Wig Out

Save your personal trainer's contact in your phone.
It's Friday!

Turns out writing a play isn't that hard.
Now we'll see how hard it is to direct one.
I have already decided to get a bullhorn. No, really.
Soon, I'll be bellowing "emote, goddamn you!" into it.
That should get some results.
The kids really loved it.
Of course, they're in grade eight, so what do they know?
At that age all of the new toxins being introduced to the body from underarm deodorant alone must cloud their judgements.
The teachers loved it, too.
They said I must have "tapped into" some high school kids to write it.
They're wrong unless "tapped into" means "dated".
Wait, wait. We have to strike that one.
I told myself I wouldn't make any statutory rape jokes while this play is happening.
Y'know, for the kids.
They might get a kick out of them, sure. But just because they consent to the joke doesn't make it okay.
Does not. We'd all do well to remember that.
Anyway, the thing has been cast and some of them seem like they're going to be great so long as they don't start playing hockey between now and showtime.
It's exciting, I guess.
It's exciting to affect other people. I keep forgetting.

It's incredible what a wig can do.
Just because you wear whatever counts as an Ugg Boot these days with pajama pants doesn't change the fact that you're dressed like laundry day.
Sorry, a woman in Starbucks distracted me.
(not the first time)
"I look shitty? I don't think so, buddy. This is a trend."
Anyway, yes. Pardon me.
Wigs!

Andie's boss invited me on down to the ABBA how-do.
Gave me a staff steak and some cream puffs, too.
Sweet guy.
They were doing sound check as I arrived and was squished into a table with several Andie co-workers whose names I had certainly forgotten since the Christmas staff party.
The ABBA cover group was doing sound check, that is. Not my fellow diners.
My impression of them then? They sounded great.
Three female vocalists. Two dudes on strings and keys.
Sevens across the board for all five of them.
However, come showtime, the ladies were all wearing real sparkly tops and they were all in wigs.
All of a sudden? 9.5s.
That's 9.5 on two beer. Imagine if I'd drank as much as I really wanted to at the time.
If I had been pissy-eyed on the gin I would've made a real scene.
I would have been the only seated audience member on his feet.
They fuckin' nailed it. What a great show.
So, what have we learned here?
Well, that's obvious:
1) Interacting with kids allows you yourself to feel young, and
2) When she's wearing a wig, you don't know who you're fuckin'.

A Pen Short, A Day Late

Oh, of course it'll be a happy blog again, eventually.
But not today!
I'm mostly transcribing this here because I can't find a goddamn pen in this entire house and there are no Staples(es) nearby from which to steal some.
That's how I get all of my pens.
If you've ever purchased a 12-box of Bics from Staples only to find eleven inside, I sincerely apologize.
Sorta sincerely.
A bit tired after some steak and beer.
I'll tell you a bit about an ABBA cover band and the play's reception soon (the grade 8 reception).

I had to edit this post soon after writing it because I rudely left out tonight's entertainment. 

Once again-swingers all having sex with each other and now musical legends-you know the name!

Y'know, I think maybe it's just sort of fun to look at.

Capital letters that smoosh together really well. 

Perhaps that's the key to their success. 

Anyway, sorry about the one-and-a-half minute intro in the video. 

It's almost as long as mine has been. 

...ABBA everybody:

Play Time

Your Friend Has Recently Died Pro-Tip #1:
Don't commit to anything more complicated than an obituary. 

I'm at the ass-end of Bay Roberts, surrounded by the homemade aprons, wondering how I got myself into this mess, and indeed, how I'm gonna get out of it. 

See, Sarah died.

So, I looked at that and told myself, "Life is finite. Time is precious. Friends are everything. Sarah looks gross as a dead body."

Then I told her former class and teachers that I would write and direct a school play for them because Sarah was supposed to do it. 

Write it!

"Don't bother being the adult, anybody. Leave that to me.

We all  know how good I am at that."

But they don't know. That's the real ruse that's unfolding, here. 

This was, in all likelihood, a bad idea. 

I've never written a play before. 

I haven't really read that many, either. 

And it's not even like it's a play for adults. 

A play for adults would be easy; you establish a likeable character and then give them AIDS. 

Simple. 

But with junior high kids, you have to have a message in there. 

Me, delivering a message to the youth. 

Alright, here's a message:

When your friend dies, don't commit to anything more complicated than an obituary. 

However, from beyond the ether, Sarah manages to inspire me. 

Learning that she claimed she would write a play last year, only to have left it too late, thus forcing her to purchase a play instead. 

For example.

Remembering that she only concluded the play the year before that because I helped her edit it and make it good, for another example. 

As Andie mentioned this morning, "If Sarah can walk and talk..."

But what do I do when she can't do those things any more?

Well, for the time being, it seems I get myself into sticky situations. 

It's gonna be cool!

I write the thing and take some competing school's drama teacher to bed. 

Who knows?!

Sky's the limit. 

At the very least, I might comfort myself with the reminder that grieving suckers can back out of things really easily. 

I just have to get morose and say, "I'm just not feeling up to it."

Worked with my student loans.

The King and I

Let me tell you something about myself and commitments:
We don't see one another all that often.
Oh, we'll run into each other at the mall sometimes, or down at the salon.
It's all terse conversation and downcast eyes, though.
As if we fucked one another's husbands before they were our husbands.
I don't have a problem with commitments.
I just have trouble (you guessed it!) committing to them.

I'm re-reading King's Needful Things.
This happened accidentally, but perhaps that's alright.
Most of you may not know this, but I read Stephen King (exclusively) for about...grade seven...five years.
Jesus, is Stephen King on Twitter, I wonder? I hope not.
I'm kidding, I hope so. Let's get him on over here!
I couldn't tell you why I read this man and no other.
The novels made me feel adult when I was young.
They were adult for a twelve-year old, I suppose. Especially when my classmates were still reading Fear Street.
Beyond grade nine, though...I guess I continued reading only Stephen King because I didn't get that there were other books
(Karma Sutra!)
to read.
Also, I read The Stand and It, both of which, at my pace, likely took a year.
I 'grew out of him', as they say, but I'm glad I'm revisiting Castle Rock.
That much macabre, you'd think I'd be writing about ostracized girls telepathically killing the cheerleading squad, but here we are.
Talking about me.
However, there are minute stylizations that I now realize I borrowed (stole) from him.
(My love of parentheses probably being the most obvious.)
I like Stephen King. That is, within the only capacity I have ever known him.
I'd like to meet him one day, shake his hand.
Thank him for teaching me the importance of reading during math class, without his ever having to tell me so.
All this time dreaming of being a novelist, and I have never read his non-fictional On Writing.
It's the next paperback I'll pick up...

We used to travel to Maine a lot when we were young. Back when we were still a Motorhome Family.
When the sun rose on September, I would tell my classmates that we drove to Stephen King's house, although we never did.
We didn't have his address.

That's What You Shrink

Tomorrow, I meet my therapist.
Or 'Bereavement Counsellor'.
He'd better be attractive.
I'm so sick of homely, qualified professionals everywhere I go.
I'm unsure of his credentials, but I'll get back to you on that.
I'll also grab a couple of photos of his office.
See what kind of dirt we can dig up on this guy.

Oh, I've been okay. How about you?
You know you're fucked up emotionally when you feel moved by the lyrics of Total Eclipse of the Heart.
That song should only ever make you feel like you deserve to be even drunker than you already are.
I'm sure that's how Bonnie Tyler looks at it.

We're not giving ferns enough credit.
The flora, that is; not women named Fern.

I'm sad, sure.
But it's the days when I feel nothing in particular that I worry about.

Just how much have our parents damaged us?

I haven't driven enough sports cars.

How much better is Lena Dunham's writing than my own, really?
Considerably, as it turns out.
Still though, mine's not bad.

Sometimes, when I was feeling down, I'd ask her to "tell me I'm good."
And she always did.
I am good.
You're all good, too.

...Oh fuck it, we'll put in the music video for good measure.