Revise, Rewrite, Recycle

The play stands at thirty pages, so at forty it's sure to tarantella.

Whenever I start an entry I think of all the things I should be doing instead. I should go for a walk, water the plants, pet the cat, eat, drink, and be merry. And revise, revise, REVISE. For most of my literate (not literary) life, I did not believe in rewriting. Mostly because I was writing school essays, busy work that didn't matter. From pen to paper to trash can and that was that. But somewhere along the way, I discovered the magic and the mystery of Changing My Mind. And "finding a better way to convey the thing I was attempting to get across in the first place." So here I am, faced with tidying up the dialogue and building bridges between scenes. And because I'm lazy (I lack focus, direction, and trust fund), I'm thinking of resurrecting the idea of a Deus Ex Machina. Only instead of a god's timely save, I'll use bridges - Lloyd or Jeff or Beau. Instead of a denouement one of them will come out on stage and say, "Heya! I'm one of the Bridges, let's fix this fucking mess of a play!" And he'll do his thing and the curtain will come down and everyone will go home a better person. The end.

Today I sent out a couple query e-mails about submission guidelines. Specifically for theaters in the 48 contiguous United States. My standards aren't high.

Dinner's in the oven. Cat's on top of the monitor. Diet Dr. Pepper's in the refrigerator. And my new REI jacket is in the closet. Life is good.

Procastination Polka!

The BF's away so the Christy will play. Last evening I stopped at the library to return a few CD's and decided to sit at a table, spread out, and read. It was liberating - as as is typical of procrastination. My imaginary writing goal this week is 15 pages on my one-act, but I've averaging two pages a night. What better time to drop the ball? I'm picturing a pink rubber ball about the size of my fist dropped from the eighth story. It bounces a couple times, then flattens like a pizza for no reason. A pizza with anchovies.

It was extremely hot yesterday. And today it's chilly. I figure it's global warming in action. Heat makes me sleepy and unproductive. Heat is one of my excuses for not writing.

In the book by Louis E. Catron, "Playwriting: Writing, Producing, and Selling Your Play" he says that a playwright should have a credo. A credo starts at about eight pages and begins something like, "This I believe..." This will come in handy the next time I'm looking to procrastinate. But I can't possibly write another word until I formulate my credo! The credo knows all. The credo sees all. Writer know thyself and all that shinola. He also says that a credo will help a writer understand why they gravitate towards certain topics, why they enjoy the subjects they enjoy ... essentially you're looking for a pattern about ideas you feel strongly about. If you get stuck in writing, you can reread your credo and look for suggestions, reminders about topics which have significance.

See how I've procrastinated for a whole paragraph about the concept of writing something for procrastination purposes? Oooh, I'm good.

The cat, the bastard, woke me from a deep and delicous slumber by pulling down the curtain rod which holds my curtains. Soothing blue curtains wrenched from their perch by a vicious, evil, hungry feline, exposing the harsh light of daybreak. Then he sat on the curtains, so I couldn't move them. Because he hates me, and wants me to return BF to him because I clearly drove BF away. Although plausible, I have to remind myself he's a stupid cat. A stupid cat who knows my weakness, and that's sleep-deprivation.

The other problem with the heat is it creates the illusion I am fit. And I'm not fit, unless sweating for no reason equals fit.

Where I Reveal An Unhealthy and Forbidden Love for REI

There will be a time next week when I will disappear. Don't be alarmed. No need to form a search party. I'll be living it up in a timeshare, in the general vicinity of Yosemite. Because I'm cool like that, or rather, my boyfriend's parents are cool like that. I'm more like the rugged hitchhiker, affixing oneself to the in crowd. Going where they go - i.e. sleeping on the floor in the next room.

And in the spirit of rugged hitchhiking, I bought myself a jacket today at REI's website. Most likely this link will die soon, but for the edification of future readers (Greetings Futurians Class of 20xx) it is a Women's SportHill Cascade Jacket. The description had me at the words, "For minimalist athletes ..." It's like it can read through to my very soul.

Today was another inspiring workshop. Next week I aim to have the first draft of my play complete.

For now I'll refer to the boyfriend with the clever abbreviation, BF. It's easier than spelling it out each time. BF is in San Francisco for a conference and I am living the good life, sucking back pomegranate juice and watching old episodes of "Arrested Development." Eventually I'll write and not just procrastinate. I promise. But now, THE WHORES!

In the Flesh

I had a great visit with my family. Arrived Thursday afternoon, watched the Travel Channel, trimmed fat off a couple chicken breasts and set them up for Fried Chicken - I'm proud when I "cook" since it's rare - went to dinner at Fuddrucker's, drank coffee and soda, and went to the airport to pick up Sister at 10:30pm, no problems. Then stopped at In-N-Out for double-doubles.

Friday: Starbucks patio, Albertsons, La Jolla Shores, Kohl's, Beverages and More, and Trader Joe's, Daphne's Greek food (where they now have a Super Size option which is just weird. Super Size a Gyro? Mmm, now with more lamb!), and Cold Stone. Ate Fried Chicken and watched Jeopardy.

Saturday: Back to Kohl's for an early bird sale, barbecue, mass consumption of food and drink, then it gets a little foggy …

Sunday: packed up my car and drove back. Laundry - ongoing - and drinking lots of water. I took some great digital photos of Sister at the beach, posing under a pier. The weather was bright and sunny, warm and beautiful. Too warm for me, but I can still appreciate it. Except for driving back through LA and seeing the thick smog layer … My home town is recovering nicely from the fires which ravaged it only six months before. Roughly. And I am unable to write complete sentences.

Yar. Work pays for one eye to have Lasik surgery, so I figure I'll get one done and then invest in an eye patch for eye number two to fully realize my pirate fantasy. I wonder if you can choose the eye cuz in profile, it'd look cooler on the left I think.

And I wrote nothing this weekend. But I forgive myself, assuming I make it up in the next five days. I'm thinking of ways to motivate myself. And I keep coming back to self-mutilation. For every word I write, that's one less time I stab my arm with a pencil. Let's hear it for the illusion of control.

Jeeves, Bring Me My Driving Gloves!

Today is a driving day. An adventure day. I'm driving down to San Diego to see my family, which is roughly a 4 hour drive if I speed a little and don't stop. My sister is visiting - currently of Oklahoma, soon to be of North Carolina.

I'm not in a big hurry since I'm on my own schedule and my parents won't be off work until late afternoon. My sister's plane, if it can bypass the projected thunder storms, won't be in until 10:30 tonight. It'd be too Chekhov of her not to show. (Or Beckett, but he's too cliche.)

So it's just me and the car and a full tank of gas. Vroom.

Before I leave I must submit pages for my play and pack and shower and drink a Diet Dr. Pepper. That's imperative. But not too time consuming. And I'll need eye drops, lots of eye drops, because somehow in the last year I'm one of those people. One of the ones with Allergies and I take things for it. Like pills and eye drops and I always look like I'm about to cry. So driving should be fun. Yes! Yes! Yes!

Whenever I leave my cable modem behind there's a twinge of something, loss maybe? Perhaps I'm too attached.

And as a result of this jaunt, I'll be missing Kingdom Hospital. I hope my sister knows how much I care.

Full of Sound and Fury ...

My fucking knee. For the last week I've come home and put heat on it. I'm falling apart at the joints. I counted on five more good years. Five! But here I am icing and heating and cracking and elevating. WTF? (What abbreviations say about me: I don't have time to spell things out. I'm important. Didn't you get the memo? LOLOLOLOL)

At five 'til five today a woman - may she rot in her own mucus - paid for one ten dollar purchase in dimes. Hundreds of dimes. And I'll tell you. She's a bitch. Tomorrow I look forward to counting out the dimes one by one and wrapping them in a green roll with other dimes and taking them to the cashier to change into paper money, like the rest of us use. Or even credit. For thirty cents a machine could've changed all that silver into cold, hard cash. But my time isn't worth thirty cents. Please ugly lady, please allow me to fondle each and every hard earned germ stained coin you've kept in your change purse for the last five years instead of tipping waiters and busboys and coffee clerks. Please. Let me serve you. And in case you're wondering, I can think of one time paying in dimes would be okay. She could be such a bad stripper, her clients tip in DIMES. Slide that in your g-strap and smoke it.

Ever notice bitter and bitch start with the same three letters? Coincidence?

To stoke the furies I'm listening to angry female music.

However! One exciting thing to happen tonight: my Final Draft Upgrade to version 7 arrived in the mail today! And I assigned Stephen Hawking voices to each of my characters and made the play read to me! Awesome. Wild. Exciting.

And in my fervor to consume, I think I swallowed some of the gold foil on the edge of my tasty beverage. For shame.

My Lawn Gnome Has a First Name ...

I need help. I need an appropriate Victorian era dessert for my characters to cook and enjoy. It must smell nice and be recognizable by modern audiences. Preferably no trifle or orange cake or black cake or pudding ... a cookie? pastry? It needs substance.

Listening to "They'll Need A Crane" (TMBG) and drinking a beer. Tonight's Imported English Ale comes to us from Wychwood Brewery, "Fiddler's Elbow," FIERCELY INDEPENDENT. ® ™

I've defied doctor's orders and stopped taking the anti-depressant he prescribed for my supposed TMJ aka sore jaw. No blood tests. No physical. Just writes me a prescription. So I'm on strike. After three months it's not helping my jaw really and I'm still cranky and in theory I'm not supposed to go out in direct sunlight. So no more pills. I've switched to one-a-day vitamins from Walgreen's. And beer.

Each day I take life into my own hands.

Remind me to tell of my love affair
with the sweet iambic pentameter.

At the TMBG concert last night I asked the ticket takers for ear plugs. They laughed at me. Cuz I'm old, yo. It was so loud I thought I would faint on noise. The bass played the part of Defibrillator, speaking of which, only three more days 'til Kingdom Hospital.

Ha. Shuffle just brought up NSYNC's "Dirty Pop." My inner 12 year old is drunk on pop and beer. Don't knock it asstards.

The playwriting workshop this evening was excellent and has been graciously extended into the first weeks of May. I'm twenty pages into my play, half way through the first draft. I spent all night trying to remember the name of the floppy thing inside a floppy disk and I just remembered the word I wanted is mylar. And you know what made me remember? NSYNC's Dirty Pop. Genius.

A sweet song for the ladies is Daniel Beddingfield's "If You're Not The One." I'm just saying.

I wrote you ungrateful jerks a poem. If you steal it I'll cut out the hearts of your children. No joke.

Kuba-Walda

Beside the agapanthus and the dahlia
stands a red-capped warrior
gray beard foul with dust and twigs
a crude pipe dangles from his lip
thin wisps of smoke curl past
his gnarled and knotted ears 
his boots scrape slow 
against the cold, wet earth 

pale eyes damp with a crumbling thirst
this is the night he will feed
for he has seen children
lost and lonely blue with fear
wandering in his wood

TMBG Mania

I'm back from seeing They Might Be Giants in my new long-sleeved band themed shirt.

And because there's not much time until I crash, I'll let my inner 12 year old provide a review of the concert:

Like, I am totally in Love with John Linnell. He is OHMIGOD like so incredibly cute and he sings so damn pretty. And the other John's not bad either. He wears nice glasses. But JOHN LINNELL? Damn baby, you bewitched me and it's not just the complete and utter exhaustion talking. Honest. If I had had a spare bra, I surely would have thrown it at the stage, but sadly I need mine for structural reasons. FIN.

Of course John Linnell has nothing on my silly stay-at-home boyfriend - who actually just said the words, "gutless turd" - who was at home playing PlanetSide all evening. Nothing at all. Especially not hand/eye coordination.

Remember how I said I tried to email an old friend in the South? He was at the show so all was not in vain. It was great to see him again. And for once I saw the mythic triplets.

And last of all I've been to see They Might Be Giants in several Californian cities now and am always pleased with their shows. Except tonight … I had a question answered I hadn't asked or even wanted answered: Did you know that one armed people still have B.O. Well, did you?

Late Night Show

The email bounced back.

I bought a ticket to see They Might Be Giants on Sunday at the student center on campus. It's a terrible place to see bands, and I have to run over from work at 8:30pm, but I couldn't resist. They've been my consistently favorite band for a long time. I just counted the years in my head and it feels better to say, "a long time" than thirteen.

Yes, it's two a.m. I got home from work, tired, went to sleep at six, went to lie on the couch at eight, woke again at one. Now the apartment is quiet, even the cat sleeps. And I'm propped up on the crusty feeling of having slept too much, but still not coherent. I maybe should have eaten dinner. My stomach says Hi.

I left work today, more bitterness, more anger, everybody tense. And when I'm stressed I sleep. Looking ahead for the next week, 10 pages of play due Sunday, 10 pages due Wednesday morning … mini-break from work to visit family, and then it starts again. Sometimes the big picture is too depressing. Sometimes I need a magnifying glass.

Bitter Fruit

I drank tonight with friends at the Blue Agave. I'd never been before. We sat upstairs, at a table, near a smoking balcony. I don't remember much of it. But there was beer and wine and martinis and appetizers, and I ate little to justify the tab which someone else paid.

I've just come home to my computer and my cat and I drove fine, I'm improving. The crane on State Street and Carrillo stands tall over the Greyhound Station, and I merge and signal with the best of them. I'm all right. Thanks for asking.

Last week rum sent me into a tailspin. I blame rum. And a flu which was "going around." There are plays to write, poisons to research. Last evening found me at Poisoning in Victorian Times. Name your poison.

I just sneezed all over my chest. That's not pretty.

I am amazed by the curves of life and want. I want. And I hunch over my keyboard wanting, but not having. And another friend, not the greatest or the last, but a friend, gets on a plane and leaves again. And who am I to stay in contact? Who am I to trust my words? But I snatched her email and I'll save it in my book.

And I miss NeverWinter Nights, NeverCrack. I wish I was playing, but you can't always have what you want. And I emailed another old friend from college today, someone to the south and I wonder if they'll reply. I'm here. Are you?

Chip Some Ice Off My Cold, Dead Heart

I am unable to type any number except four. And possibly binary.

Just spent the last hour on this site: Photos by R Todd King.

Not much new. Reading a book called, "How Not to Write a Play." Borrowed it from the workshop instructor. It's all about the decline of theater and how it's not about having a good time but rather being academic and intellectual, but only because of Shaw and Ibsen. Time for a new movement! Change keeps the theater alive. At least that's what it's about thirty pages into it. I'm waiting for the climax.

I've got a real anti-writing, pro-sleep agenda this week

And I've discovered liking "Kingdom Hospital" is not a popular opinion, so just pretend I never said anything. I'm nothing if not on the cutting edge of popular culture.

Blog Rhymes with Orange

I should sleep.

Tomorrow is a co-worker's last day. She is a person I've enjoyed working with. And we're throwing her a mandatory potluck. I'm bringing Costco meatballs and a crock pot. And turkey roll-ups - also from Costco. She's spending the summer in Italy and then going to school in Boston. I wrote in her card, "I'm jealous of your adventures."

It feels so good to talk about playwriting with a real, live playwright. There are ideas now, and glimpses of character's with their clothes off, and a selfish, manipulative little girl and a house in the south where it's always spring or summer, once I decide.

There's no music now, just the buzz of a box fan in the window and the whir of machine parts in one of the many computers beside me. And if I don't sleep now I'll never wake up to get the meatballs together. And that would be bad.

I wrote a little, in between the now time and the before time. The section was called, "And Now a Tangent." For our last order of business, MeAtBaLLs!!!

Two Steps Sideways

Back to Dar Williams. "End of the Summer" album.

I ate something that doesn't agree with me, in fact, we're having an argument. A balls to the wall domestic dispute.

I made food for Easter. All of it from mixes. A potato dish, a meat dish, and a pumpkin pie. It made the apartment smell like somebody actually lives here and doesn't just play NeverWinter Nights Gold Edition for fun and profit. (Nix the profit and that statement is true.)

About nine o'clock last night I hit the send button and watched the first full nine pages of my play disappear. Hooray for meeting deadlines! Hooray for working through procrastination! That wily bitch!

The word count of the Other Project stands at 18,000 words. When I feel better I'll find some ice cream to celebrate. Little victories.

I'm re-reading "American Gods"by Neil Gaiman now that I've finished the Sandman series. And I found, found delirium and I'm so happy. Deliriously happy. I like when worlds collide - as long as it's from a distance. Colliding worlds would be a messy prospect if I were standing on the surface of one of the worlds doing the colliding. Rocks and hair everywhere. And I feel so silly since I thought I knew things about mythology but then I didn't even know what an ifrit is. Everybody who has ever played Final Fantasy knows what an ifrit is, but I never played it. If only I was cool …

Rock band title you can steal: Cesar Chavez and the Housewives.

Fluff Not Snuff!

Today's music is back to Aimee Mann's "Lost in Space" from Nick Drake's "Five Leaves Left." Writing about ghosts, fit my mood. I haven't gotten to the angry part yet, it's still stuck in nostalgia and whimsy. But then I'm only five pages in. Things change.

I thought my favorite on-screen character was Jude Law's Gigolo Joe, but now it's shifted to Ewan McGregor's Catcher Block. Acting (and writing) so over the top it's incredible. I am smitten. And am forced to recommend "Down with Love" as a fluffy yet infectious work of inspired comedy. Billed as a 1960's sex comedy/parody, it is so much more. And because it physically hurts me to praise others, I must beg off from listing any more positive adjectives. In short, I liked. Go see.

Since this entry is predominantly an excuse not to finish my ten pages due tomorrow at noon - I mean hell, I've got till NOON - I should wrap it up. It's a gray day. Chilly. I had a weird dream about going to work naked but nobody noticed. I finally asked to borrow a sweatshirt since I was cold. I spent the dream wondering where I'd left my shoes and socks. I knew they were nearby, on a street with a stoplight. I wanted someone to drive me, on account of the cement sidewalk being so cold and dirty.

The next movie we've rented with our Blockbuster Rewards coupon is: "Strictly Ballroom." I had to keep slapping my hand in the video store. I kept picking up independent films "I heard were good." That's how I got in this funk in the first place. Fluff not snuff! Fluff not Snuff! My new mantra.

Explosivo!

I stayed home sick today. And I slept and I slept and then I thought about writing and then I heated up a can of low fat ravioli and ate it. Last night found me on the bathroom floor, clutching the toilet bowl in both hands, and singing a spontaneous elegy to the porcelain god. It's been a long time since I last worshipped, but luckily, it's not the sort of thing you have to practice.

I could really get into this lifestyle. Sleeping late, writing, eating crap, listening to music, surfing the web, writing some more, and then sleep. I'm wide awake now, no concept of the hour, just back from Jack in the Box and window shopping at the mall. Not that it's late yet, because it isn't, but normally I'd be gearing up for bed. I'd be rushing off to finish my word count for the evening. Instead I get to take my time. I get to ease into it. Which is nice.

At the bookstore I succumbed to temptation and purchased a Tenacious D CD. It was only ten bucks. I couldn't resist. So the song of the hour is "Explosivo!"

What's the name of the song,
Explosivo!
Don't know what it's about,
But it's good to go.

Also in the last week I bought a laser printer and wedding gifts (didn't have much choice about that) and all new tires and a parking permit and more. I'm doing my part to keep the economy healthy. The laser printer was sort of necessary and it was on sale at Circuit City. It's a Samsung ML-1710 Monochrome Laser Printer. Retails for about $170 and Circuit City had a $100 mail-in rebate so I went for it. The old printer, an Epson, went out in a blaze of glory and had to be put down. That sounds better than "just stopped printing."

Stop Mispronouncing Words!

In honor of watching a nice, quiet romantic comedy, we've rented "Down with Love" starring Ewan McGregor and that skinny, blonde chick. Hopefully it will be an evening free of crocodiles and cougars preying on semi-likable characters. Oh my!

Thought Police

Here are links:

All the rage in Amsterdam: Eyeball Jewelry

Man to bet all on Vegas roulette spin HERE

And lastly, a link I steal blatantly from Neil Gaiman's Journal, Halloween Thorax Cake

I left work early today to take Exchange Time. Exchange Time is an evil plot to keep hard working employees like myself from receiving overtime pay. You work one twelve hour day, then a four hour day, and it all evens out. Like magic! More miraculous than Miracle Clean.

Cat Stevens sings "Moon Shadow" on repeat in my head. It's a good thing nobody can collect royalties on my thoughts. At least for now … dum dum DUM!

My plan is to finish this entry, sleep for two hours, and maybe write tonight. And definitely watch "Kingdom Hospital." "Kingdom Hospital" makes me happy, even though not too much happened last week and then the network moved it from Wednesday to Thursday. But it's great and kooky and wonderful (and only a little slow.) Like ER on crack. I guess now I'll have to watch the original. That's the way it works.

I'm up to about 17,000 words on the novel. Slow going this week.

More Name Dropping

Tonight I heard Jane Goodall give a lecture called "Reasons for Hope."

I was in the front row of the balcony. No obstructions. Excellent view. She was an inspirational speaker and her message was - not surprisingly - pro-conservation. Recycle. Save. Don't waste water, electricity, gas … Some stories about the chimps. Donate money and time to making the world a better place. Be an activist, make ethical decisions. All very timely and appropriate.

But because I'm damaged in the head my mind kept wandering. I thought about my time staffing the will call booth outside and how I got angry and how I'm bitter and selfish and guilty and I'm not nice enough. I don't spend my weekends removing non-native plants from prairie land. I don't clean the streams and reintroduce fish that haven't lived there for decades. Once I volunteered and read on tape for the blind and dyslexic. They may have given me a t-shirt and I may have read in a bad French accent. (Has anyone yet listened to that tape and if so, what did they think of my mispronunciation of the word duchy?) I volunteered a lot in high school. But only because I needed to put that sort of thing on my college applications. Mostly I was sent to 10K runs and fun walks to hand out water in small paper cups to the participants. And then I thought about my obsession with recycling and saving water …

Growing up in southern California over the last twenty-six years there has been a constant everlasting drought. Newsflash: it's a desert. I do the small things like only turn on the water at the necessary parts of tooth brushing and taking short showers and low pressure or something toilets and having drought resistant plants. I also lug recyclables to the center and collect my pennies.

Speaking of water, I just sprayed my cat with a water bottle because he keeps hopping on my monitor to catch a bug. It's not that sturdy to begin with. Now he's pissed.

In summation, it's late and I'm tired and I guess I'll concentrate on the "making ethical and well-informed decisions" part of the lecture. It's best to focus on one life change at a time. It'll be my part way through the year resolution. For more information on her talk and her message, Dr. Jane recommends reading her informative website.

May the force be with you.

Rats with Wings

This morning my department had an all staff breakfast meeting at the local health food restaurant. I had the avocado, tomato, artichoke heart, and cheese omelet - minus the sprouts. They put sprouts in everything. The last and only time I was there, they put sprouts in my burrito. And this is southern California! This is the home of good burritos. It's like putting sprouts in lasagna! It's a freaking sacrilege.

The breakfast meeting confirmed more of the same. Massive budget cuts to our division, sixty percent over three years, never to be overturned. Layoffs and nasty fiscal times ahead. Our department should be all right for now. We've been fundraising. Working our asses off. But you never know. A co-worker next to me whispered, "Who'll be the last rat on the ship?" or something like that.

On the way from the parking structure to my office, I noticed a speck of something on the ground. Looking closer, I saw it was a bird, a dead, baby bird. It was still intact. Fuzz around its tiny head and beak, chin against the pavement, fetal wings curled around its body … I should have moved him to the bushes. But I didn't. It didn't register what it was until I was past, far past. And I was too much of a coward to touch it. When I walked back later, the body had been crushed. Probably by a boot. Or a pair of Uggs attached to a young lady in a mini-skirt, scarf wrapped around her neck. Except it was a warm day, and the culprit probably was wearing sandals.

In other news, I went to the ballet this evening. A last minute decision. Not just to avoid the ten pages of one-act due Sunday, but also to see if a person I'd sold a ticket to was in fact a celebrity as his name suggested. And he was. That's about it. I didn't speak to him. I just watched the ballet. Scout's honor. And maybe I sat myself next to him. Because I could. I'm sure Lincoln said it best: What good is power if you don't abuse it.

Now it's time to eat the last brownie. I hid it in the microwave.

And here's a link about having your wings done http://www.guardian.co.uk/medicine/story/0,11381,665328,00.html

Time Change Wackiness

I'm making a deal with myself. I wrote half the words I needed for tonight, so now I get to blog. Something bit my arm. I hope it was a mosquito and not a vampire. That's the last thing I'd need, joining the ranks of the undead and perpetually thirsty. Is there a twelve step program for vampires?

Do I like rhetorical questions or what?

All day I've been confused. Not following through on thoughts, misplacing pens and books and water bottles, just overall muddled and befuddled. The first customer of the day at the ticket window, I told there would be a $3 service charge for her phone order. She looked at me, her face star wiped into amusement. I collapsed into sheepish apology.

So I've warned you. I've done my duty. Read at your own risk.

The first workshop is over. I left work early to come home and take a nap. Then I went to Starbucks and then to Borders and then to McDonald's. And then I went to the workshop. In all that going places I came up with a title, which is good. The instructor has reserved a theatre downtown to do the staged reading in the event we get that far. It's very laid back and casual and I find it easy to write my nonsense. Five to ten pages are due on Easter morning and I plan to start tomorrow. Remember, it doesn't have to be good, it just has to get done. Good is where rewriting comes in.

We rented "Adaptation" and watched it yesterday. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks. And even though I normally dislike Nicholas Cage, award winning actor, in this film - to my delight and surprise - I found I'd been hasty and ill informed. It did a great job of showing a writer's life in a vacuum, and an idealist at that. Then it twisted all up on itself and got crazy. I speakah da crazy.

But I will say this - I'm ready for a nice, quiet romantic comedy. The last dozen films I've watched were all deep and dark and messy and now I'm ready for the silver screen to make my life make sense. Give me a purpose and an attainable goal. Let me visit Jane Austen and her bevy of sensible women. Rock on.

When Hair Goop Attacks

I put too much goop in my hair yesterday and then immediately needed a shower. But since I worked from 8am to 9pm, I couldn't just do it. I had to use my dinner break to race home and endure a deep cleansing of the hair goop. The stuff I use is called "Fudge" and is usually fine, but yesterday morning I overestimated the goop to hair ratio. If I ran my fingers through my hair they'd stick in thick slimy crud. I felt like I should apologize to anyone who had to look at my unfortunate plastered follicles. It was -- how you say -- not pretty.

I'm scheduled to go drinking at the bowling alley today and then watch the second half of "Angels in America" for the first time -- since I live in a cave. A cave that doesn't get premium channels. The local bowling alley was remodeled a few years back. They changed their name from Orchid Bowl to Zodo's and built a fabulous bar and grill inside. (I don't use the word fabulous lightly.) With twice daily happy hour specials and 40 kinds of beer on tap, it is my holy land and I worship with pride. Is it bad when the server knows your face? Our server -- by the by -- is also fabulous.

I'm debating whether or not to buy another half-priced ticket to a play in LA tomorrow. I doubt I will but half the fun is in planning. Or at least for anal retentive know-it-alls like myself, half the fun is in planning. I don't know what the other half is. Maybe chocolate?

I have a day to come up with a name for my one-act. Something catchy. Something that screams, this is about a dead girl and revenge killing. Maybe something like, "How to Succeed in Revenge Killing Without Really Trying." I'll work on it.

Pay day was three days ago and I'm full of good will. And for taking a mandatory quiz on sexual harassment at work -- mandatory for all employees in our division -- I won two free hours of bowling at the aforementioned alley. (So far) Today is one of the good ones.

The Perilous Perils of Non-SequiTaur

My cat sits atop the monitor as I write this. One paw dangles over the edge. He is tuxedo colored and now he is licking his socks. Whenever he readjusts his 12 pounds, my monitor shakes.

I didn't end up going to the reception last night – even though the film made me hungry, it also made me sleepy. And in a fight between sleep and hunger, winner takes all (and it takes me to bed)

Because I am still lazy and incapable of expressing myself through e-mail, I will now publicly thank Tiger Lily for sending me a gift certificate to Cold Stone for 20,000 words which I should hit in about a week and a half.

Thank You Lily!!!

I can't promise that I haven't written dozens and dozens of run-on sentences and tons and tons of non-sequiturs. I heard this guy at lunch the other day talking -- couldn't help it we were three feet away. He was at another table joking with his friends and he said, "Geez, that was a total non-sequi-taur." Just like that. Non Sequi Taur. So I thought wouldn't that be a great name for a comic strip? Non-sequi-taur, the Loneliest Minotaur. Each of the panes could discuss relevant, topical issues and then the last pane would say something like, "I got a mouth full of lodestar." Or "I'm melting because I'm made of cheese." Or even, "Best not embrace my bitch, I'll shiv ya."

Poor Non-Sequi-Taur, he never gets to play the reindeer games.

1-2-3-4-5 pigeons just like that

today i am not using upper case cuz i am a rebel language is not the boss of me

i have a friend who may or may not be in italy she could be back i don't know i would like to travel i would like to use my passport i might go to hawaii in october stupid grammar check trying to force me back in my box live a little grammar check

it s tough on the eyes without punctuation and only lower case

tonight i will be seeing a greek movie a touch of spice and after should be going to a reception where there will be greek nibbly food like my grandmother used to make when she was still alive of course she was alive it would be nasty and against the laws of nature if she made me spanokopita bereft of life

nanny was a great cook lots of phyllo dough and butter and gooey cheese and meatballs and lovely triangle shaped flaky things

tomorrow night i work late like for twelve hours and then there is a weekend which is nice and will require much laundry washing and drying

the end