Tracks to Clementine

My Own Stadium

Girls are the best ones—especially those in the shape of Fat Boys—because they will bring you pink things in the shape of rubber gloves and Peeps when you are accidentally sad. I ate the entire box of Peeps while driving home smelling of smoke at 1:30am. The rubber gloves are lying in wait.

In other news, we may well have a guest in the Maid's Room for the entire summer. I am currently creating a list of tips and warnings a la "Welcome to Your Dorm"; suggestions for this list will be accepted through Thursday of this week. Winners will be awarded accordingly. All submissions must be pithy and somewhat based in reality. (Keep in mind that the Number One Rule of the house is currently "No hippie drum circles.")

As advised by Bambi and The Daily Northwestern, If You Can't Say Anything Nice, Don't Say Anything at All.

Dinosaur Island Finally Makes an Appearance

It's a little difficult to realize the maximum gore effect of this cake, but, eh, there you go. Now imagine a similar theme made with cupcakes, pale brown frosting, beige army men, and show dogs.

Red gel is my favorite. Someday Molly and I will take over your birthday.

Wide Mouthed Frog

Were you one of or do you know one of the rowdy punk rockers who hijacked a ferry after a canceled Circle Jerks concert in, like, 1987? Because I want to talk to you.

In other news: I love the bench and lighting in the women's bathroom at Chop Suey.

Tail End of the Seder

I didn't find the hidden half-matzoh, but the poison cake is looking really good.

Now, where's my fork? I'll mindfully dip it in salt water if you help me find it.

Eureka!

I'm pretty sure a musical saw is the answer.

Ida has ADD

So I'm in rehearsal during the day now, which rules because I don't have to be there until, like, 11am. What's hard for me is that I am accustomed to neither sitting still nor keeping my mouth shut, which I mostly have to do as an ASM.

To whit:

Front Room Version
Ida is patiently watching actors and giving lines. She agrees to make copies. She remembers the copy code. She finds the cd's. She turns off the TV. She knows when the video call is. She has directions to the shop. She is polite to the staff of the host theatre. She has an extra pencil. She laughs at appropriate moments.

Back Room Version
Xanadu! Xanadu-ooo-ooo! Now we are here (now we are here) in Xanadu-oooooooo! I've got to get some roller-skates. Oh, hey what if I have the kids meet a character who just comes in with a briefcase and in that briefcase there is a sandwich? No you can't fool the children of the revolution, no you can't fool... I really hope Lauren agrees to be the production manager. I'd better email her today. Oh, wait, and I need to email Sharon, too. Where can I get roller skates? What if the ice baby melts into the letter from Papa? I wonder if there's a kind of ink that only appears when the paper gets wet?

See what I mean? But maybe it isn't attention deficit. Maybe it's attention surplus.

Sophisticate

Hey, folks, if you're hoping to find a way to seem witty and desirable, might I recommend word-plays related to weaving?

Yeah, when you really want to be cool, a loom is where it's at.

Hoods up, yo

I'm wearing Superman underwear right now.

(Thanks to Fat Boy Mols.)

PS: Today is Erin's birthday. Call her up and sing. Pay no mind when she tells you there's no singing; she's just shy.

They Will Never Cease

Todays' winning comments:

• How can you blow something so small?
  --HC, questioning how I was able to play a little harmonica


• I'm rubbing my cat all over you and you're not doing anything!
  --ES, wondering why Eli's allergies were not affected by the silkscreened cat on her shirt

Like I said, money's worth.

PS: Tim ate lunch with us.

Studio A Rocks Spring Break

Today I convinced my students that the rehearsal schedule posted in the elevator was a fascinating portion of our tour of the theatre. They believed me, although probably because I used my ghost story voice and because it included the following information:

12:00 LUNCH Tim
12:30 LUNCH Everyone else

We later wrote the following letter:

Dear Tim,

Today we saw that you are scheduled to eat lunch all by yourself. Here are some tips to assuage loneliness:

• bring three socks with you and turn one into a friend by putting your hand in it and sewing on eyeballs
• talk to yourself like this:
  • "What time is it when one dozen sharks swim after one can of tuna?"
  • "I don't know, what time is it?"
  • "Twelve after one!"
  • (Ba-dum, chink)
• Maybe next time, ask everybody if they will eat with you...or you can come eat with us, if you want.

Love,

Studio A

...

While our students were signing and decorating the letter (it was written on a huge piece of craft paper and is now hanging outside of the rehearsal hall), I, using a washable marker as a microphone, interviewed Eli about Daylight Savings, coffee, and Pinback. One of our students came and stood right next to us, so I turned to her, offered the marker microphone and asked "Any questions from our studio audience?"

"No, just watching the show."

Those parents are getting their money's worth, let me tell you.

Snowcones at the Ballpark

The smut I am writing for tonight is the silliest ever. I've taken advantage of Sjet's absence: it's heavy with the "p" word. I don't know if I'm going to be able to read it without breaking into giggle fits, but I'm going to try. (And, no, it's not finished yet.)

In other news: Monroe is now hiring correctional officers.

Dang

"I'll strike the periactoi" is such an excellent sentence for one's student to say as their homeschooling parents walk by.

I received a tip of tulips after we were done.

Liquid Courage

When I was thirteen-years-old I had a major crush on a track star who went to a different junior high. (I ran the 200 hurdles and the 400-meter relay and admired him while pretending to adjust my cleats.) I once practiced my flute for 350% longer than usual just so I could have permission to go to a track meet at which his junior high was competing but mine was not. I'd read his track meet scores in the paper and cut out pictures. I considered digging in the burn barrel to retrieve pictures. I looked up his address and memorized his phone number. I went to air band contests just in case he'd be there.

I held on to this crush for two years. Then I found out he was bad at math. Goodbye, Trackstar. I'll never measure your hypoteneuse; you won't be graphing my cosine.

My question is: what happened? I'm not denying that I still drop folk for my varying definitions of being Bad at Math, but what happened to the part of my brain where I just looked cute in my cleats and thought he would think so? When did it move from "I think you're neat so I'm going to make sure I can even be near you" to "I must question whether or not I actually like you based on the fact that if you were gay I'd so be friends with you but since you're straight maybe I'm supposed to like like you and I can't even tell so howsa about I just act all diplomatic and drink a bunch of beer and tell loud stories and get to wondering about imaginary numbers?

Gaw. Somebody's a scaredy-pants.

Fool's Luck

Rabbit, rabbit.