money, but bummer for you. It's really quite good. Remarkably good, in fact. It's a shame so many of our fine Quizo folk probably won't get to see it. Like I said - you've got maybe 24 hours before the run sells out. Get on it.
The only downside of producing the hottest show in Philly is that I constantly get asked the question "so what are you doing next?" It felt weird saying "nothing" or evading the question, so now I've settled on the answer, "it's this great new show called 'Going Back To College For My Education Degree.' It's really long and tickets are REALLY expensive."
JLK
Monday, September 17, 2007
Your Mister Subliminal Quizo Update
The thing I really hate about lapsing into smoking again - aside from, you know, the actual buying and smoking of cigarettes - is falling back into what I would call "smoker's thinking." This refers to things like waiting for your ride to show up and, realizing that your ride's car is a non-smoking flight, thinking "well, I'd better get a cigarette in before he gets here." I had almost that exact thought Friday night and I was immediately rather disgusted with myself and, after swearing vengeance against the world for turning in such a way that my choices to relieve the crushing stresses I labor under became a) start smoking again or b) start recreationally murdering prostitutes, I determined that once my show was over I would have to go back on the smoking wagon. This is, as I have said previous, not especially easy, but after going seriously smoke-free for a while I recognize that it's the way to go. It's unfortunate, really, since to once again quote the great Neal Stephenson, for something disgusting and lethal smoking is remarkably enjoyable. PAYING for cigarettes, now, that's a different story.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
Speaking of disgusting and lethal, I had the grave misfortune of watching the new Highlander movie this weekend. I am a big fan of Highlander, at least the first movie and the TV show. The hideous, misbegotten thing I watched Saturday night was the Darth Vader of Highlander - more machine now than man, twisted and evil. I had been told it was on TV only minutes before it aired, and I quickly called a friend of mine who I knew was also a fan, and we spent the entire film texting each other back and forth about how awful it was, and then immediately after it ended I had to give him a sincere apology for telling him it was on. I think he summed it up best when he wrote: "when I watch Highlander I want good sword fights, a little melodrama, and Scottish accents, and this garbage doesn't have ANY of those things." All things aside - and I mean ALL things - if you make a Highlander movie and you don't at least have one really cool-looking sword fight you have failed at life. But not only were they not good, they were actively BAD. Like, you watch it, and you realize that the director - a term used here, surely, in its loosest and basest sense - was trying to do something "new" and "interesting" and "cool" but along the way forgot that he's a fucking anencephalic colobus monkey who couldn't choreograph or shoot a good sword fight if he was possessed by the restless spirit of Douglas Fairbanks.
Put it this way: this movie makes the Star Wars prequels look like the crowning achievement of world cinema.
Put it another way: it's worse than Highlander 2.
There is no more damning assessment of any movie than that, but to make a HIGHLANDER movie worse than Highlander 2 is pretty astounding.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
It's sad, really, because I was hoping a new Highlander movie would lift me up out of the despair of Chelsea being robbed of a win on Saturday morning by an official who does not understand the fairly important part of the offside rule that one can not be offside if one is BEHIND THE BALL. I dread the possibility that Blackburn's play on Saturday - 8 men on the defense at all times, hardly a shot on goal to speak of, three defensive substitutions, and a general unwillingness to even consider trying to win - is what we're going to face all season. It's bad enough when your winning goal in the face of such cowardice is wrongly disallowed, but if I have to watch that kind of garbage football all season it's going to be a long year.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
Remember that we have special Monday Night Football Quizo tonight, meaning that we will be starting at 7:30. That is SEVEN-THIRTY-IN-THE-PM, folks, since I want to be done and dusted in time to get home for kickoff. You thought the 24 premiere night quizo was fast? Tonight I will be the goddamned Flash compared to that.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
You also may have heard that I am producing a show which is playing at our very own Dark Horse Pub. It's called "Dealer's Choice," and it's by Patrick Marber. It is out-fuck-standing. It opens tomorrow night and tickets are but ten dollars. It has poker, English accents, and beer. What else could you want from a play? All the information you need is at our website, www.phillybinge.com. Come see it. You will be glad you did. More accurately, I will make you very unhappy if you do not.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
7:30 tonight, then, see you there.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, http://www.phillybinge.com)
JLK
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
Speaking of disgusting and lethal, I had the grave misfortune of watching the new Highlander movie this weekend. I am a big fan of Highlander, at least the first movie and the TV show. The hideous, misbegotten thing I watched Saturday night was the Darth Vader of Highlander - more machine now than man, twisted and evil. I had been told it was on TV only minutes before it aired, and I quickly called a friend of mine who I knew was also a fan, and we spent the entire film texting each other back and forth about how awful it was, and then immediately after it ended I had to give him a sincere apology for telling him it was on. I think he summed it up best when he wrote: "when I watch Highlander I want good sword fights, a little melodrama, and Scottish accents, and this garbage doesn't have ANY of those things." All things aside - and I mean ALL things - if you make a Highlander movie and you don't at least have one really cool-looking sword fight you have failed at life. But not only were they not good, they were actively BAD. Like, you watch it, and you realize that the director - a term used here, surely, in its loosest and basest sense - was trying to do something "new" and "interesting" and "cool" but along the way forgot that he's a fucking anencephalic colobus monkey who couldn't choreograph or shoot a good sword fight if he was possessed by the restless spirit of Douglas Fairbanks.
Put it this way: this movie makes the Star Wars prequels look like the crowning achievement of world cinema.
Put it another way: it's worse than Highlander 2.
There is no more damning assessment of any movie than that, but to make a HIGHLANDER movie worse than Highlander 2 is pretty astounding.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
It's sad, really, because I was hoping a new Highlander movie would lift me up out of the despair of Chelsea being robbed of a win on Saturday morning by an official who does not understand the fairly important part of the offside rule that one can not be offside if one is BEHIND THE BALL. I dread the possibility that Blackburn's play on Saturday - 8 men on the defense at all times, hardly a shot on goal to speak of, three defensive substitutions, and a general unwillingness to even consider trying to win - is what we're going to face all season. It's bad enough when your winning goal in the face of such cowardice is wrongly disallowed, but if I have to watch that kind of garbage football all season it's going to be a long year.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
Remember that we have special Monday Night Football Quizo tonight, meaning that we will be starting at 7:30. That is SEVEN-THIRTY-IN-THE-PM, folks, since I want to be done and dusted in time to get home for kickoff. You thought the 24 premiere night quizo was fast? Tonight I will be the goddamned Flash compared to that.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
You also may have heard that I am producing a show which is playing at our very own Dark Horse Pub. It's called "Dealer's Choice," and it's by Patrick Marber. It is out-fuck-standing. It opens tomorrow night and tickets are but ten dollars. It has poker, English accents, and beer. What else could you want from a play? All the information you need is at our website, www.phillybinge.com. Come see it. You will be glad you did. More accurately, I will make you very unhappy if you do not.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, www.phillybinge.com)
7:30 tonight, then, see you there.
(Dealer's Choice, at the Dark Horse, opening September 18, $10, http://www.phillybinge.com)
JLK
Monday, September 10, 2007
Your "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" Quizo Update
You know, it occurs to me that your special teams have to be really, REALLY bad to make the Packers look good. I mean really, really, really, REALLY BAD.
On a positive note, the Philadelphia Binge Festival - it's like the Fringe Festival, only less healthy - opens next Tuesday with my production of Patrick Marber's "Dealer's Choice" in the restaurant at the Dark Horse Pub. Shows are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday Nights at 8 and Saturday afternoons at 4, September 18-29. Tickets to the show are a scant ten dollars. Doors will open ( i.e. I will be standing in the doorway, glaring at you, demanding money) 90 minutes before showtime, though if you want to eat/drink/whatever I strongly recommend arriving no later than an hour before curtain - I learned last night that I can't fit as many people into that room as I had previously, and space is going to get taken up very quickly. I'm a fan of early arrivals for pretty much everything in general, but in this case not only do you get a good seat but after paying me (thus putting a temporary halt to the glaring) you then get to take your time eating the... er... delicious dinner the DH provides.
It is worth noting at this point that my mother has always claimed she married an Italian so she would not have to spend the rest of her life making Irish food. Short of teaching me how to read and write I consider this to be the smartest move she's ever made.
It is worth noting further that I have been reliably informed by a number of sources who I consider quite trustworthy that the food at the Horse is excellent. I would not think for even a second to disparage the fare the DH provides, more that I am disparaging the entire genre to which it belongs, i.e. Irish/English cuisine, which by any reputable measure is absolutely repulsive. They say Scottish food is based on a dare; I would contend that Irish food is (or at least should be considered) a form of biological warfare and thus banned under the Geneva Protocol. That said, I have been repeatedly told that if one actually desires to take ones' life into ones' hands, the food at the Horse is a top-notch exemplar of Irish cuisine.
Of course, one year back when I was young my father got an unfortunate pang of nostalgia and asked my mother if we could do the traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve, which if you are not aware consists of seven different kinds of fish (aka, in typical Italian-American pidgin, "the Seven Fishes"). This was a poor choice on his part. This is not, I must add here, like the time a few years back my sister called us from her home in San Francisco on December 24 to tell us that her and her friends were "doing like we did way back in the day and eating the Seven Fishes," as she rattled off a menu consisting of lobster, crab, shrimp, mussels, oysters, sea bass, and scallops, leading to my comment "those aren't the Seven Fishes, those are seven things that live underwater, and five of them aren't even fucking fish."
It is worth noting yet again that - to my understanding - no one actually knows what the "official" Seven Fishes are supposed to be, so don't bother going to look them up, thinking I'm going to ask what they are tonight. I am not. If you sort of Rube Goldberg the Seven Fishes and construe it as seven Mediterranean fish that likely would have been part of a large dinner in actual Italy, well, you are in for one goddamn disgusting dinner. In terms of "worst Christmas ever" the year of the Seven Fishes ranks right up there with the year my dad - technological genius that he is - tried to book his and my mom's vacation plane tickets online and put them on a flight out on December 25 instead of 26 and we didn't even HAVE Christmas. If you really think about it I believe you'll come to the conclusion I did, that a smoking ruin of a Christmas is at least as bad (if not actually worse) than one where you eat eel.
On second thought, maybe the whole "reading and writing" thing was #1 after all.
Anyway, as far as the show goes, I am told the demand to see it amongst the legitimate theatre community is pretty hopping, so if you want to see it - and I sincerely hope you do, I would very much like everyone to - I would get back to me as soon as you can to make reservations. It's going to fill up fairly quickly. And the show is freaking awesome, which is always nice. Plus you get to eat and drink! (And drink, and drink, and drink...) What could be better than that?
(Hint: it's not seven different kinds of fish.)
JLK
Monday, August 20, 2007
Your Wildly Vacillating Quizo Update
I have railed against the weather numerous times in this space - previous instances of summer cold or winter heat or snow in April or whatever - and despite the fact that it is dark, cold, and raining in mid-August, the weather specifically is not what I'm shaking my fist at today. No, the problem is that for the last weekend life in general has taken this strange sort of erratic turn and, well, I tend to think my life was interesting enough beforehand.
One of the underlying causes of all of this is that the constant stress of obsessing about the horror show that my job has become is beginning to cause noticeable cracks in my psyche. This wouldn't be so bad were it not for the fact that it was pretty well cracked to begin with.
Things started well enough on Thursday night when I went to a book signing by William Gibson at the library. This was quite the big deal for me, bringing to 40% my completion rate for Meeting My Top Five Literary Idols - which is close to as impressive as it's going to get when one considers that meeting F. Scott Fitzgerald or William Shakespeare would require, respectively, some serious necromancy and some really, REALLY serious necromancy, and the fact David Mamet scares the shit out of me. (For the record, the other 20% that I successfully met was Neil Gaiman.)
The reading/signing thing was cool - he has aged an awful lot recently, but he's still sharp and funny, and when he signed my books he commented happily on how well-traveled my copy of Neuromancer was.
Then on the way home from the signing my car blew up.
This is only slightly an exaggeration. My car overheated fairly dramatically - the temperature gauge swinging back and forth over the redline, steam occasionally, but not constantly, billowing out from under the hood - and the next morning when I went to open the hood (it being too dark to see the engine at the time being, you know, night and all) there was coolant fluid pretty much everywhere, so it's a safe bet that SOMETHING with coolant in it, a hose of some sort I'm guessing, failed rather catastrophically while I was driving to the comic shop from the signing. I figure I was lucky to limp the car home. After consulting my finances and my personal feelings on the matter I determined that I am sick and fucking tired of spending money keeping this goddamn 16-year-old whoring sonofabitch car running. So, after my show is over I will be out and about on the market for a car.
Show, you say? Why yes! A show. Perhaps you've heard I produce shows. It's called Dealer's Choice. It is by Patrick Marber and it will be playing in the Restaurant at the pub opening on September 18. Originally we were going to be part of the Philly Fringe, but that is a gigantic pain in the ass to say the least, so we're not. Someone in my ridiculously talented cast - and here I do not exaggerate even the slightest little bit, this bunch is the most talented single group of actors I think I've ever seen in a show in this city, I don't know how in the HELL they're working for me - came up with the idea of calling our show the headliner of the "Philadelphia Binge Festival," and I liked it so much I decided to steal it. Tickets for the show are a scant $10, and if you get there early enough you also get to have dinner. So it's like going out for dinner and a show, only you're going to one place. Ask me for details. Website is up and ticket sales begin shortly.
Everyone remember the Medea references? Oh, that was nothing. Prepare to be besieged.
Anyway, a rental car later, me and some of my boys (and their moms and sisters, which was a little odd) were on our way to the Meadowlands on Saturday night to see the Los Angeles David Beckhams (nee Galaxy) play the New York Red Bulls. I wasn't sure what to expect from the experience necessarily, but two tailgates (totalling some 7 hours, both before and after the game), being pressganged into cooking for more than a hundred people at said tailgates, 66,000 fans in the stadium, spending the game next to several hundred Red Bulls supporters who can be charitably described as "completely insane" and NINE FUCKING GOALS! was certainly not it.
Sunday morning saw a big-time shock in the Manchester derby, and then something less of a shock as Chelsea and Liverpool played another spiteful, mean-spirited game that ended, mercifully, in a 1-1 draw, though I'm still convinced Chelsea left 2 points on the table there and could have won. The combination of the beginnings of cold and rain, the knowledge that I'd have to go to work 18 hours after, and the fact that we didn't beat the filthy Scouse put me in quite the pissy mood. Until I got home, at least, where after weeks of prodding I finally convinced my father to watch Hot Fuzz which - as I predicted - he loved, thus once again proving the age-old axiom "I am always right."
Then, just before bed, I pulled out my new William Gibson book to read before sleeping, and I noticed that one of my Top Five Literary Idols apparently inscribed all of my books "To Joan."
I don't even smoke anymore, but there aren't enough cigarettes in the goddamn world for this.
JLK
One of the underlying causes of all of this is that the constant stress of obsessing about the horror show that my job has become is beginning to cause noticeable cracks in my psyche. This wouldn't be so bad were it not for the fact that it was pretty well cracked to begin with.
Things started well enough on Thursday night when I went to a book signing by William Gibson at the library. This was quite the big deal for me, bringing to 40% my completion rate for Meeting My Top Five Literary Idols - which is close to as impressive as it's going to get when one considers that meeting F. Scott Fitzgerald or William Shakespeare would require, respectively, some serious necromancy and some really, REALLY serious necromancy, and the fact David Mamet scares the shit out of me. (For the record, the other 20% that I successfully met was Neil Gaiman.)
The reading/signing thing was cool - he has aged an awful lot recently, but he's still sharp and funny, and when he signed my books he commented happily on how well-traveled my copy of Neuromancer was.
Then on the way home from the signing my car blew up.
This is only slightly an exaggeration. My car overheated fairly dramatically - the temperature gauge swinging back and forth over the redline, steam occasionally, but not constantly, billowing out from under the hood - and the next morning when I went to open the hood (it being too dark to see the engine at the time being, you know, night and all) there was coolant fluid pretty much everywhere, so it's a safe bet that SOMETHING with coolant in it, a hose of some sort I'm guessing, failed rather catastrophically while I was driving to the comic shop from the signing. I figure I was lucky to limp the car home. After consulting my finances and my personal feelings on the matter I determined that I am sick and fucking tired of spending money keeping this goddamn 16-year-old whoring sonofabitch car running. So, after my show is over I will be out and about on the market for a car.
Show, you say? Why yes! A show. Perhaps you've heard I produce shows. It's called Dealer's Choice. It is by Patrick Marber and it will be playing in the Restaurant at the pub opening on September 18. Originally we were going to be part of the Philly Fringe, but that is a gigantic pain in the ass to say the least, so we're not. Someone in my ridiculously talented cast - and here I do not exaggerate even the slightest little bit, this bunch is the most talented single group of actors I think I've ever seen in a show in this city, I don't know how in the HELL they're working for me - came up with the idea of calling our show the headliner of the "Philadelphia Binge Festival," and I liked it so much I decided to steal it. Tickets for the show are a scant $10, and if you get there early enough you also get to have dinner. So it's like going out for dinner and a show, only you're going to one place. Ask me for details. Website is up and ticket sales begin shortly.
Everyone remember the Medea references? Oh, that was nothing. Prepare to be besieged.
Anyway, a rental car later, me and some of my boys (and their moms and sisters, which was a little odd) were on our way to the Meadowlands on Saturday night to see the Los Angeles David Beckhams (nee Galaxy) play the New York Red Bulls. I wasn't sure what to expect from the experience necessarily, but two tailgates (totalling some 7 hours, both before and after the game), being pressganged into cooking for more than a hundred people at said tailgates, 66,000 fans in the stadium, spending the game next to several hundred Red Bulls supporters who can be charitably described as "completely insane" and NINE FUCKING GOALS! was certainly not it.
Sunday morning saw a big-time shock in the Manchester derby, and then something less of a shock as Chelsea and Liverpool played another spiteful, mean-spirited game that ended, mercifully, in a 1-1 draw, though I'm still convinced Chelsea left 2 points on the table there and could have won. The combination of the beginnings of cold and rain, the knowledge that I'd have to go to work 18 hours after, and the fact that we didn't beat the filthy Scouse put me in quite the pissy mood. Until I got home, at least, where after weeks of prodding I finally convinced my father to watch Hot Fuzz which - as I predicted - he loved, thus once again proving the age-old axiom "I am always right."
Then, just before bed, I pulled out my new William Gibson book to read before sleeping, and I noticed that one of my Top Five Literary Idols apparently inscribed all of my books "To Joan."
I don't even smoke anymore, but there aren't enough cigarettes in the goddamn world for this.
JLK
Monday, February 12, 2007
Your "If You Build It, He Will Come" Quizo Update
Normally, once I'm done with a show (Medea - you may have heard about it) I like to take something of a mini-vacation to unwind. I couldn't do so last weekend because of Quizo Bowl 3 and the Rex Grossman Is the Worst Quarterback in the History of Everything Bowl, but I finally got my chance this past weekend, and oh what a vacation it was.
I slept. I watched season 2 of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I played Guitar Hero.
That's pretty much it.
It was very restful
I got back sometime last night and was subjected to trying to watch television with my dad. In the past this has been... I would say "trying" experience but that doesn't quite cover it. "Excruciating" experience is a bit closer but still comes well short of the mark. Let's see what thesaurus.com can give me:
"acute, agonizing, burning, chastening, consuming, exquisite, extreme, grueling, harrowing, insufferable, intense, piercing, punishing, racking, rending, searing, severe, sharp, shooting, stabbing, tearing, tormenting, torturesome, torturing, torturous, unbearable, unendurable, violent"
Hmm... agonizing is good. Dunno about rending or stabbing necessarily, I don't think it ever actually broke the skin. Ooh, punishing, torturesome and unendurable, now THOSE are good.
So, as I was saying, for the longest time watching TV with my dad was punishing, torturesome (which GMail's spell check insists is not actually a word) and unendurable. He's one of those people who will constantly barrage (assail, bombard, batter, beset, beseige, ooh, cannonade) you with the most annoying questions while you're trying to watch something. "Who's that guy?" "What are they doing here?" "Is that guy somebody?" "What's going on?" "Now who's THAT guy?" "Why is that guy talking to that other guy?" "What are they talking about?"
And so forth.
This would go on the entire length of what you were watching, making actually viewing something almost impossible. At first I would remain calm and say "just watch the show, Dad" but he would never let up until a point a few months ago when I was trying to watch Lost and he started in on it and I finally just shouted "I WILL KILL YOU WITH THE FUCKING PLAYSTATION IF YOU DON'T STOP DOING THAT."
Now, at least, the questions have considerably lessened in output and have become somewhat relevant (accordant, applicatory, appurtenant, conformant... are those WORDS?) and, on occasion, can actually produce an amusing (agreeable, cheerful, comical, gladdening... gladdening? what the fuck is "gladdening?" I swear thesaurus.com is just screwing with me now) exchange. Take this from last night's Galactica:
Dad: Why does that guy have an eyepatch?
Me: The Cylons took his eye from him.
Dad: When did they do that?
Me: Uh.. for a while there the people were on this planet and they were, uh, occupied by the Cylons... it was kind of an Iraq allegory thing -
Dad: Eyepatch Dude is kind of a jerk.
Me: Yeah, well, he's still kinda pissy about killing his wife.
Dad: He killed his wife? Why?
Me: Well, er, when he was in prison his wife collaborated with the Cylons to help him out. And then when he found out about it he killed her.
Dad: Why are they acting like he's so important? I've never seen him before.
Me: He's the XO of the ship, Dad, he's been around the whole time.
Dad: Even before the Cylons took his eye?
Me: Yes, before that.
Dad: These people all seem really upset all the time.
Me: Life on Battlestar Galactica is not pleasant, no.
(we watch in blissful silence for a few seconds)
Dad: Wait, I thought Cylons were robots.
Me: They are robots.
Dad: But they just called that chick a Cylon.
Me: She is a Cylon.
Dad: You just said Cylons were robots.
Me: They... well, they ARE robots. Most of them. But some of them are robots who look like people.
Dad: Robots that look like people.
Me: Yes.
Dad: Where did that guy come from? The one the other chick is talking to. Is she a robot who looks like a person?
Me: Yeah, she's a robot... the guy... okay, see, he's a real person, and you thought he was crazy cause he talks to this vision of that blonde chick that only he can see, but then you found out later that one version of the blonde robot chick actually sees HIM in her head, and so that's pretty cool. So that's not really him, okay, that's just the vision of him in her head that only that specific robot can see. Because, you see, there's lots of copies of each KIND of robot, but only that ONE copy can see the guy in her head, so -
Dad: I'm going to bed.
All these years of frustration (annoyance, contravention, dissatisfaction, impediment ) and all I had to do to get him to shut up was to answer his questions.
JLK
I slept. I watched season 2 of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I played Guitar Hero.
That's pretty much it.
It was very restful
I got back sometime last night and was subjected to trying to watch television with my dad. In the past this has been... I would say "trying" experience but that doesn't quite cover it. "Excruciating" experience is a bit closer but still comes well short of the mark. Let's see what thesaurus.com can give me:
"acute, agonizing, burning, chastening, consuming, exquisite, extreme, grueling, harrowing, insufferable, intense, piercing, punishing, racking, rending, searing, severe, sharp, shooting, stabbing, tearing, tormenting, torturesome, torturing, torturous, unbearable, unendurable, violent"
Hmm... agonizing is good. Dunno about rending or stabbing necessarily, I don't think it ever actually broke the skin. Ooh, punishing, torturesome and unendurable, now THOSE are good.
So, as I was saying, for the longest time watching TV with my dad was punishing, torturesome (which GMail's spell check insists is not actually a word) and unendurable. He's one of those people who will constantly barrage (assail, bombard, batter, beset, beseige, ooh, cannonade) you with the most annoying questions while you're trying to watch something. "Who's that guy?" "What are they doing here?" "Is that guy somebody?" "What's going on?" "Now who's THAT guy?" "Why is that guy talking to that other guy?" "What are they talking about?"
And so forth.
This would go on the entire length of what you were watching, making actually viewing something almost impossible. At first I would remain calm and say "just watch the show, Dad" but he would never let up until a point a few months ago when I was trying to watch Lost and he started in on it and I finally just shouted "I WILL KILL YOU WITH THE FUCKING PLAYSTATION IF YOU DON'T STOP DOING THAT."
Now, at least, the questions have considerably lessened in output and have become somewhat relevant (accordant, applicatory, appurtenant, conformant... are those WORDS?) and, on occasion, can actually produce an amusing (agreeable, cheerful, comical, gladdening... gladdening? what the fuck is "gladdening?" I swear thesaurus.com is just screwing with me now) exchange. Take this from last night's Galactica:
Dad: Why does that guy have an eyepatch?
Me: The Cylons took his eye from him.
Dad: When did they do that?
Me: Uh.. for a while there the people were on this planet and they were, uh, occupied by the Cylons... it was kind of an Iraq allegory thing -
Dad: Eyepatch Dude is kind of a jerk.
Me: Yeah, well, he's still kinda pissy about killing his wife.
Dad: He killed his wife? Why?
Me: Well, er, when he was in prison his wife collaborated with the Cylons to help him out. And then when he found out about it he killed her.
Dad: Why are they acting like he's so important? I've never seen him before.
Me: He's the XO of the ship, Dad, he's been around the whole time.
Dad: Even before the Cylons took his eye?
Me: Yes, before that.
Dad: These people all seem really upset all the time.
Me: Life on Battlestar Galactica is not pleasant, no.
(we watch in blissful silence for a few seconds)
Dad: Wait, I thought Cylons were robots.
Me: They are robots.
Dad: But they just called that chick a Cylon.
Me: She is a Cylon.
Dad: You just said Cylons were robots.
Me: They... well, they ARE robots. Most of them. But some of them are robots who look like people.
Dad: Robots that look like people.
Me: Yes.
Dad: Where did that guy come from? The one the other chick is talking to. Is she a robot who looks like a person?
Me: Yeah, she's a robot... the guy... okay, see, he's a real person, and you thought he was crazy cause he talks to this vision of that blonde chick that only he can see, but then you found out later that one version of the blonde robot chick actually sees HIM in her head, and so that's pretty cool. So that's not really him, okay, that's just the vision of him in her head that only that specific robot can see. Because, you see, there's lots of copies of each KIND of robot, but only that ONE copy can see the guy in her head, so -
Dad: I'm going to bed.
All these years of frustration (annoyance, contravention, dissatisfaction, impediment ) and all I had to do to get him to shut up was to answer his questions.
JLK
Monday, January 22, 2007
Your "Life is Once Again Pain" Quizo Update
If anyone is keeping track of such things - and I severely doubt that anyone is - you may recall a Quizo update from about a year ago (February 27, to be precise) which occurred after I spent an entire weekend moving out of my old apartment and moving a bunch of furniture out of my old office. This, as you may recall, led to a significant amount of physical pain and the infamous "pain" speed round.
Well, folks, we're back there again. And, let me remind you, pain can take on many forms.
First we have the sort of pain caused by seeing something so strange, so odd, so unbelievably weird that you get that tickle in the back of your brain that you realize is your actual consciousness writhing in agony.
Saturday night, upon returning from the theatre, I found an instant message waiting for me on my computer. Now normally I am very good about putting up an away message so that people think I am not just ignoring them when I am unable to receive one of the many thousands of IMs I get on a daily basis. This one said:
"Is this John?"
I looked at that and realized that the only way someone could have actually GOTTEN my IM is if I gave it to them or they read it on the Quizo website, which is essentially the same thing as me giving it to them. OBVIOUSLY, yes, this is me. Who else could it be? Let's look at my IM for a second: "LSUKozemp." It's been that for almost ten years. There are only something like 25 people named Kozempel in THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES, and as far as I know I am the only one who went to LaSalle, and I am for damn sure the only one who a) is, in fact, me and b) tells people "my IM is LSUKozemp." At that point I am seriously starting to worry that someone is out there who not only managed to obtain (through whatever means) my IM but for some deranged reason thinks that SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME WOULD BE USING IT.
Put another way: did one of you IM me this weekend? If so, I was at the theatre. Sorry. Leave a name next time.
Speaking of theatre, this week is your last chance to see Medea, playing at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, tickets $20, box office 215-563-4330 or www.prosfromdovertheatre.com. And that's the last time we'll hear about that.
There was also emotional pain this weekend, though thankfully it was all sports-related and thus reasonably minor. Chelsea lost to Liverpool on Saturday morning, which - though painful - was made considerably easier by the fact that the 7:30AM starting time meant that there were reasonably few Scousers at the pub and those who were there were, frankly, surprisingly well-behaved.
Then, on Sunday afternoon while watching the conference championships, we had two little muddles. First, the Chicago Bears' embrace of a cold weather running offense means I was denied one of the greatest pleasures of the NFL, i.e. watching Rex Grossman - aka "Sexy Rexy," aka "Rextasy," aka "The Sex Cannon" - throw interception after interception and generally be the worst, most hideously overrated and undertalented quarterback the NFL has to offer. That displeased me greatly. There are few things more entertaining than watching Sexy Rexy completely self-destruct.
Then, of course, came the AFC Championship. After a first half in which it seemed that Bill Belichek and Tom Brady's Faustian bargain was going to come through big-time once again, Peyton and the Colts fought back to take the lead.
The situation, then, is that the Patriots have the ball on the 20, with 54 seconds left, down 4 points.
I said to my father at this point, "well, clearly, the Patriots are going to win."
Note well the fact that Tom Brady - who I am largely ambivalent towards but hate his fans with unbridled passion - has engineered an astonishing SIX game-winning drives in the postseason. Tom Brady, in that respect, is the Jack Bauer of the NFL. 4 down, minute to go, 80 yards - yeah, he's got them right where he wants them.
Then he threw an interception and... and... it suddenly became clear that something is dreadfully WRONG with the world. Hence more emotional pain.
And, on a final and physical pain note, yesterday morning I was awoken by an incredible, earth-shattering pain in my left leg which has since been determined to be a cramp. I maintain that if this is a cramp it is no ordinary cramp, but the Mayor of Cramp City in Cramp County in the United States of Crampia on Planet Cramp in the Cramp Galaxy. I mean, fucking OW. It still hurts. This is why I may still be walking with a cane tonight, because there is a good chance I will be unable to fully flex my left leg. But, hey, House teaches us that leg pain and cane usage is an excuse to be cruel and aloof and not give a damn about other people's feelings.
So, well, at least now I have an excuse. Thanks, House!
JLK
Well, folks, we're back there again. And, let me remind you, pain can take on many forms.
First we have the sort of pain caused by seeing something so strange, so odd, so unbelievably weird that you get that tickle in the back of your brain that you realize is your actual consciousness writhing in agony.
Saturday night, upon returning from the theatre, I found an instant message waiting for me on my computer. Now normally I am very good about putting up an away message so that people think I am not just ignoring them when I am unable to receive one of the many thousands of IMs I get on a daily basis. This one said:
"Is this John?"
I looked at that and realized that the only way someone could have actually GOTTEN my IM is if I gave it to them or they read it on the Quizo website, which is essentially the same thing as me giving it to them. OBVIOUSLY, yes, this is me. Who else could it be? Let's look at my IM for a second: "LSUKozemp." It's been that for almost ten years. There are only something like 25 people named Kozempel in THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES, and as far as I know I am the only one who went to LaSalle, and I am for damn sure the only one who a) is, in fact, me and b) tells people "my IM is LSUKozemp." At that point I am seriously starting to worry that someone is out there who not only managed to obtain (through whatever means) my IM but for some deranged reason thinks that SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME WOULD BE USING IT.
Put another way: did one of you IM me this weekend? If so, I was at the theatre. Sorry. Leave a name next time.
Speaking of theatre, this week is your last chance to see Medea, playing at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, tickets $20, box office 215-563-4330 or www.prosfromdovertheatre.com. And that's the last time we'll hear about that.
There was also emotional pain this weekend, though thankfully it was all sports-related and thus reasonably minor. Chelsea lost to Liverpool on Saturday morning, which - though painful - was made considerably easier by the fact that the 7:30AM starting time meant that there were reasonably few Scousers at the pub and those who were there were, frankly, surprisingly well-behaved.
Then, on Sunday afternoon while watching the conference championships, we had two little muddles. First, the Chicago Bears' embrace of a cold weather running offense means I was denied one of the greatest pleasures of the NFL, i.e. watching Rex Grossman - aka "Sexy Rexy," aka "Rextasy," aka "The Sex Cannon" - throw interception after interception and generally be the worst, most hideously overrated and undertalented quarterback the NFL has to offer. That displeased me greatly. There are few things more entertaining than watching Sexy Rexy completely self-destruct.
Then, of course, came the AFC Championship. After a first half in which it seemed that Bill Belichek and Tom Brady's Faustian bargain was going to come through big-time once again, Peyton and the Colts fought back to take the lead.
The situation, then, is that the Patriots have the ball on the 20, with 54 seconds left, down 4 points.
I said to my father at this point, "well, clearly, the Patriots are going to win."
Note well the fact that Tom Brady - who I am largely ambivalent towards but hate his fans with unbridled passion - has engineered an astonishing SIX game-winning drives in the postseason. Tom Brady, in that respect, is the Jack Bauer of the NFL. 4 down, minute to go, 80 yards - yeah, he's got them right where he wants them.
Then he threw an interception and... and... it suddenly became clear that something is dreadfully WRONG with the world. Hence more emotional pain.
And, on a final and physical pain note, yesterday morning I was awoken by an incredible, earth-shattering pain in my left leg which has since been determined to be a cramp. I maintain that if this is a cramp it is no ordinary cramp, but the Mayor of Cramp City in Cramp County in the United States of Crampia on Planet Cramp in the Cramp Galaxy. I mean, fucking OW. It still hurts. This is why I may still be walking with a cane tonight, because there is a good chance I will be unable to fully flex my left leg. But, hey, House teaches us that leg pain and cane usage is an excuse to be cruel and aloof and not give a damn about other people's feelings.
So, well, at least now I have an excuse. Thanks, House!
JLK
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Your Sports Bar Non-Quizo Non-Update
I have a question for all the good Quizo folk.
As you may or may not have heard, my production of Medea is currently up and running at the Second Stage, 2030 Sansom. Tickets, as you may or may not have heard, are $20. As you may or may not know, said tickets can be gotten at the box office at 215-563-4330 or at our website at www.prosfromdovertheatre.com.
That's not why we're here today, though.
As we all certainly know, the Eagles are playing on Saturday night at the same time my show - Medea, perhaps you've heard of it - is running. Now I will be able to catch most of the first half while the show is running, but I have some people coming and we will want to watch the remainder of the game after the show ends.
I've been trying to come up with a place near the theatre to watch the game, but the only option I can think of is the Irish Pub, and after watching the NFC Championship there two years ago suffice it to say that is not an experience I want to repeat.
So, if anyone knows a good place to watch your garish American football in the general vicinity of 20th and Sansom, or within a short walk/cab ride from there, please let me know. I realize that almost anyplace with decent televisions is probably going to be pure insanity, but if we know someplace that isn't definitely put that at the top of the list.
Many thanks.
JLK
As you may or may not have heard, my production of Medea is currently up and running at the Second Stage, 2030 Sansom. Tickets, as you may or may not have heard, are $20. As you may or may not know, said tickets can be gotten at the box office at 215-563-4330 or at our website at www.prosfromdovertheatre.com.
That's not why we're here today, though.
As we all certainly know, the Eagles are playing on Saturday night at the same time my show - Medea, perhaps you've heard of it - is running. Now I will be able to catch most of the first half while the show is running, but I have some people coming and we will want to watch the remainder of the game after the show ends.
I've been trying to come up with a place near the theatre to watch the game, but the only option I can think of is the Irish Pub, and after watching the NFC Championship there two years ago suffice it to say that is not an experience I want to repeat.
So, if anyone knows a good place to watch your garish American football in the general vicinity of 20th and Sansom, or within a short walk/cab ride from there, please let me know. I realize that almost anyplace with decent televisions is probably going to be pure insanity, but if we know someplace that isn't definitely put that at the top of the list.
Many thanks.
JLK
Monday, January 08, 2007
Your "Good News, Bad News" Quizo Update
Okay, the goddamned "f" key on my keyboard here at work isn't functioning properly - you really have to stab at it quite forcefully to make it work - so if it occasionally gets dropped please bear with me. Also bear with me while I try to compose an e-mail while avoiding the letter "f."
Are we all glad to be back? After a terribly long break for the holidays - which a quick OCD glance at my calendar reveals we'll have again this year - we are back in the Quizo swing of things tonight. And, in the spirit of the soon-ending holiday season, my gift to you is this: there is only one "clue" in this e-mail, and it's pretty simple. So don't wrack your brains. Enjoy.
Last night I was watching the Eagles at my friend Mike's house, and we are (literally, all of us) sitting on the edge of the couch as the Eagles line up a field goal with three seconds to go. After Eli Manning basically stopped being Eli Manning in the fourth quarter ( i.e. started regularly throwing the ball to his own team) and the New York Football Giants had clawed their way back into a game they had no right being in in the first place, it had come down to this.
My thought process while David Akers and Koy Detmer line up the kick:
"Well... if they win, that's a win in a playoff game. But if they win that also means that there will be a game during my show next Saturday night. A loss wouldn't be so bad. I'd get a good house on Saturday night. But I'd feel bad about it because the Eagles had to lose to get it. And no one wants to lose playoff games. And oh, god, on a field goal at the end. What if what happened last night happens here? Koy's better than that punk-ass in Dallas, no worries there. No blown snap here, no sir, not our Koy. I want the Eagles to win, but I want people to see the show on Saturday night..."
Then the kick went up and split the uprights, and my thought process became this:
"YEAH! Fuck. OH YEAH! Fuuuuuuuuuck . YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHH! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
I was terribly conflicted about this whole thing until I realized that I know someone who lives quite literally around the corner from the theatre, so at worst I will miss the very beginning of the game (when the show starts) and a little bit near halftime (when I have to open the doors after the show ends.) So I still get to see the game, and my thinking is that there probably isn't TOO much overlap between the Eagles and Ancient Greek Drama fanbases, so I should still get a decent house for the show.
By the way, Chrissy, I'll be watching the Eagles game at your house on Saturday night.
Oh, and by now this should go without saying: Medea, opening THIS WEDNESDAY! at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom Street, tickets $20. How to get tickets, you ask? There are two ways. The first is by calling the box office at 215-563-4330 and leaving a message. The second is by going to our website, at:
http://www.prosfromdovertheatre.com
I strongly recommend the website. The voicemail fills up very quickly and, frankly, I'm just too goddamned lazy to check it that often. Surely we all know this by now.
Plus it's got hot chicks with knives, what else do you want from the theatre?
(Please don't ask what she does with the knives.)
JLK
Are we all glad to be back? After a terribly long break for the holidays - which a quick OCD glance at my calendar reveals we'll have again this year - we are back in the Quizo swing of things tonight. And, in the spirit of the soon-ending holiday season, my gift to you is this: there is only one "clue" in this e-mail, and it's pretty simple. So don't wrack your brains. Enjoy.
Last night I was watching the Eagles at my friend Mike's house, and we are (literally, all of us) sitting on the edge of the couch as the Eagles line up a field goal with three seconds to go. After Eli Manning basically stopped being Eli Manning in the fourth quarter ( i.e. started regularly throwing the ball to his own team) and the New York Football Giants had clawed their way back into a game they had no right being in in the first place, it had come down to this.
My thought process while David Akers and Koy Detmer line up the kick:
"Well... if they win, that's a win in a playoff game. But if they win that also means that there will be a game during my show next Saturday night. A loss wouldn't be so bad. I'd get a good house on Saturday night. But I'd feel bad about it because the Eagles had to lose to get it. And no one wants to lose playoff games. And oh, god, on a field goal at the end. What if what happened last night happens here? Koy's better than that punk-ass in Dallas, no worries there. No blown snap here, no sir, not our Koy. I want the Eagles to win, but I want people to see the show on Saturday night..."
Then the kick went up and split the uprights, and my thought process became this:
"YEAH! Fuck. OH YEAH! Fuuuuuuuuuck . YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHH! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
I was terribly conflicted about this whole thing until I realized that I know someone who lives quite literally around the corner from the theatre, so at worst I will miss the very beginning of the game (when the show starts) and a little bit near halftime (when I have to open the doors after the show ends.) So I still get to see the game, and my thinking is that there probably isn't TOO much overlap between the Eagles and Ancient Greek Drama fanbases, so I should still get a decent house for the show.
By the way, Chrissy, I'll be watching the Eagles game at your house on Saturday night.
Oh, and by now this should go without saying: Medea, opening THIS WEDNESDAY! at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom Street, tickets $20. How to get tickets, you ask? There are two ways. The first is by calling the box office at 215-563-4330 and leaving a message. The second is by going to our website, at:
http://www.prosfromdovertheatre.com
I strongly recommend the website. The voicemail fills up very quickly and, frankly, I'm just too goddamned lazy to check it that often. Surely we all know this by now.
Plus it's got hot chicks with knives, what else do you want from the theatre?
(Please don't ask what she does with the knives.)
JLK
Monday, December 18, 2006
Your "Deck The Halls... oh, God DAMMIT!" Quizo Update
Quizo - and here I mean the actual physical sheets of paper which I carry around with me on Monday nights - is obviously generated on a computer. Now over the almost 2 years we've been doing this it's been generated on a number of different computers, but I have tried to be conscientious about keeping everything in one place in the end, between home PCs and work PCs and work laptops and the office in the DH and whatnot. That's one of those things that GMail is great at.
When I had to return my old work laptop this summer I made certain that I got all the files I'd created on it that were mine - stuff for the theatre, personal things, and Quizos - into a zipfile which I then sent myself. This was back in... what was it? July? July.
Flash forward, if you will, to last week, and me telling everyone that tonight would be the return of Special Holiday Quizo. Everyone seemed pleased to hear that. Believe me when I tell you that none of you were as pleased as I was, since doing Special Holiday Quizo meant I could simply re-use last year's well-received Holiday edition, and the thought of Monday when I don't have to race home at the speed of light and spend my precious few hours of free time banging out trivia questions makes me positively giddy.
(Note that last year's Holiday Edition was won by Delicious Bass, who are now in something of a rebuilding phase. One of their team members moved out of town almost immediately after seeing the last play I produced. For a little while I thought I had offended him so badly - what with the murder of the baby and all - that I'd driven him away. Turns out he just got a new job. But if he had actually been shocked at killing ONE baby imagine what he'd think of Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20.)
(I nominate that for Best-Yet-Most-Circuitous Medea reference ever. Can I cook or can't I?)
So anyway, this morning I wake up, and before I go to work I sit down to find the Christmas Quizo amongst my many files and see if I had to update any of the questions.
Hmm... it doesn't seem to be here. That's odd. Oh well - when I get to work I'll go through GMail and find the copy of it there.
At work - browsing GMail - not there.
I am starting to seriously worry that I may have to do actual work at some point today.
I start going through every place I have so much as shed a digital skin cell in the last year. Home computer - nothing. Remote storage sites - nothing. Old e-mails, several accounts worth - nothing.
I have Quizos for every week for the last year and a half EXCEPT the Christmas edition.
It's the only one I don't have a copy of any more.
The ONLY ONE.
The odds against this happening are so high as to be mathematically disharmonious. I check everywhere again in the desperate hope that I have made a mistake, which in and of itself is exceedingly unlikely.
It's not anywhere.
I have to make it all over again.
Merry fucking Christmas.
JLK
When I had to return my old work laptop this summer I made certain that I got all the files I'd created on it that were mine - stuff for the theatre, personal things, and Quizos - into a zipfile which I then sent myself. This was back in... what was it? July? July.
Flash forward, if you will, to last week, and me telling everyone that tonight would be the return of Special Holiday Quizo. Everyone seemed pleased to hear that. Believe me when I tell you that none of you were as pleased as I was, since doing Special Holiday Quizo meant I could simply re-use last year's well-received Holiday edition, and the thought of Monday when I don't have to race home at the speed of light and spend my precious few hours of free time banging out trivia questions makes me positively giddy.
(Note that last year's Holiday Edition was won by Delicious Bass, who are now in something of a rebuilding phase. One of their team members moved out of town almost immediately after seeing the last play I produced. For a little while I thought I had offended him so badly - what with the murder of the baby and all - that I'd driven him away. Turns out he just got a new job. But if he had actually been shocked at killing ONE baby imagine what he'd think of Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20.)
(I nominate that for Best-Yet-Most-Circuitous Medea reference ever. Can I cook or can't I?)
So anyway, this morning I wake up, and before I go to work I sit down to find the Christmas Quizo amongst my many files and see if I had to update any of the questions.
Hmm... it doesn't seem to be here. That's odd. Oh well - when I get to work I'll go through GMail and find the copy of it there.
At work - browsing GMail - not there.
I am starting to seriously worry that I may have to do actual work at some point today.
I start going through every place I have so much as shed a digital skin cell in the last year. Home computer - nothing. Remote storage sites - nothing. Old e-mails, several accounts worth - nothing.
I have Quizos for every week for the last year and a half EXCEPT the Christmas edition.
It's the only one I don't have a copy of any more.
The ONLY ONE.
The odds against this happening are so high as to be mathematically disharmonious. I check everywhere again in the desperate hope that I have made a mistake, which in and of itself is exceedingly unlikely.
It's not anywhere.
I have to make it all over again.
Merry fucking Christmas.
JLK
Monday, December 11, 2006
Your 16 Unanswered Points Quizo Update
They say in football - in your garish American football, that is - that defense wins championships.
If this is the case than the Eagles are farther away from winning the Super Bowl than they ever have been since the team's founding, since as near as I can figure the Birds have the worst defense in the history of sports. You heard it here, folks, and I'm standing by it: worst defense in 3000 years. The freaking mascot could cover his defensive assignments better than the first team does now. And he could probably play linebacker as well, which isn't really a case of playing the position "better" since the Eagles apparently have abandoned the idea of even HAVING linebackers at all.
Yesterday DID see what will go down as one of, if not THE Premiership goal of the season in Chelsea's 1-1 draw with Arsenal, which for my money was also the single best "real football" game of the year so far. 90 terribly entertaining minutes, although towards the end Dr. Matt (of previous runaway winners I Did Zidane's Sister) and I argued over the commentators' use of the word "absorbing" to describe the action as I thought that unfairly likened the game to a paper towel.
So as sports days go yesterday ended up 50/50 on the good/bad scale - I can't rate the Eagles' win as "good" since the defense makes me want to, like, ritually cut myself. Like the guy in the new Stephen King book, which I am still 200 pages from the end of. This theatre thing (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) really eats into my books-and-video-games time. Don't even get me started on the fact that I have three unwatched episodes of Grey's Anatomy on the DVR.
You thought I wouldn't work the Medea (opening January 11) reference in there (Second Stage, 2030 Sansom) this week? For shame (tickets $20).
JLK
If this is the case than the Eagles are farther away from winning the Super Bowl than they ever have been since the team's founding, since as near as I can figure the Birds have the worst defense in the history of sports. You heard it here, folks, and I'm standing by it: worst defense in 3000 years. The freaking mascot could cover his defensive assignments better than the first team does now. And he could probably play linebacker as well, which isn't really a case of playing the position "better" since the Eagles apparently have abandoned the idea of even HAVING linebackers at all.
Yesterday DID see what will go down as one of, if not THE Premiership goal of the season in Chelsea's 1-1 draw with Arsenal, which for my money was also the single best "real football" game of the year so far. 90 terribly entertaining minutes, although towards the end Dr. Matt (of previous runaway winners I Did Zidane's Sister) and I argued over the commentators' use of the word "absorbing" to describe the action as I thought that unfairly likened the game to a paper towel.
So as sports days go yesterday ended up 50/50 on the good/bad scale - I can't rate the Eagles' win as "good" since the defense makes me want to, like, ritually cut myself. Like the guy in the new Stephen King book, which I am still 200 pages from the end of. This theatre thing (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) really eats into my books-and-video-games time. Don't even get me started on the fact that I have three unwatched episodes of Grey's Anatomy on the DVR.
You thought I wouldn't work the Medea (opening January 11) reference in there (Second Stage, 2030 Sansom) this week? For shame (tickets $20).
JLK
Monday, November 27, 2006
Your "A Tale of Two Weekends" Quizo Update
A friend of mine is fond of saying "a plan is just a list of things that don't happen."
Note to self: screw you, friends.
As I was laying the groundwork for it, my weekend was supposed to look something like this-
Friday: Sleep late. Sit around. Have lunch with friend in from Miami. Go to comic shop and get 1 or 2 books. Drive to Harrah's, play poker, try to not lose.
Saturday: Sleep late. Go to fully-booked 4-hour audition for Medea (opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Be blown away by one person who is so much better than everyone else for each part that show casts itself. Go directly home immediately thereafter, have people over, play Guitar Hero II.
Sunday: Wake up early, go to Dark Horse. Watch Chelsea beat Manchester United. Go home, sit around, play more Guitar Hero II. Watch Eagles lose to Colts, hopefully not horribly.
As it happened, the weekend actually looked more like this –
Friday: Sleep way too late. Wake up far too late to have lunch. Realize upon waking that I am planning to go to a comic shop across the street from Willow Grove Mall on Black Friday. Curse own stupidity. Brave insane holiday traffic. Go to comic shop and leave with bag weighing approximately 74 pounds (Absolute New Frontier… how I love thee…). Get home. Hurt elbow carrying absurdly heavy comic shop bag out of car. Go to Harrah's. Not only lose, but watch friend who drove me down there win $500. Proceed to lose $40 on Price is Right nickel slot machines. Watch friend win another $300 on selfsame slot machine. Contemplate suicide.
Saturday: Oversleep again. Wake up to find that 8 actors have cancelled their audition – 5 thought it was the day before, 2 forgot that they were already in something the same weeks as my show (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Consider feasibility of genetically engineering plague to kill all actors (note to self: consult Dr. Chill about collaborating). Go to bar to pick up keys to theatre. Listen to Max tell me why he, an high school soccer player/bar back with no theatre training, should be allowed to audition for my show (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Seriously consider killing Max, possibly with aforementioned plague. Go to theatre. Have way too many good people show up and realize show will not cast itself. Spend two hours arguing with managing director over who to call back. Get call that other friend is in from Egypt for one night only, wants to go out for drinks. Cancel plans for Guitar Hero II. Go to parking garage to find that they have lost my car keys. Have managing director drive me all the way home to get spare car keys. Meet friend in from Egypt at obscenely crowded jerkoff bar that charges me $2 for every ginger ale I drink. Contemplate murder-suicide.
Sunday: Inexplicably wake up too early. Tired from not getting enough sleep. Show up at Dark Horse a solid hour before game starts to find no seats. Find pub full of Manchester United fans I've never seen before. Consider fact that United fans who only show up for big games should be shot, or possibly plagued. Sit uncomfortably in very crowded bar. Watch Chelsea not beat Manchester United. Develop screaming migraine on way to car after watching Chelsea not beat Manchester United. Upon arrival at home headache prevents further playing of Guitar Hero II. Take migraine medication, cease caring about anything for about 4 hours (Darvocet... how I love thee...). Return to reality. Curse selfsame reality. Friend offers me Eagles and a ridiculous 15 points. Take ridiculous point spread. Watch Eagles lose by 24. Headache returns when game ends. Contemplate suicide bombing.
And my birthday is on Thursday.
Yay.
This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
(Or, as that friend of mine from Miami is fond of saying, "actually, John, I'm pretty sure it's ending much faster than that.")
JLK
Monday, November 20, 2006
Your "I'm Melting! I'm Melting!" Quizo Update
A WHOLE lot of things to get to this week, so let's get started.
Thing the first: let me quote, for a moment, the comic genius of Leonardo Leonardo from the abortive Clerks cartoon series when he told the Prime Minister of Canada: "NO! It's not evil spirits, it's just RAIN." Our attendance last week can only be described as piss-poor, which I must assume can be attributed to the fact that we had some weather. Trust me, folks, it won't hurt you. You can come to Quizo in the rain. No ill will befall you. Unless, of course, you are some manner of international superspy a la James Bond, in which case Dr. Chill may take offense and would attempt to befall some ill upon you. That strikes me as unlikely, however.
Thing the second: speaking of James Bond, I saw Casino Royale this past weekend. It is outstanding. I highly recommend it. I don't recommend it as much as Superman Returns, but still rather highly. Daniel Craig proves that ugly is the new not-ugly, and for the first time in the 21-movie series Bond points out the fact that martinis (vodka martinis especially) pretty much taste like lighter fluid no matter how you make them. And not the good tasting lighter fluid either, the really disgusting kind that kinda tastes like a martini. Note well that there will be... perhaps not a preponderance, but slightly less than a preponderance of Bond questions this week, because I really like James Bond movies and I really REALLY liked Casino Royale.
Thing the third: Thanks to Democrats finally getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate two weeks ago, my theatre company's plans to produce Sam Shepard's "The God of Hell" - a play about the importance of Democrats getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate - have had to be altered somewhat by the fact that we were in possession of a play written 18 months ago that is now dated and irrelevant. Instead we are now producing Euripides' "Medea," which (as near as I can figure after extensive research) has never been performed in Philadelphia. (Opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) So I essentially have the Philly premiere of a play written 2500 years ago. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.
Thing the fourth: We put up our audition notice this weekend, and now the inbox for my theatre company has been flooded with headshots and resumes. Medea (opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) is a 20-something woman, so I have spent all morning going over pictures of gorgeous actresses, deciding which ones I want to consider spending the next ten weeks with. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.
Thing the fifth: Someone needs to inform the Eagles that the NFL season is, in fact, 16 games long, and not 10. This will be the second year in a row where thanks to injuries the latter half of the season is essentially useless, which if nothing else makes scheduling rehearsals on Sunday afternoons in December and August a lot easier for me. We had a serious problem with our first show when we had performances on nights when the Eagles were in playoff games. As it was last year, this does not look to be a problem this time around (Medea, opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Come on, lottery pick! Oh, wait, wrong league.
Thing the sixth: My birthday is next week. Next Thursday, to be precise. My last birthday in my 20s. Just letting you know.
See everyone tonight.
JLK
Thing the first: let me quote, for a moment, the comic genius of Leonardo Leonardo from the abortive Clerks cartoon series when he told the Prime Minister of Canada: "NO! It's not evil spirits, it's just RAIN." Our attendance last week can only be described as piss-poor, which I must assume can be attributed to the fact that we had some weather. Trust me, folks, it won't hurt you. You can come to Quizo in the rain. No ill will befall you. Unless, of course, you are some manner of international superspy a la James Bond, in which case Dr. Chill may take offense and would attempt to befall some ill upon you. That strikes me as unlikely, however.
Thing the second: speaking of James Bond, I saw Casino Royale this past weekend. It is outstanding. I highly recommend it. I don't recommend it as much as Superman Returns, but still rather highly. Daniel Craig proves that ugly is the new not-ugly, and for the first time in the 21-movie series Bond points out the fact that martinis (vodka martinis especially) pretty much taste like lighter fluid no matter how you make them. And not the good tasting lighter fluid either, the really disgusting kind that kinda tastes like a martini. Note well that there will be... perhaps not a preponderance, but slightly less than a preponderance of Bond questions this week, because I really like James Bond movies and I really REALLY liked Casino Royale.
Thing the third: Thanks to Democrats finally getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate two weeks ago, my theatre company's plans to produce Sam Shepard's "The God of Hell" - a play about the importance of Democrats getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate - have had to be altered somewhat by the fact that we were in possession of a play written 18 months ago that is now dated and irrelevant. Instead we are now producing Euripides' "Medea," which (as near as I can figure after extensive research) has never been performed in Philadelphia. (Opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) So I essentially have the Philly premiere of a play written 2500 years ago. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.
Thing the fourth: We put up our audition notice this weekend, and now the inbox for my theatre company has been flooded with headshots and resumes. Medea (opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) is a 20-something woman, so I have spent all morning going over pictures of gorgeous actresses, deciding which ones I want to consider spending the next ten weeks with. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.
Thing the fifth: Someone needs to inform the Eagles that the NFL season is, in fact, 16 games long, and not 10. This will be the second year in a row where thanks to injuries the latter half of the season is essentially useless, which if nothing else makes scheduling rehearsals on Sunday afternoons in December and August a lot easier for me. We had a serious problem with our first show when we had performances on nights when the Eagles were in playoff games. As it was last year, this does not look to be a problem this time around (Medea, opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Come on, lottery pick! Oh, wait, wrong league.
Thing the sixth: My birthday is next week. Next Thursday, to be precise. My last birthday in my 20s. Just letting you know.
See everyone tonight.
JLK
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Your High Society Quizo Update
After Quizo this evening I will be attending the 2006 Barrymore Awards. Given these circumstances, it is important to note several things:
1) Our last show, "The Distance From Here," aka "I Can't Believe They Killed A Baby," aka "That Poster Is The Most Horrifying Thing I've Ever Seen" is not nominated. This is okay. In fact, this was done on purpose. We felt it would be unfair to compete, and wanted to give other people a chance to win. Because, you know, I'm a giver. Plus, this way, when my company and I begin our Sith-like domination of Philadelphia theatre (currently scheduled to begin 8PM January 4) people will have something to feel good about as we crush dissension, clone stormtroopers, and occasionally produce plays (about the crushing of dissension, if I can swing it).
2) My responsibility to the trivia-mad public means that, unfortunately, I will have to miss the unbearably tedious awards ceremony and only attend the after-party. Bummer, huh?
3) Two of my friends ARE nominated, however, for two different Ensembles (for Richard III and the Wizard of Oz). And they're married! To each other, I mean. How weird is that? More pressing, how weird will it be if one wins and the other doesn't? They make reality shows about shit like that. Either way, send positive thoughts in that direction, although if they do win I'll likely never hear the end of it, so maybe don't send too many.
4) The Barrymores are a formal affair, and as I will have to head directly there from Quizo I will be dressed appropriately. Snarky, sarcastic, or otherwise negative comments toward such will almost certainly insure that I will have a VERY hard time reading your handwriting, and will thus have to mark a disproportionate number of your answers wrong. Something probably in the vicinity of, say, all of them. And, remember, I'm quite sensitive. Hey, be happy I'm not the guy going in a kilt.
Wait a second, that guy works for me.
Ah, crap.
JLK
1) Our last show, "The Distance From Here," aka "I Can't Believe They Killed A Baby," aka "That Poster Is The Most Horrifying Thing I've Ever Seen" is not nominated. This is okay. In fact, this was done on purpose. We felt it would be unfair to compete, and wanted to give other people a chance to win. Because, you know, I'm a giver. Plus, this way, when my company and I begin our Sith-like domination of Philadelphia theatre (currently scheduled to begin 8PM January 4) people will have something to feel good about as we crush dissension, clone stormtroopers, and occasionally produce plays (about the crushing of dissension, if I can swing it).
2) My responsibility to the trivia-mad public means that, unfortunately, I will have to miss the unbearably tedious awards ceremony and only attend the after-party. Bummer, huh?
3) Two of my friends ARE nominated, however, for two different Ensembles (for Richard III and the Wizard of Oz). And they're married! To each other, I mean. How weird is that? More pressing, how weird will it be if one wins and the other doesn't? They make reality shows about shit like that. Either way, send positive thoughts in that direction, although if they do win I'll likely never hear the end of it, so maybe don't send too many.
4) The Barrymores are a formal affair, and as I will have to head directly there from Quizo I will be dressed appropriately. Snarky, sarcastic, or otherwise negative comments toward such will almost certainly insure that I will have a VERY hard time reading your handwriting, and will thus have to mark a disproportionate number of your answers wrong. Something probably in the vicinity of, say, all of them. And, remember, I'm quite sensitive. Hey, be happy I'm not the guy going in a kilt.
Wait a second, that guy works for me.
Ah, crap.
JLK
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