Personal Swag ≠Breaking the Boycott

Well, before I read this morning's excellent anti-consumerist post by Eschaton, I spent eight hours putting up swag on the 99¢ Show Store. So just to clarify my position, do not under any circumstances buy holiday gifts here. Go and support a brilliant theater company. Go here and show your love for the greatest holiday show on earth. Go here and buy yourself a little something stretchy to pull over your big, fat, post-holiday gut.

Go go go here, by all means, to get your Kenny merch, but not mine. I'll buy my own peace panties, please.

We can fight the power and show the love.

Peace.

xxx c

UPDATE 2/26/06: C--é----s links went bye-bye along with pro-level site, which I pulled in disgust with lousy customer service.

Buy now, pay later

As if the disturbing display of consumptive zealotry to the left above (found at Drudge via my new-favorite blog, Gawker) wasn't enough incentive, an excellent post this morning on Eschaton has me pondering the heretofore unthinkable: a gift-free holiday season.

Hecate's point is to use a shop-out in protest; as he says in the headline to his post, "All I Want for Xmas is Fair and Verifiable Elections." Which ain't a bad gift. I'd sleep better at night knowing that the rightfully chosen candidate was presiding over our fair country for the next four years, even if I didn't vote for him. (Okay, especially if I didn't vote for him.)

But thousands (or hundreds...or dozens...) of people picketing...Diebold HQ? Maybe not so impactful. Thousands of consumers putting the Visa on ice? Now there's an interesting proposition:

This year, I'm urging everyone I know to refuse to spend money for Xmas as a protest. Stay out of the stores. For Goddess sake, don't run up credit card debt. Give your family and friends the gift of your time and attention rather than a new sweater that they won't wear or some object to clutter-up an already over-cluttered life. But just not buying isn't enough. You've got to contact the retailers and credit card companies and tell them: I'm not going to be buying Xmas stuff and I'm not going to be charging Xmas stuff until this country has a system in place that ensures fair and verifiable elections. Reader Kate has done the research and discovered that The National Retail Federation “is the world's largest retail trade association . . . .” Write to Their Vice President for Legislative and Political Affairs, Katherine Lugar. Here's her contact info:

National Retail Federation 325 7th Street, N.W. Suite 1100 Washington, D.C. 20004 Phone: 1-800-NRF-HOW2 Fax (202) 727-2849

Write to your credit card companies and tell them the same thing. You can find the address on the back of your latest bill. And, heck if you're really angry about this last election, write to the large department stores that you patronize, or at least cc them on your letter to the National Retail Federation. CC your Senators and Congressman or Congresswoman as well.

I will also have to write to my beloved agent, assuring him that his annual Guitar Center certificate will be on its way once the mess is behind us. He is one of the real Christians, so I'm sure he'll understand, but it makes me feel terrible just the same.

xxx c

P.S. An interesting skew on the boycott issue in an excellent post from Fact-esque (via Eschaton) as well. S/he points out that a targeted boycott of, say, Wal-Mart might be more focussed and effective and serve the additional end of bringing attention to the nefarious practices of one of America's ickiest retailers.

P.P.S An even better suggestion posted at Eschaton by Thumb: go small, go local, go green, go etc. As a small business owner of sorts myself, I'm surprised I didn't think of it (except that I'm still in Thanksgiving coma).

I'm sure there is a dandy local gee-tar shop in L.A. that would love my gift certificate biz. And I don't think Harry & David is a big-box giant. (Not sure about their labor policies, though. Damn. I love those pears...)

Screw family togetherness

Okay, that's not exactly how I feel. And I'm not an advocate of stirring up trouble, really. Hell, I barely have any family left to throw up against the metaphorical wall, anyway. Alcoholism, workaholism and ridiculous squabbling over money have reduced my once-vast clan to a small (but fantastic, generous and hardy) few (for whom I am extremely grateful, thankyouverymuch).

Plus, because of our family dispersal pattern, I'm celebrating this holiday with a few geographically (and otherwise) desirable friends who are as whack-job liberal as I am, so I don't anticipate any need for backup.

But Atrios has such a great post on how to deal with, um, non-likeminded relatives of the loud and/or bellicose variety that I had to hook y'alls up with the link.

And I'm copping his fantastic strategy for dealing with the choice issue for my non-holiday use, as well:

(Additional note: If the issue of abortion comes up I'm at the ready with a line of question I've had some recent successes with: Ask them to guess where the US ranks in infant mortality rate. Tell them Sweden, with the lowest infant mortality rate, ranks #1. Press them to guess where the US falls after that. Really, get their best guess. The correct and highly embarasing answer for these self-rightious, Holier Then Thou, save the babies at all costs crusaders is . . . 41st. Cuba has a lower infant mortality rate. Let them chew on that.)

Woo-hoo! An abortion post on Thanksgiving!

Happy-happy, everyone!

xxx c

Game over, alright.

A random email turned up this game, designed for kids (although the patronizing "good!"s and "okay!"s would piss off anyone over the age of 3, if you ask me) but kind of eye-opening for adults.

I mean you know where Kansas is, basically, but unless you're from one of the six contiguous states that surround it, I defy you to place it properly (within, say, 10 miles) on a blank U.S. canvas. And I'm from Illinois. (Well, Chicago, anyway. And yes, it's different. Trust me.)

And it's not like you get all the waterfront states first so you can drop Tennessee in plop! next to...well, I'm not saying, smarty. Figger it out on yer own.

Anyway, I'm posting my shame for all to see: 88% correct; average error, 33 miles; time, a whopping 343 seconds.

And now, off to my holiday task: uploading images to the Peace Squad C**éPress Store for the fabulous 99¢ Only holiday operetta, opening this Friday!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

xxx c

P.S. Thanks to Marius from the Big Cheap Theater (BCT) list for the link.

UPDATE 2/26/06: C**éPress link removed along with store due to outrageously rotten customer service.

Alexander the "enh", part deux

How much do I love David Edelstein? Not that any half-sighted monkey couldn't tell this movie was gonna blow from frame one of the trailer, but Edelstein does the ninja-critic moves on Alexander. I was driving back from the gym when I caught this bit of his review of Oliver Stone's shiny turd on NPR:

Listening to Alexander appeal to his exhausted, irritable army to continue on to the heart of Asia instead of heading back to Babylon or Macedonia, you find yourself fearing not for his men, but for Colin Farrell's vocal cords, which sound as if they're being shredded to a powder. Farrell had a stylish bully-boy presence in Daredevil and in a terrific Irish ensemble movie called Intermission. At his best, he's shrewdly small-scale. You can imagine him firing up the lads at the pub before he gets too stuporous. But all the armies of the Western world? He doesn't begin to have the stature, or the lung power. And those pouffy blond locks don't help. Quite a bit has been written about Stone's inclusion of Alexander's (historically accurate) bisexuality. The point seems to be that Alexander knew no boundaries, that his sexuality was as fluid as his notion of geographical borders. But it's tame stuff: moist looks traded with a eunuch and with Jared Leto, an actor with bright blue eyes who's too self-intoxicated to be much of an erotic force.

Heh heh heh... (Yeah, I'll spend an extra couple of months in purgatory for my inappropriate glee, but it's worth it.)

Edelstein also has a pretty bitchin' quotation for the ages, in this case, about crazy/compelling Angelina Jolie:

I don't care how nuts she is, Jolie is the real deal: a gorgeous, epic-scaled actress who can transform herself from the inside out. She could eat Colin Farrell for breakfast and pick her teeth with Jared Leto. Forget Alexander: The film is a pedestal to Angelina the great.

Take that, boys.

xxx c

10 ways to know you are in Hell Week

In the theater world, the last week of rehearsals before a show goes up is affectionately known as "Hell Week." The 99¢-show sports an unusual Hell Week because a holiday is wedged in there; in honor of that, the cast has been given an entire two days, both Wednesday and Thursday, off before final dress rehearsal on Friday. So in my capacity as Chief Stilt-Walker, I have been given a two-day respite to let those newly-developed leg muscles rest.

Of course, in my capacity as graphic designer, I am forced to rest aforementioned muscles next to the old G5, which does not allow for much in the way of elevation.

But I digress.

While this is an unusal Hell Week in that it's slightly less, well...hellish, there are still certain die-hard traits that all Hell Weeks share. To wit...

1. You can neither remember the last day you went to the gym nor anticipate the next time you will see the inside of it.
2. You find yourself actually drifting off to sleep atop the stilts you just learned to walk on two days ago.
3. Instead of being outraged that the 7-11 is charging you 2 bucks for an airline-sized bag of cashews, you are filled with a Thanksgiving-level of gratitude that they accept Visa because you have not had time to go to the ATM in two weeks. And buy two bags.
4. Bourbon and cashews at midnight is dinner.
5. Bourbon and cashews at midnight is the most delicious and appropriate dinner you can imagine.
6. You can neither remember the last time you washed your hair nor anticipate the next time you will be able to do so.
7. You try to drive your car in "park."
8. Your kitchen floor is covered in hair.
9. This seems like no good reason to not eat the veggie burger you dropped there.
10. Your sexual fantasies start revolving around long hot baths with a fluffy magazine, followed by a mug of peppermint tea and a DVD in bed. Solo.

Time to get crackin' on those t-shirt designs. See you at the show, kids!

xxx c

Magic hour 2

Pretty.

xxx c

Credit where credit is due

As a blogging newbie, I am not particularly fluent in the whole tracking technology thing. So at this juncture I would like to publicly acknowledge my reader from Utah who has taken the time not only to read this blog but to comment on it as well: thank you...um, well, I don't know his name, but I have his email addy and for damn sure I'm thanking him privately, too. But a big, fat, public "high-five" in the meantime. Go, Utah!

Gonna go figure out this whole tracking thingy now...

xxx c

My creative process, defined (by Cy Coleman)

The music world sustained a huge loss with the death of Cy Coleman last week. He wrote some world-class jazzy pop tunes (Witchcraft, The Best Is Yet To Come) and collaborated on a number of hit musicals (Sweet Charity, City Of Angels, Barnum, On The Twentieth Century), winning a slew of Tony awards in the process. A couple of things interest me about Coleman. The first is his apparent comfort level with collaboration. For practical reasons as well as icky, glory-hogging ones, I've always wished I was one of those artists who could go it alone, but the truth is that my best work has come out of working with others. Having created those hits with someone else (a variety of partners in his case) didn't make him any less-so; it just made the work even more so.

I'm also intrigued by what seems to have been his unassuming, charming nature. It's not something I grew up expecting to find in a great talent, although as I've met more of them, I've come to realize that the Difficult Genius stance is as much of a cop-out as Tortured Genius or Starving Artist. In his capacity as journalist, my multi-talented friend, Rob Kendt (one of many great friends who pitched in on my play, #1 & #2), interviewed Coleman last year. In a recent blog entry devoted to Coleman, he recaps highlights of that interview, coming up with a few great quotes, the first of which is about the importance of looking forward, or at least, not looking back:

I asked him whether he'd been approached about doing a major Broadway revue of his hits, and he said he wasn't very interested: "A lot of these things happen because the composer goes after it. I'm just one of those people who don't want to go back and look at all that; it's over. I just keep moving and looking forward; it's my nature. People ask, 'What's your favorite song?' I say, 'The one I'm writing.' They get very disgusted with me."

There's also one of those neat artists-helping-artists stories where La Fitzgerald takes on the role of wise elder further along on the path:

"I played Bop City opposite Ella Fitzgerald and Illinois Jacquet. Ella said nice things to me; she was a very sweet woman. I had to follow Illinois and her doing 'Flying Home'; I didn't even have a drum, I had guitars in my trio. And she said, 'Cy, calm down. You're never going to play louder than me and Illinois doing "Flying Home," so why don't you just cool it, do your thing? They'll come to you eventually.' It was sweet advice, the best advice I could have possibly gotten at that time."

And finally, a terrific quote on the mystic chaos that is the creative process:

"People ask, 'When you see a beautiful sunset, do you go home write some wonderful thing?' I say, 'No, I'm more like Beethoven: opus 1, 2, 3, and 4.' But that's not true exactly; I'm affected by things, but it has to come into my blender and then it comes out.

"For example, in The Life, the duet at the end between the two girls, that's a killer. I was in Scotland looking at the fog and the ducks flying and a melody came to me. Now, it's a very raw, R&B kind of score, but I decided to use that melody; it had a very rural feeling. There was a purity there."

Funky Scottish ducks. You gotta love it...

xxx c

Where I'm eating the next time I go to NYC

I've never been to Freeman's, but after reading this item in Gawker, I wish I was there last week:

Freemans, tuesday night the 16th of nov. the bush twins, along with 2 massive secret service men, tried to have dinner. they were told by the maitre'd that they were full and would be for the next 4 years. upon hearing, the entire restaurant cheered and did a round of shots... it was amazing!!! [Ed: We're hearing that this is actually true.]

Follow-up item today, also via Gawker: it's twoo, it's twoo...

xxx c

An Angelyne Primer

Okay, I've actually got some people reading this thing, and apparently, they're not locals (one's from Germany, I think, and the other from Canada) because if they were, they'd sure as shootin' know who Angelyne, a.k.a., "She Who Is Famous For Being Famous", is.

First of all, she's not as Famous-for-Being-Famous as she used to be. A del.icio.us search for "angelyne" tags turned up zippo.

A Google search turned up the official Angelyne website linked to above, along with a page from the World Artists Video website pimping Angelyne's video (L.A. Video's "virgin" release), serving up the 411 on the enigma herself, as well as how to hook up with the Pink One's fan club. Again, sadly, this page apparently hasn't been updated since 1997, suggesting again that perhaps Angelyne's star isn't shining quite as brightly as it once did.

Angelyne has been in a smattering of film & tv, but her IMDb listing is deceptive: her greatest celebrity comes not from the films she has acted in, but in those that have shown her image. Her billboard image. Because that's what Angelyne does: buys (or otherwise obtains) media space and plasters it with gigantic likenesses of herself in repose, either alone or avec her custom Pepto-pink 'Vette with the Angelyne plates. (I wanted to sprawl on hood of said vehicle when I spied it in the Pavilions grocery store lot, but years of Catholic school have burned into me an irrational fear of doing anything even remotely outside the law.)

There's a less interesting, "isn't-she-just-so-representative-of-phony-old-L.A.?" angle to the Angelyne story that people seem to latch onto. (And for the record, I'm pretty sick of people crapping on L.A. when I've been to plenty of so-called "real" towns that are way phonier and in a much scarier way.) But that Google search also turned up a pretty good (unpublished) article about Her Pinkness by a guy named John Mendlessohn. He spent some up-close-and-personal time with Angelyne, and serves up good info for the uninitiated or undecided.

I do not count myself among them: I adore Angelyne. Not because I want to drive a pink Corvette or see my face plastered all over the city (especially if I have to do dubious things to get it there) but because Angelyne is so essentially, explosively, unapologetically A-N-G-E-L-Y-N-E. This girl seems to have figured out who she is and what she wants and, despite all reason that would argue against success, has gone after and achieved it like Mormons prowling for fresh meat. In other words, her truth is not my truth (any more than Mormon truth is my truth) but boy-o-boyardee, do I respect her for isolating it and giving it the room and respect it needed to shine.

xxx c

What's a ghoul to do? Go to the show!

In addition to being a stand-up guy, Justin Tanner writes hilarious plays. Zombie Attack! ran at various venues in L.A. for ten years and I can see why, it's 70-odd minutes of almost non-stop hilarity, all of it deliciously irreverent. (Bonus-extra: hottie Jeremy Sisto sighting in the beer garden apres.)

This incarnation marks the fifth anniversary of the end of Zombie's long run, and it's just wonderful. The production has Justin's usual crack team of actors and lickety-split pacing, plus more laughs per minute than you're likely to find anywhere right now in L.A. theater. It closes next weekend (the 27th) so don't be draggin' yer heels, kids.

And next up at the Third Stage in Burbank (which, bonus-bonus extra, has freaky-good art in the audience restroom and green room) is Bob's Holiday Office Party, which I had the great good fortune to catch last year, its ninth consecutive in L.A.

Put it together with Peace Squad and you've got a trifecta of good L.A. theater.

Now that's scary...

xxx c

It's better up there

At today's rehearsal for the 99¢ show, I got to try out my stilts for the first time. After five or ten nervous, wobbly minutes, I had to be warned to slooooow down for my own safety. Sorry, but anyone who says that being tall is overrated is short.

On a completely different note, for the first time ever my Show Crush is on a married couple. And yes, I've told both of them.

xxx c

I Love L.A.

Looky who shops at my grocery store...

xxx c

Gitcher holiday cheer, here

Since I can remember, I've wanted to be taller. After seeing the teeny-tiny contact pads on the stilts I will be performing with for the gloriously crazy-ass new 99¢ holiday operetta, I am reminded of the old adage, "Be careful what you wish for." Still, I would crawl much farther out of my comfort zone for Ken Roht. I'm already shamelessly plugging the show to anyone who'll listen, especially to those who can more effectively spread the word. I'm sure my friend, Rob Kendt, will see/write about it. But I'm also branching out to the hipster-journalist community, or the one member I have contact with, Heseon Park.

Of course, Heseon is way too good a journalist to take my topline word for it. Unsatisfied with the who/what/where/when info, she's forcing me to answer the "why" of it all. In multiple emails, because I'm so damned unfocussed. Which is irritating, but in a good way, because it's always good when someone gets The Spinning Top to focus her thoughts.

So here's the last email in the exchange. I think I've finally figgered out why the show is so damned wonderful:

> is this the third installment in the 99 cent only series?

Yes. Third year in a row.

> why should people come?

First, b/c it's wildly entertaining. Bottom line, I don't think anyone should go to the theater just b/c it's an edifying experience. Entertainment is the price of entry (no pun intended).

Second, b/c like the best art, it connects us to the Source and to each other. Fostering community is an important thing, right?

Third, b/c now, more than ever, we need to surround ourselves to messages of hope and peace and beauty and joy, which this suckah delivers in spades.

> what kinds of people do you anticipate will respond to this show?

Historically, kids have dug it. In fact, if parents do NOT want their child turned on by the prospect of a life in the lively arts, they should avoid this show like the plague. The joy is that infectious.

Beyond that, anyone who's not dead. Seriously. It's that much fun.

It is. I promise. Get over soon. (Info here.) Because you cannot time-shift theater. Especially with a cast of 40+.

xxx c

The Communicatrix...Listens?

Like most of you, the communicatrix has an agenda. Don't know what yours are, but mine is to share certain hard-won truths. Well, really, a bunch of petty, not-so-hard-won truths, best thinking-man's hoochie site, kick-ass theater, worst phone ever, and one Big Fat Mama Truth, the Truth, if you will.

I have some tools in my communicatrix arsenal already, relentless enthusiasm, reasonable facility with language, considerable experience shilling...er...communicating my message to others, but I'm still not really conversant. I still can't talk to anyone and have it land.

No, really, that's huge. That's everything, really. Imagine the possibilities: speak to a n y o n e...and have it land. I guess it would be easy if you had a really, really good weapon in your arsenal, like a burning bush or thunderbolts or some other groovy, god-like accessory, but I don't. I don't even have Vocal Amplitude. (Seriously. Tiny ribcage = no vocal amplitude.)

The secret for mere mortals, I think, is listening. Simple, right? Easy? Um...no.

Really listening requires a detachment from ego I'm generally reluctant to muster. I don't think I'm alone, here, either, based on the number of conversations I've had where I actually catch overtalking happening in mid-sentence. Not the end-of-sentence, I-had-that-idea-too overtalking: full-on, hands-over-ears, I CAN'T HEAR YOU LALALALALALA!!! overtalking.

And this sometimes happens with really good friends who really care about me, not just garden-variety buggers in sales calls and ad agency pitch meetings (ad agencies are notorious hotbeds of overtalking, trust me).

I won't even get into the red vs. blue histrionics that have been flying fast & furious from both sides of late except to say that they're largely a catalyst for me getting off my bony ass and fixing my own nasty little listening problem.

My new-favorite pundit, Evelyn Rodriguez, who's all about the critical importance (and true power) of real communication, has written a couple of great posts recently about what happens when we stop listening and the magic that can happen when we start. She posits a really wise theory on the root of it all:

Being unheard, unappreciated and unlistened to is intimately linked with unwantedness. The isolation is overpowering. We can move away from the separation by remaining open-ended rather than closed meme-attractors ourselves.

Every relationship advice source worth its salt says that if you're looking for something in others, first find that thing in yourself. (Hell, even Dorothy figured out that if you're looking for happiness, check the backyard before you go running off on some poppy-induced, yellow-brick road to nowhere.)

More than anything in the world right now, I want to be heard. So I'm gonna start listening.

Anyone with me?

xxx c

1st year, paper; 5th year...points?

Awww...Max (Points, that is), the MyPoints mascot, sent me an anniversary gift of 5 points...one for each year we've been together. What a sport! Actually, I've been looking to dump that pointy-headed loser ever since MyPoints lost its first credit card partner. And as soon as I get enough points for a Macy*s gift card, I'm outta there. Not only did they yank the number-one way to accrue points towards Valuable Merchandise right from under me, they dinged my credit rating by forcing me to find a new major credit card.

So screw them. My new affinity program is Yahoo! Points. They have a rockin' program that nets me gift certs at stores that sell non-tax-deductible necessities like shoes, deep-discount luxury handbags and Cosabella thongs. Of course, as the march for the few to own the many continues, their co-branded card vendor is merging with JPMorgan Chase, so this will likely go to hell in a handbasket next.

But for now, there are only 97 points between me and the cutest little wallet...

xxx c

List #1: Shake That Funk!

Since my brush with death (well, okay, my brush with losing my colon) and subsequent epiphany two years ago, I'm a pretty happy gal 99.99% of the time. No lie.

I have not, however, reached that zen-like state of peace wherein the joy with which I greet each morning stays unflaggingly through a Day of Horror.

There are many things that bring me joy, but many of them require time (Caddyshack, trip to New York), money (shopping, trip to New York), or serendipity (random compliments, first date that blows your doors off, seeing that asshat Expedition get pulled over 1/2 mile down the I-10 for blowing through the on-ramp light in the carpool lane).

Plus, sometimes I'm not really even looking for joy. Sometimes, not-funk will do me just fine.

Also, making lists is one of those things that makes me happy. Heck, even reading other people's lists makes me happy.

So here are five things I've discovered that not only will shake your funk, but will often leave your home looking better, cleaner and more organized than before. The hawk-eyed will note a repetitive quality to most of the items. That's because these are really meditations in disguise. There's a monkey-work thing to occupy the chattery part of your brain so the real you can re-calibrate and get some goddam (mental) peace and quiet. As my first shrink/astrologer liked to say, meditation doesn't have to mean parking your ass on a cushion.

Five Ways to Shake Your Funk, Domestic-Goddess Style

1. Wash all* your dishes. By hand.
2. Scrub your tile grout with bleach** and a toothbrush.
3. Iron your sheets***.
4. Shampoo your wall-to-wall carpet...with a hand-held spot cleaner.
5. Sew something. Curtains seems to work the best, since they have long seams. (NOTE: Do not sew curtains made from burlap with a chiffon
   backing, no matter how good an idea it seems at the time.)

xxx
c

*This works really well because generally, the dishes have piled up in direct proportion to the size of the funk.

**Actually, I use all-purpose cleaner with bleach, but go ahead and be as environmentally conscious, or not, as you want. Mother Earth will do better with your head screwed on right.

***Only works with all-cotton sheets. If you dig percale, substitute window-washing or vertical-blind cleaning. And never iron dirty sheets! Ew! Stinky!

Magic Hour

It took me a long time to fall in love with L.A., but from the first shoot I came out on as a junior copywriter, I knew it had one thing all over Chicago: "magic hour," that brief window of time when the sun isn't visible overhead but darkness has yet to take over. Everything looks better in Los Angeles during magic hour, even the tatty bits.

Hell, especially the tatty bits.

So I've finally put my crappy 2.0 megapixel Canon to good use (well, that 9-month stretch of hot online dating action it bought me wasn't all bad, either) and am keeping it with me to document the beauty of my adopted city at magic hour.

From my car, of course.

After all, this is Los Angeles.

xxx
c

I speak geek.

You are 33% geek

You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.

Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend.

You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines!

Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals!

You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

Thanks to strategist for the link. I like a painless quiz, especially when it takes such a flattering photo of me.

xxx
c