Weekly roundup

Another busy week here at Rancho Communicatrix, but I still managed to squeeze in a little pointless surfing. Enjoy!

I saw Wendy Wahman's illustration in this Sunday's LA Times Book Section and felt compelled to look her up. Award-winning sample above left; many more pretty pictures to see here.

Regular Salon columnist Heather Havrilesky gives good advice column, among other things. And this week, she got busy while I got lazy. A veritable mother lode of good new posts up on rabbitblog; this rambling discourse on discovering one's true self (in the guise of a reply to a highly scrambled individual's plea for help) is my fave.

My favorite fug-leaks detail the subtly horrific malcostumings of the horrifically smug. And yes, I know this makes me a small and petty asshat, but that Marisa, she's always rubbed me the wrong way. And now, her fugly, too-tight prom dress is doing the same to her. (Insert Nelson Muntz laugh here.) [via go fug yourself]

Possibly the greatest t-shirt ever. [via Cool Hunting]

Who doesn't like a nice photobooth strip? [via BoingBoing]

I have a new favorite cocktail lounge and it's called the Buggy Whip. Read my post on blogging.la for more hot, faux-Tudor action.

And finally, after his hilarious post on blastocysts and the inanity of the Religious Wrong, I have a total liberal schoolgirl crush on The Rude Pundit. Sigh...dreamy... [via Eschaton, which I really should read more often]

xxx
c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢ (Haiku edition)

It pains me to report that the communicatrix, a.k.a. "That Boneheaded Idiot," lost an entire post's worth of searches while getting all fancy-pants with the transfer of items from Entourage holding pen to TypePad publishing glory. However, in the spirit of making delightful, refreshing beverages from sour, inedible fruits, she is using her anger-turned-inwards to craft a newer, better post...in 5/7/5 meter.

That's right, cats & kitties, this Friday, "Searches" is rockin' that most time-honored of poetic forms, the haiku*.

Read 'em and weep. Or whatever else the spirit moves you to do...

xxx c

"My/You/Me"

communicatrix: (Google) RYAN SEACREST in frye boots, (Google) powered by typepad (Google)

"A Hero Ain't Nothin' But An Order of Freedom Fries"

self rightious virgo, (Google) define chacon a son gout! (Google) (french swears? zut alors...) (Google)

"There Are No Free Lunches, Pal"

Write to change your life (Yahoo) Daniel Chu, copywriter! (Google) shop now! pay later! (Yahoo)

"The Secret of Life"

giant labia (Google) how to make people happy (Yahoo) labia redux (Google)

"Ode on Harriet the Spy"

dasani tastes like... (Google) the late great Louise Fitzhugh! (Google) I hated Spanglish. (Google)

*All poems made from ACTUAL SEARCHES landing people at communicatrix.com. Search engines (in parentheses) are provided for authentication purposes only, and do not count toward syllabic allotment. Some punctuation has been added for reasons of aesthetics/humor/caprice.

ADDITIONAL TECHNORATI TAGS: haiku, poetry, search terms

Book review: Home Land

Home Land is filled with great characters, their sharply-observed characteristics and film-worthy comic exchanges. There is no end, apparently, to Sam Lipsyte's invention, and dude not only has an eagle eye for the bullshit we try to pass off as character, he can turn a phrase like a fine (albeit filthy) woodworker turns a fancy-ass chair leg.

Oh, and final disclaimer: while I did laugh in many parts of this sharply-written comic novel, I suspect I am too dumb to get some of the jokes, as (a) The Boyfriend, who is demonstrably smarter than yours truly, laughed far oftener (and more heartily) than yours truly and (b) I had to look up several words in my handy, bedside, pocket-Oxford dictionary, which will kill a joke faster than you can say "A piece of string walks into a bar."

So maybe I'm jaded or maybe I'm stoopit or maybe a little of both, but I felt like Home Land, while undeniably smart and clever and funny and, to an extent, true, had the same fragmented feel of so much postmodern fiction written by authors raised on TV and film.

Briefly, it's the story of a too-smart fringe dweller who ramps up to his high school reunion by submitting a cavalcade of submissions to the alumni newsletter cataloguing the sad truths of his loser life. Sad, funny truths. Funny, cinematic truths.

I have nothing against imagery that leaps off a page, and I'm not some freaky purist who rails against the corruption of sacred text by the evil cinema. To the contrary, I actually think that occasionally, the movies do a better job of telling the story than their source material. But I can't help but feel as though, more and more, smart, funny writers are writing novels with an eye to how their material will play out on the screen. It's been awhile since I read a new book that read...well, like a book. And I'm old and curmudgeonly enough to miss 'em.

xxx
c

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

New! Better objects! Now with extra shininess for more distraction!

So I'm in the market for a piano these days, a portable piano, that is, with 88 fully-weighted keys and action that mimics a "real" piano. A superb (according to many customer reviews) keyboard with MIDI compatibility like this here Yamaha P60, so that I can learn to play properly and write songs for that damned musical I keep yakking about.

Or wait, I do want to write songs but I'm not really piano-proficient. Maybe I want a keyboard that offers more bells and whistles, additional tones, easier plug-n-play, a cool screen that converts what I write into notated music, so I can learn to read, and a little less verisimilitude. A keyboard-keyboard, like the Yamaha PSR3000 or the Casio Privia PX-400R.

Shit. I need to learn the right way and I need all that electronic crap that I can feed through my computer. Maybe what I really need is more room: a house, with a living room for an upright, an extra bedroom to put all my gear, and no neighbors on the other side of thin walls and floors to complain about vibrations, noise and odd practice hours.

But I can't afford to buy into the L.A. housing market, not if I want to retain my footloose and fancy-free itinerant lifestyle. I'd have to move to another city, maybe a small town somewhere, get a real job with benefits and a steady enough paycheck to qualify me for a loan.

Of course, then I'd pretty much have to write off this musical idea entirely. How many people in Norman, Oklahoma or Ames, Iowa are writing musicals? My writing partner sure as hell isn't moving there.

Then again, I can always try writing alone. It might be good for me to fly solo, develop more discipline as a writer, get to know my own voice. And there's no reason it has to be musicals or plays or screenplays that I'm writing. I can tell my truth any way I damned well please, maybe via those novels I'd always imagined myself writing back in my tortured youth.

Or hell, maybe I could give up all my lofty aspirations. They're so weighty and confusing: baggage in their own right. Maybe I should pull a John Freyer and get back to what I had when I was starting out: a car and what fit in it. Hit the road, see where it took me, get a Stupid Day Job that would let me get by and just blog in my spare time.

No, that's a halfway measure. If I'm going to go for it, I've got to go all out: simplify to the point where I need nothing; meditate through my everyday tasks and make my creative output the life I lead.

On the other hand, maybe that's just running away. My mess followed me from Chicago to Ithaca, from Ithaca to New York, from New York back to Chicago and on out to Los Angeles. It followed me from Y&R to DDB to BBV. It followed me from relationship to relationship, apartment to apartment, diversion to diversion, usually leaving a trail of expensive clutter in its wake.

Maybe it's time to just take in the mess...to accept that there will always be confusion and clutter and dozens shiny objects slightly out of reach all vying for my scattered attention.

Maybe it's time to sit down in my cramped, imperfect apartment and practice my scales on my crappy, imperfect toy keyboard with visions of my unfocused, imperfect life swirling around my cluttered, imperfect brain.

Maybe the way in is really the way out.

xxx
c

With gratitude to the messy and wonderful mind of Evelyn Rodriguez.

House image from WestLosAngelesRealty.com: read 'em & weep...

Weekly roundup

My breadcrumb trail this week:

Why-didn't-I-think-of-that? Flickr knockoff tags, freaky-cool Japanimated snack food spots and astounding Rubik's Cube art. [All via BoingBoing.]

Author of the best list ever, writer of Onion headlines and a published New Yorker cartoonist? I hate you, Sam Means... [via McSweeney's]

"Pardon me, young man, but I speak jive." [via Urban Sherpa]

Cool gear, cool delivery system. [via Cool Hunting]

Finally, in my search for info on vlogging, I fell way, way down the Xiaxiu rabbit hole. Girlfriend (who does not vlog) is chatty as a magpie (well, she's 20) and way too fond of pink for my tastes but she's cheeky and brave and marches to her own damned band, which more than makes up for the pink-and-chatty thing.

xxx
c

Shoulda/coulda/woulda

So many things (I wish I'd done), so little time (left). [Via Old Hag & Ed Champion.]

1. Stuck with piano, guitar, drawing, writing and acting when they were first introduced to me so I wasn't spending my big, fat, middle age catching up.
2. Campaigned for Kerry.
3. Visited Berlin pre-post-wall.
4. Gotten out of advertising and into acting while I was in a good theater town like New York.
5. Gotten out of advertising and into acting while I was in a good theater town like Chicago.
6. Flossed.
7. Gone to see Elvis Costello and the Rocky Horror Show that summer of 1977.
8. Smiled for the camera.
9. Told that motherfucker to go fuck himself.
10. Ordered the filet.

Pass it on.

xxx
c

TECHNORATI TAGS: memes, regrets

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Oh, I have been busy and woeful, woeful and busy (not too mention woefully busy). However, like a good sun salutation or a stiff belt of Glenmorangie, Searches is a powerful antidote to stress.

Breathe deeply, and relax...

how to make drugs in your own kitchen (Yahoo)

I can't even begin to tell you how in the wrong place you are. However, if your travels prove fruitful, mi cocina es su cocina, baby...

colleen good (metacrawler)

But from the look of things, not great.

Baba Ghanoush shelf life (Yahoo)

Please do not put the Baba Ghanoush on the shelf. The Baba Ghanoush, he likes to be in the giant box of refrigeration.

there are 2 doors one leads to death and one to life. There are 2 people there one always lies and one always tells the truth. What question do you ask to find out which door leads where? (Google)

I dunno...maybe..."Who does your color?"

Vincent vanGogh's wardrobe (Yahoo)

One pair pants, one homespun jacket, 40 headscarves...

alex trebek photo full length (Google)

Omigod, Alex's people are soooo tired of fielding this request.

guitar cords soundtrack the godfather part 3 (Google)

Hot damn, man...when do we jam?!?

jane kaczmarek naked (Google)

How great would it be if this was the same dude looking for Alex & Vincenzo?

dasani tastes like (Google)

Chicken?

xxx c

If I only had the nerve

I have never thought of myself as a particularly courageous person. On the contrary, given the staggering number of painfully weird and/or wholly irrational fears I harbor (returning items without a receipt! making an unprotected left turn! answering the telephone!), I've always thought of myself as a big, fat scaredy cat.

But for some reason, the subject of courage, mine in particular!, has come up in a couple of times lately, which has forced me to take a look at it.

Now, I know full well how people toss around the "c" word regarding survivors. I didn't have cancer or survive a heinous car accident or crawl my way out of the rubble of 9/11 with an injured co-worker on my back. But I did have what they call an acute onset of Crohn's disease almost 3 years ago and from the looks of me just before, during and after my hospitalization (skeletal! ashen! wild-eyed!) I can see why people thought I was going to die. And don't get me wrong, I was very, very sick: my doctor will happily confirm that right before he lays into me for going off my medication again.

However..."courageous"? I don't think so. The night before my sister tricked me into going to the emergency room, I actually lowered myself into a tub of icy water to bring my 104.4ºF fever down to a manageable 102º. That, my friends, is the act of a crazy person, not a brave one.

Of course, once I'd had my epiphany and calmed down enough to assess the situation, I did take certain steps that even I marvel at in retrospect. When given the option of staying in the safe, air-conditioned arms of the Cedars Sinai IBD wing or returning to my sweaty apartment to see if I could put on the weight they'd been unable to pack onto me, I elected to go home and put myself on a diet that (a) excluded 75% of the food that had previously made up my diet and (b) required me to cook everything from scratch (remember: skeletal! ashen! wild-eyed!) Which is still slightly insane, but does show a wee bit of, you'll forgive the pun, intestinal fortitude.

Having scaled that small, 2-lb. hill (confession to Dr. Wolfe: I lined my pockets with coins and pebbles to trick the scale, and you, into giving me one more week), subsequent challenges seemed slightly less daunting. I "came out" to everyone I knew, updating them via email about my disgusting, poopy disease and, scarier yet, asking for help with everything from grocery shopping to taking my trash out. I started walking, first to the bottom of the stairs, then to the end of the driveway, eventually a full, two-mile walk. Scariest of all, I called my agent and told him I was taking three months off to recuperate, regardless of whether I felt up to pushing myself back to work sooner.

Then, when I was able to get out and about again, I actually did...with a vengeance. I went to events solo. I started checking the "40 & over" box on audition sign-in sheets in front of god (a.k.a. the casting director) and everyone. I posted a profile online (and another...and another...) and actually emailed them as much (or more) than they did me.

And here's the goddam thing of it: I did all these things, yes, but the fear was still there. Still is. Seriously. I can (usually) ask the "stupid" question or introduce myself to a stranger at a party or check the old lady box, but I'm still afraid I'll be laughed at, given the cold shoulder and never work again. I'm afraid to post blog entries, I'm afraid to bid out a job at what it's really worth, I'm afraid to reveal my deep, personal self even to loved ones. I just, to paraphrase the cheesy book title that's become an overused catchphrase, suck it up and do it anyway.

It may never get less scary to do some things and it will probably always be scary to undertake others. But I stand on the other side of years and years of useless, stultifying fear screaming this truth to you, regardless of whether or not you choose to embrace it or merely laugh at me and walk away:

It is worth it to try.

If it opens one door, if it makes one thing possible, even if it only teaches you something about yourself...

It is worth it to try.

Trust me on this.

Or don't...and do it anyway.

xxx
c

Weekly roundup

Here are this week's happy landings. Enjoy!

Rachel Salomon makes pretty pictures. (Via Mike Diehl, who's designed more cool covers than you can shake a stick at.)

Stealth art is everywhere. (Via Josh Rubin's Cool Hunting.)

What Would Yoda Do? (From Giant Mag, via BoingBoing.)

The amazing Grant Barrett introduced me to fifi. (via BoingBoing).

And, just for the helluvit, a big, fat, Mac shout-out to metafilter.

xxx
c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

While I am busy sitting on my keister, not practicing piano, dozens of people are out there searching for knowledge... Kossack cheat mode (Google)

Ah ah ah...cheaterskis never prosperski!

eunuch sundance channel (Google)

Okay, I've heard of the fragmenting of the cable universe, but this is ridiculous.

fancy lala transparency (Yahoo)

What the well-dressed overhead projector is wearing this year.

french swears zut alors (Google)

For ze not-so-naughty parlez-er...

coastal girl in skin tight mini dress pantyhose heels feeling kryptonite (AOL)

The poetry slam is two doors down, pal.

99 Seat Theaters For Sale In, Los Angeles, CA (Google)

For the love of all that's holy: Back. Away. From. The. Checkbook.

Orange,colleen (Google)

Okay, now you're just plain freaking me out, here.

online television xxx chanel (Google)

Oooo, baby...I love it when you wear that bouclé knit g-string...

"substitute for polenta" (MSN)

And communicatrix is the sole source on the interwebs! Touchdown!

sexy toenail long polish beauty pretty photo gallery (Yahoo)

Why do they have to be Polish?

powerbook G4 15 "smokin hot" (Google)

Oooo, baby...I love it when you talk dirty to me...

xxx c

Piano hack

I am a bad, bad student. I took French for over 12 years and barely speak a word of it. I spent six weeks and 75 of my hard-earned dollars learning to sew last summer, and my curtains are still not finished. And while it's true that I've forgotten more books than many people will read, I've actually forgotten them. Still, when I took up piano/guitar lessons earlier this year, I had high hopes. It wasn't panic-inducing like when I was 7 and had to learn hateful Dvorak (I crapped out before the recital). My new music teacher is FUN and crafts FUN, easy lessons for me to keep me practicing and progressing.

But you know, there's a very real learning curve with anything new, and a month or so into the proposition, I noticed it was getting harder to get myself to practice. An hour? I don't have an hour today. I'll practice an hour tomorrow. Tomorrow is a much better day for practicing. And, well, you know how good a piano player behavior like that is gonna make you.

It doesn't help that Irene, the woman whose lesson precedes mine, is storming through these classical numbers and has only been at it a year.

Anyway, I started finding excuses for cancelling my lesson, or being grateful when real excuses, auditions, colds, torrential rains that closed down the canyon roads, cropped up. Until I didn't feel grateful, or rather, I felt more sad than grateful. Because I really do want to learn piano and guitar (music theory, really); I just hate the vast gulf I see between where I am now and where I'd like to be.

And then an email arrived from my teacher. It was so perfect, I'm reprinting it (almost) in full:

I've been thinking about your phone message the other day.

I think I understand very well how the "not practicing" thing is becoming a burden and the mental blocks are getting stacked very high. I have SOOO been there.

I remember a wonderful bit of advice one of my college French professors gave us years ago. She said we would make more progress if we studied 5-10 minutes every day rather than three hours one day a week. There is wisdom in this.

Rather than waiting for the "perfect time" to practice, or waiting until you have enough time to "make it worth it", sit and plunk for 5 minutes while waiting for a kettle to boil or as you pass the keyboard on the way to the bathroom or something.

In fact, the next time you sit at your keyboard (today perhaps?) PROMISE yourself you won't do more than 5 minutes. Set a timer even. But get your five minutes in. Eventually you can allow yourself to go "over" on days you feel like it (and some days you will feel like doing more).

Then, tomorrow (?) do five minutes of guitar. And, after 5 minutes, know that you have accomplished something, because you will have completed your assignment for the day. It's a much better feeling than guilt about not practicing, yes? This isn't supposed to be about guilt and burdens, it's supposed to be about you being able to make your own music.

Coincidentally, I ran into Irene at an audition today. It took us a second to place each other, out of context as we were, but soon we were thick as thieves. As is my wont these days, I immediately vomited up my ugly hairball of truth, which didn't faze her a bit; she'd been through her own version of it, as well. And she didn't think she was a marvelous pianist at all! (She is; I've stood outside the door unnoticed and listened when our lessons overlapped.)

So...permission to hack. Permission to outright suck. Permission to NOT play by the rules, but just to play. And maybe if I do, I won't just get better, but I'll actually have fun doing it?

Now there's a rule I can abide by.

xxx c

Sin City

Sin City is slick and violent and over-the-top in every conceivable way, from story to prosthetics to set design. It's dark and grim (although not entirely humorless); despite its portrayal of exceptionally strong women, it's misogynistic (the strong women are either scantily-clad prostitutes or scantily-clad innocents dressed like prostitutes). It's every bit as cartoony as the comic from whence it sprang.

And yet...

And yet, that's exactly what makes it so good. I harp on about strong sense of place being my favorite feature in any particular feature, but really, that's what a great movie does: establish its own universe and hew to it like a motherfucker. Sin City is its own sleek, black-&-white (with carefully chosen flashes of color) world, darker than the darkest live-action noir, crafty and shifting and full of delicious evil and the chumps chosen to fight it.

It's not a nice world; it's not a place the squeamish will want to visit. Don't expect any big emotional involvement, either; this is a big, fat, gorgeous cartoon, and maintains a kind of formal distance as such. The Boyfriend called it disposable entertainment, and it is: for better or worse, it's not going to stick with you (and considering some of the grotesque imagery, that's probably a good thing).

But it is spectacularly realized and engaging and worth seeing, for the non-squeamish, on the big screen. With maybe a DVD rental upon release to check out what's under the hood...

xxx
c

Surfs up!

Catch a wave, kids!

The best secrets are the ones that get told (see left). (Via Old Hag, from accomodatingly.)

Seven deadly taters. (Via BoingBoing.)

Get your art on. (Evelyn Rodriguez on her always stimulating Crossroads Dispatches.)

Your rut get out of. (Via 43 Folders.)

He loooooves to rent guns!

See, I knew I found valuable life skills during my incarceration at the agency. (DesignObserver; also via kottke.org).

xxx
c

Image via PostSecret, posting fresh truths every Sunday.

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Oh, my babies...I know I've been remiss. Two whole weeks without an edition of "Searches"! Fortunately, the Googlers have been out in full force this week. Thank you, my little lost souls. May you all find your respective ways...just as soon as you've provided sufficient fodder for Friday's mill.

origin of word Happy (Yahoo)

Sneezy, Grumpy & Doc tire of dreaming up new epithets for their Prozac-popping sibling.

Ex-boyfriend, naked photos create web of woe for girl (Yahoo)

When journalists Yahoo themselves...

What it take to make a happy family (Yahoo)

Damned if I know, but whatever it is, I'll bet it's the same for all of them.

"do do that" grammatically correct (Google)

Just because it's grammatically correct doesn't make it polite.

red kryptonite class ring (Yahoo)

What Superman will not be wearing to his 10-year reunion.

"the late great Louise Fitzhugh" (Google)

Gotta love someone who conducts even their searches with respect.

"Love changes everything" graphic by Lady Virgo (Google)

Except, perhaps, the ability to find a graphic uploaded by the elusive astrological illustratrix.

hanro blogger (Google)

"And then on Friday, I spent another $50 on this other supercute pair of panties. And then on Saturday..."

bijal is a liar (Google)

And, as if that weren't bad enough, he's nowhere to be found. Perhaps he fled the building when he discovered his pants were on fire...

xxx c

The greatest smile on earth

I swore I wouldn't wear one of those bracelets, especially after they started to proliferate. But after seeing the show-and-tell at last night's Smile Train benefit at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I had to at least pop it on for the picture.

I'm veeeery skeptical about who I give my money to these days. And as a rule, in addition to low operational overhead, I steer clear of the biggies and look for charities who help people help themselves: Habitat for Humanity, Planned Parenthood, etc.

The Smile Train is one of those organizations. They provide free cleft palate surgery to underprivileged kids around the world, they train local doctors to do it for the greatest cost-effectiveness and community self-sustainedness (like that's a word) possible AND they pay all admin costs out of their own pockets.

I won't re-blog what I've already posted on b.la, go there to read the scoop (Jane Kaczmarek! Colleen's self-loathing! Random Alex Trebek slam!) in toto.

Or hell, just go here and give your money.

Now.

Seriously.

xxx
c

Best of the flyer table, II

Much as the Avid changed editing both for better and for much, much worse (back in my ad days, we called it "the version machine"), desktop publishing has forever altered the messy terrain that is the 99-seat theater's lobby flyer table. Why use a boring old photo when you can add FIVE FILTERS in Photoshop...for FREE? Why use one or two fonts to tell your story when you can get all the fonts you want on the web...for FREE?!?

In fact, why worry about creating your own image at all, just lift some JPEG off the web, rez it up and call it a day? (Okay, okay, I'll admit it, I've been I'm guilty of this one.)

The striking, solo image, simple, evocative, and laid out with taste and restraint, is getting harder and harder to find. Which is why, I guess, when I do find one, it's so striking.

The Center Theater Group's gorgeous flyer for Electricidad reminds me of the excellent images created by legendary illustrator/designer, Paul Davis. (Good WNYC interview with Davis here, where he also laments the piss-poor state of theater graphics.) John M. Valadez did the extraordinary illustration, and the designer knew enough to let it speak for itself. Great concept, beautiful execution.

Similarly, I really liked the piece for Ken Roht's Echo's Hammer, now playing at the Boston Court in Pasadena. At first I was miffed when I saw the flyer on the table: Ken is a good friend of mine, and for years, has come to me when he needs a flyer designed. In fact, in addition to being directly responsible for my pursuit of acting as art, it was Ken who got me started on the road to print design, some seven-odd years ago. (And I've heard similar stories of artistic awakening at the hand of Ken Roht from a number of people. I guess that kind of faith is to be expected from a choreographer who hires non-singing non-dancers to populate his kick-ass musicals, but still, it never ceases to amaze me.)

The illustration for Echo's Hammer by Iona Egg is simple and beautiful, and the piece itself was beautifully produced (crappy Internet rendering does it no justice, believe me). The nature of Ken's shows is very much the whole being greater than the sum of its already excellent parts; what I like about the illustration the designer chose for the show is that it isn't just a Photoshop collage of all the representative facets of the show, the art couple, the regular couple, the gigantic sculpture that's built over the course of the play, but one, simple, elegant image.

Sometimes, though, it's hard to find that image. Really, really hard. I don't usually throw down my own work as a good example of anything (except maybe the extraordinary open-mindedness of my clients), but I'm actually proud of my recent design for The Blacks and thought it might be interesting to examine why.

Typically, I'm under the gun with my designs for the Evidence Room. There are a few reasons for that: we usually choose our plays one at a time, which doesn't leave much time to let the ideas bubble up slowly from my deep, messy consciousness; also, I'm spread way too thin and free work (alas) usually ends up taking a way-back seat to commercial work and paid design work.

But we knew we were doing this production of the famous Jean Genet play last year; indeed, I'd been a part of two readings of The Blacks for director Lee Richardson starting two-and-a-half years ago (if the Crohn's wasn't a part of my life, I might even be in this particular show, but alas, the physical demands of this kind of ensemble work are too great for me nowadays). So obviously, I'd had Blacks on the brain for awhile.

Still, the image eluded me. It's a big, sprawling play with big, sprawling themes, including racism and class-ism, which make me distinctly uncomfortable (which, in turn, is exactly why we should be doing this play). But the tenor of the play is pretty gonzo: Jean Genet subtitled it "A Clown Show," after all, and rightly so.

I kept having this vague idea of an all-type treatment, but I wasn't completely sure whether it was because the idea of pickanninny art (that's "Black Americana" to you, boss) made my whitey-white skin crawl or because it was the right tool for the job. But other ideas started floating in, vaudeville and placard, specifically, and the capper came when my usual cohort in design crime at the theater also tossed out the idea of an all-type treatment. And when I mentioned the turn-of-the-century poster idea and he actually had a book in his possession with samples of just such a thing, well, it was Kismet.

Or The Blacks.

Which you should come to see, by the way. Because in the same way that true daring in design is often using less instead of more, addressing a simple, scary idea in theater can make for some gripping fucking drama.

xxx c

THE BLACKS opens May 21 at the Evidence Room 2220 Beverly Blvd (at Alvarado) Los Angeles, CA 90057 Tickets on sale now: (213) 381-7118 evidenceroom.com

I'm not dead; I'm just resting

While I definitely spent most of last week supine on various surfaces along the Central Coast of California, rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.

It had been I-Don't-Know-How-Long since I took a resting vacation. Christmas didn't count; for as much (frozen) fun as I had in Chicago, I had things I had to do as well. Resting vacation, to me, means no agenda other than no agenda; the point is not only to shift from the usual to the unusual, but to downshift significantly, which in my case usually means no to-do list, lots of rest and no electronics, save the recreational kind (and I'm talking video and audio playback devices, kids, so get your minds out of the gutter).

Of course, I dragged along enough Relaxation Aids for year-long sabbatical: three books and a clutch of articles torn from old Vanity Fair (visions of me catching up on my reading); guitar and mandolin (visions of me & The Boyfriend having a hootenanny on the motel balcony); my sketchbook; a notebook; and, between me & The B.F., a stack of DVDs that would make the check-in clerk at Blockbuster break into a cold sweat.

This, of course, is the grown-up equivalent of lugging home all your textbooks for spring break: if you don't have them, you'll feel their absence keenly; if you do, you can leave them to molder away in the corner, untouched, with blithe disregard.

We slept...a lot. We ate...a lot less than we do at home, actually, and far better. We met up with some friends I made on my last trip up the coast. In short, gentle reader, we did for five days what I've learned I must do more of all the time: not much of anything, and only when we felt like it.

Some rest easily and often. Cats are notoriously good at this, I've noticed; small babies, too, before they start to suspect that perhaps they're missing out on some madcap adult hilarity when they hit the hay (note to kids: you are, but don't worry: there's more where that came from, and the cultural references will be funnier when it's your at-bat).

I had always hoped that when I left my 9-to-5, I'd leave my workaholic tendencies along with it, but no such luck. While I've gotten a mite better at carving out rest time since my epiphany, I'm a long, long way from being zenmistress of anything. Besides, I actually like to work; it's no hardship for me to spend hours/days/weeks plugging away at the thing I love. One of the things The BF (who shares my love of work, among other things) and I discussed was whether there were ways to thread rest through work, or work through rest, more efficiently than we have done to date. Going offsite seems to offer a greater opportunity to work well, but not non-stop. A stripped-down laptop and rental condo provide the necessary tools without the customary distractions, which, in turn (theoretically, anyway), are replaced by new attractions that might prove restorative: a beach to walk between three-hour work jags; a grocery store you can't shop on autopilot; a restaurant to repair to after a workday that actually ends rather than bleeding into the next calendar day.

Because if resting vacation is no agenda whatsoever, vacation itself is a shift from the ordinary, a modified agenda, or one's usual agenda, relocated. And that can mean anything from a hedonistic sun-and-fun junket to working at a coffee shop on the other side of town (with your cell phone turned off, if you usually leave it on). I've returned from an afternoon of the latter better rested than I have from a week of the former, and not just because I burn easily. I think I probably require more rest than I'm willing to admit to myself, and (for those on modest budgets, anyway) it's easier stolen in small chunks here and there, 90 minutes at the movies, a couple of hours at a museum, a work-week's time in a nearby cheap motel, than it is in expensive two-week increments.

It's also easier to justify when cost is low and/or tax-deductible, and if there's one thing that has no place on a vacation, it's guilt.

Still, every so often in the off-season, when the crowds are thin and the rates are low, it's nice to nothing much at all. Next (rest) stop: Palm Springs.

In August, of course. And maybe on assignment...

xxx c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢: all-Google edition

Wherein the blogger, weary from a 12-hour day of hoisting a prop Betamax camera to her shoulder for repeated takes, leeches humor of off random Googlers who had the misfortune to land at communicatrix.com. using a Rube Goldberg's Wacky Machine how would you make a cup of coffee (Google)

Alarm clock shakes taut string > pulling spoon lever > springing superball loose > hitting ping-pong paddle > swatting cymbal-playing monkey > which wakes slumbering man > who hurls monkey against the wall, gets up and heads to Starbucks for a double-shot latté.

"toenail polish" "what is" "best color" (Google)

"personally" "I like" "a good orangey red"

"Sew your own Curtains" (Google)

Don't tell me what to do!

history of antifreeze,1936,sierra madre movie (Google)

Either I missed something in my last viewing or that's the multitasking-est surfer I've ever seen.

powerpoint colonoscopy jpeg (Google)

I don't know, but you've given me an idea for invigorating my moribund presentation graphics business...

meaning Colleen (Google)

My parents told me it meant "pretty girl," thus creating in me a lifelong distrust of authority and more neuroses than you can shake an ugly stick at.

Hunting the muse,Eharmony,Match.com (Google)

If you're seeking artistic inspiration on the two worst dating websites in existence, you have bigger problems than where your next great novel is coming from.

on being me (Google)

If you're trying to google your way to that, we're all lost...

xxx c

3 Women

I don't know if it's possible to make a film like 3 Women anymore. Even Robert Altman seems to have problems making Robert Altman films these days: studios aren't falling over themselves to fork over money, even relatively small hunks of it, for a movie with no script and no stars based on a decidedly low-concept pitch. But this was the 1970s, thank god, and Altman had the Hollywood currency to score the money and people he needed to follow a hunch out to the California desert.

He describes his process of (literally) dreaming up this "painting with music" on the commentary track of the 2004 Criterion DVD release of the picture, and from the dream that started it to the pitch to Fox it's one of the more interesting peeks under the tent it's been my time-sucking pleasure to experience in awhile.

Altman calls it a story about identity theft, which it is, on the surface: an odd, waifish girl (Sissy Spacek) latches onto another lost soul (Shelley Duvall), who has herself cobbled together a sad simulacrum of a life from the instructive example of women's magazines, TV and other fleeting media impressions. But it is as much a story of authenticity and connection (and the sorrow in the lack of it) as anything.

It takes trust and courage (and maybe a touch of lunacy, these days) to live a Real Life, much as it takes the same collection of traits (plus maybe a touch more lunacy) to make a film this way. There's no room for ego in a real life, and while there's obviously some ego involved in shepherding a gigantic project from conception through to completion, that ego has to step out of the way when it's time to actually tell the story. Altman describes a level of collaboration and openness in the assemblage of 3 Women that seems extraordinary for any director, especially one of his stature. He's hardly humble, a humble man doesn't walk into Alan Ladd's office and ask for a million-five to make a picture about identity theft with relative unknowns. But he's got enough confidence in his own voice to let other voices make themselves heard where it will be helpful.

For instance, Altman talks at length about Duvall's talent in playing the excruciatingly sad Millie, a self-deluded, universally ignored (if not despised) worker at a low-end desert "health" spa who thinks pre-packaged shrimp cocktail is the height of casual dinner party elegance, as her ability to show "the pink side": that soft, tender part of us that makes us so vulnerable, we never willingly show it to anyone. And she does, making a fool of herself over and over again for the full length of the picture without ever winking at it or playing the clown. It's almost unbearable to watch at times, just seeing her full yellow skirt caught in the door of her bright yellow Pinto every time she climbs in is enough to break your heart, and yet you can't look away: her sweetness and truth is that unusual and that compelling.

While the individual elements and their alchemic combination are just about perfect there's still a good lot of arty-farty to get through in 3 Women. I wish there was a way to turn off the atonal soundtrack Altman was so taken with, and as the story devolves into full-on surrealism in the third act, I confess to becoming a little agitated and distracted. But, flawed though it is (and it's not bumping Nashville off my Top 20 list anytime soon), i am still, some 20-odd years after first viewing 3 Women, moved to revisit this odd little filmic tone poem.

Besides, with the advent of DVD subtitling-on-demand, I can finally catch all that good Altman dialogue I missed in the theater...

xxx
c

ADDITIONAL TECHNORATI TAGS: Robert Altman, 1970s film, Shelley Duvall

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢: Jeopardy edition

Yeah, I posted almost nothing of substance this week. You wanna pick a fight or you wanna see the freakshow? I figured as much.

calories in a blooming onion outback (MSN)

What is 'If you have to ask, step away from the dessert bar'?

what does nsa mean? and craig's list (Yahoo)

What is "someone is in for an interesting date Saturday night"?

I hated Spanglish (Google)

What is 'the benchmark of discerning taste'?

Ryan Seacrest versus Simon (MSN)

What is 'the imminent sissy fight that keeps 21 million viewers glued to the set in the absence of genuine talent or competition'?

butt doctor (Google)

What is 'a surprisingly effective schoolyard taunt when combined with "Your daddy is a (--------)!!!"'?

colleen (google.fr)

Q'est-ce que c'est 'Magnifique!'?

the colorectal surgeon sing a long song, chords,tabs (Google)

What is 'Hollywood Bowl concerts that will not be repeated'?

DANIEL JOHNSTON WELLNESS (Yahoo)

What is 'a contradiction in terms'?

TWOFER BONUS LIGHTNING ROUND:

'image of duck smashing computer' (Google) duck smashing pc clip art (Google)

What is "Artwork that the ironically-challenged find hilarious"?

AND THE FINAL QUESTION IN TODAY'S TWISTED LITTLE GAME:

buy now pay later (Yahoo)

What is "What the American Public Did On November 4th, 2004"?

xxx c