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what I’m watching

Oh. Man.

Tonight, I’m watching “Jesus Christ Superstar,” the original movie from 1973. I say all that to differentiate it from the also-available on DVD 2000 video remake, uhm, which I’ve also recently watched. See, what you all don’t know is that for the last maybe three months, “Jesus Christ Superstar” has been tearing through my life in a way it hasn’t done since I was a kid. It is now a raging firestorm and I’m willingly standing in the middle of the red-hot blaze. There is much to say. MUCH to say about JCS: My history with JCS. The impact on my little sheltered life. Comparing various versions — uh, which I’m currently doing.

On our recent road trip, I stuck a JCS CD in during the long, mind-numbing stretch through the high desert and sang all the parts. More than once. Even when Jesus and Judas sing over each other: One of my twelve chosen will leave to betray me — Cut out the dramatics, you know very well WHO — why don’t you go do it — you want me to do it — hurry, they’re waiting — if you knew why I do it — I don’t care why you do it …… Um, yeah. Even then. It was appalling and self-indulgent and along the way, MB died — literally, he is DEAD and I had to dig his grave in the high Sierras with a spoon I found between the seat cushions — but on a positive note, it was also totally worth it. I needed to sing Jesus and Judas. I needed to scream:

ALLLLLLL RIIIIIIIIGHHHHT!!! I’LLLLL DIIIIIIIE!
JUST WATCH ME DIIIIIIE!!
SEEE-EE-EE-EE, SEEE HOW I DIII-I-I-I-E!

I just DID. Now, of course, I didn’t think MB would take it as a hint and cack it on me, but at least the last sounds he heard were the familiar, dulcet tones of me tormenting him. So I’m pretty sure he was happy. Or at least comfortable. Well, death probably seemed a lot like life to him, is all I’m saying.

But now. Watch out, peeps. It’s coming. The JCS train is on da tracks, barreling towards you. There’s no hope for you, I’m afraid: It’s either jump off the tracks or climb on board!

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more “fantasticks”

Let’s see. I have mentioned this production here. And here. And now here.

This photo. Lord. Years of romantic entanglements, disentanglements, and obsessions all collide in this one photo, this one moment from “The Fantasticks,” sophomore year in college.

The scene in a nutshell: Henry and Mortimer are attempting to abduct Luisa; Matt is fighting for his love with a xylophone mallet while The Mute looks on, ah, mute.
fantasticks.jpg

Okay. That’s me in the middle, with the codfish mouth, giving the fellers a hernia. On the left of the photo is S. And during this show, he is just S. But a few magical years down the line, we will fall weirdly in love; he will take this photo of me; we will break up, get back together, break up FOR GOOD, dammit!; then he will stalk me all the way back to San Diego — which, naturally, will make me swoon and keep me swooning to the point where he becomes Fiance #2. One must never underestimate the allure of the stalker. Later, there will be a much-needed epiphany where I realize that our insanities are not compatible and I will send him packing back to Seattle.

In the middle, wielding the xylophone mallet of death, is Billy Tom Bobby. That is his name and you must just accept it. He was Matt to my Luisa and I fell so so so deeply in love with him. In fact, I’m sure I am in love with him even in this exact moment captured on film. I bet I’m thinking, “Ohhhhhh! How I wish stupid S and stupid M would just UNHAND me and that the audience would go away and quit bothering me and expecting me to do stuff so that I could make out RIGHT NOW behind the curtains with my future husband, Billy Tom Bobby!”

I mean, I was desperately, insanely, in love with him. And he liked me quite a bit, too. He would call me “titwillow” in funny voice and, you know, I didn’t even think it was a boob joke. I just thought it was a funny word from a funny guy who should make out with me RIGHT NOW! He was very talented — and talent always got me. So, all it takes is talent and “titwillow” and I’m pretty much gone, it seems. But when he decided he didn’t like me so much anymore, I pined for him for much much longer than he was worth.

And finally ….. on the right. The fellow on the right. That’s M. We were mutually obsessed. He was obsessed with me and I was obsessed with, well, anyone and everyone else. He followed me around and leered at me and once …. he even wrote a very memorable song for me. And I really think the song says it all.

Wait. While we’re at it. On the far right is C. She was desperate to play Luisa. Instead, she is The Mute and she is silently plotting my death.

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once upon a time

1989. I was obsessed with Mandy Patinkin’s version of this song. I would listen and ache and love the aching.

And I still love this song.

Once upon a time
A girl with moonlight in her eyes
Put her hand in mine
And said she loved me so
But that was once upon a time
Very long ago

Once upon a hill
We sat beneath a willow tree
Counting all the stars and waiting for the dawn
But that was once upon a time
Now the tree is gone

How the breeze ruffled through her hair
How we always laughed as though tomorrow wasn’t there
We were young and didn’t have a care
Where did it go?

Once upon a time
The world was sweeter than we knew
Everything was ours
How happy we were then
But somehow once upon a time
Never comes again

Once upon a time
Never comes again

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I live in my own little world

There are things I see ’round here on these Innernets — things I just don’t understand. I lack basic awareness, you see, of the world around me. I’m not cool. I’m not modern. Or in touch. Unless touchy counts. Not touchy-feely, because that’s icky. Just touchy. Also, I’m not hip. “Hip”? Do people say hip? No, Tracey, no, they do not, you sad little cow.

So, that being said or whined or whatever, will someone please tell me:

What is “teh”?

Why, just today, I saw ricki comment that something was “teh awesome!”

And, well, let me be honest. When I first saw “teh” many months ago, I thought it was maybe a typo for “the.” But I don’t know anymore. And it really doesn’t seem to fit here, does it? Do you say something is “the awesome”? Well, maybe you do. Which means I’m desperately behind the times. Not surprising, since I don’t even have basic cable. But then I thought, “Hm … maybe it’s a letter in the Hebrew alphabet,” You know, the letter teh. Not to offend my Jewish friends with my ignorance here. Sorry, Jesus and all. Plus, a swift, furtive Googling on the Hebrew alphabet proves one wrong on that score. Still, I don’t know. I really don’t know. As I said, I’m really not cool or modern or in touch or hip.

So what teh heck is teh?

And what did I just say??

Also, someone please enlighten me on:

“Clutch” — what is “clutch”? Because that same thing that ricki described as “teh awesome,” was later proclaimed to be “so clutch!” by one Sheila O’Malley

And these are my references for clutch:

a car thingy

“A clutch play”

“Evil clutches”

(Although, the phrase wasn’t “That is so clutches!” which almost sounds like it’s someone’s name and you’re saying something like “That is so Paris” or “That is so Britney.” You know: “That is so Clutches!” Which isn’t what it was at all and I digress, but maybe that’s what it should be, if you think about it, which I need to stop doing.)

Oh, and I also have this last reference for “clutch”:

“a brood of chickens”

But, then, I doubt if one would exclaim: “That is SO a brood of chickens!”

Although, I don’t know. I really do not.

So please help. Someone.

I would really like to be cool.

And modern.

“In touch.”

Even hip.

Mostly, I would really like to be “teh awesome” and “clutch.”

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bookypants

Okay. Everyone is doing this meme. And I’d hate to be a joiner. But I’d hate to whine about being left behind, too. So I’ll just be a jhiner. A whoiner. And do the freakin’ meme already.

From Sheila.

What are you reading right now?

I’m reading Seven Gothic Tales by Isak Dinesen.

Do you have any idea what you’ll read when you’re done with that?

Well, there are Seven Tales, you see, and that’s quite a lot, so I’ll probably read something shorter.

What magazines do you have in your bathroom right now?

You mean, apart from the magazines for MB’s 9mm handgun that he chased me around the house with the other day?* Oh, well, let’s see, there’s that and oh, a mixed-media magazine. It is a pretty pretty pony and I love it.

* I am totally kidding. I chased him.

What’s the worst thing you were ever forced to read?

I remember hating Giants in the Earth, by Olefarrrken Hedda Gabler Rooodevarggge. I’m pretty sure that’s the dude’s name. But I don’t remember why I hated it so much. Also — that chapter on Commedia dell’Arte in my “History of Theatre” textbook scarred me forever. I hate you, Pantalone. Get away from me, you perv, with your giant crippling codpiece and your hooky penis mask. You sicken me.

What’s the one book you always recommend to just about everyone?

Oh, Giants in the Earth, for sure. I mean, I read it, so I want everyone else to read it and remind me why I hated it.

I also seem to recommend lots of Philip Yancey, my Disco-Stu Christian boyfriend.

Admit it, the librarians at your library know you on a first name basis, don’t they?

Well, one does, but I’m not going back til she leaves or dies because instead of greeting me with a cheery hello, she seems to like to scowl at me and bark, “Tracey, you need to pay up. You have $14 in late fees” and niggling stuff like that.

So I just started to feel unwelcome, you know?

And I mostly buy books now, because when you check out a book and love it and then have to give it back? Well, it’s like giving back a cute wiggly puppy, I say. Why do you think I owe Marion the Mean Librarian $14??

Is there a book you absolutely love, but for some reason, people never think it sounds interesting, or maybe they read it and don’t like it at all?

Well, I became very obsessed with Over the Edge of the World by Laurence Bergreen last year and I would go around saying, “Oh, you have just GOT to read this book about Magellan! I am telling you!” And people would either say, “Eh?” or “Who’s Magellan?” or “Lady, my dad will be here any minute to pick me up.” So, it didn’t seem to go over real well. Weirdos.

Do you read books while you eat? While you bathe? While you watch movies or TV? While you listen to music? While you’re on the computer? While you’re having sex? While you’re driving?

Suuure, all the time. Everywhere! And MB prefers that I read whilst having sex.

When you were little, did other children tease you about your reading habits?

No. I was teased more about my perpetually red burning face habit. And my dressing habits.

What’s the last thing you stayed up half the night reading because it was so good you couldn’t put it down?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

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snint #1

“SNINT” is a brief in machine steno for the word “incident.” Somehow, I’ve always had a soft spot for that brief and still sometimes use it as if it’s English. Maybe it’s because it’s close to snit or something. Maybe it’s because I’m a loon. But …. nah. It’s empirically good. I think that’s what it is. Really. Give it a try. Say it: Snint. Snint. Snnnint.

S’nice, isn’t it?

Anyhoo.

This last week or so at Boheme positively bubbled over with unpleasant snints. And I need to purge the memory of these wretched snints by dumping them on you, thereby lessening my burden. Okay? Great.

SNINT #1:

A busy morning. I’m by myself. All my ceramic plates are being used — and I don’t really have that many. Man comes in, orders a coffee and a danish on a plate. I tell him, “I’m sorry. All my plates are being used. Can I put it in a bag for you? He scowls while I go get his coffee. When I turn back to him, he’s holding a dirty plate, sticky and lumpy from a previous danish, obviously. “Well, uhm, I found this in that bus tub. Couldn’t you just wash it for me?”

Washing plates involves leaving the area and going to the back, so I usually don’t do it when I’m alone. Plus, uh, DUDE, you’re sticking a dirty plate in my face! Are you so offended at the prospect of a paper bag that you’d rather fondle someone else’s dirty plate and wait while I wash it off for you? And, also …. well, what is your problem???

I just stare at him.

“Couldn’t you just wash it?” he repeats.

I look down at the gooey mess and I literally don’t know what to say. Some days, I have no fight in me; other days, watch out. This day I just sigh and mutter, “Just a minute.” I disappear around the corner and wash his pissy plate — taking my time, in a nice, passive-aggressive way. I resist the urge to wipe a little spit on there while I dry it.

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snint #2

The day after Snint #1.

Okay. Little Boheme takes up a space that is basically the foyer of the wine lounge that’s open at night when I’m closed. In one corner of my space, there’s a glass door that leads into the wine lounge. (These details are so engrossing, Tracey. Please tell us more!) Just beyond that, on the right wall, is the door to the bathroom. Given my close proximity to the street and the fact that the bathroom doesn’t need a key to get into, I’m constantly having to police who goes in there. Lots of Hobo Joes wandering up from the canyons. Lots of hipsters who know the lounge has a bathroom. Lots of people who just breeze rightpastme, never acknowleding my presence, and use the bathroom. The Overlord refuses to put up a “Bathroom for Customer Use Only” sign, and yet, I’m expected to be the guard dog at the door, barking at people, telling them, “Hey! Customers only, Slappy!” Because Overlord is worried about the wine on the wine racks in the lounge, you see. I, however, am not. Not my wine, not my problem. Put locking cabinets in there if you’re that worried about thieving Hobo Joes.

So let’s just say I’m rather hit and miss about Potty Patrol, quite frankly. If it’s a pregnant woman, she gets a pass. If it’s a shriveled old man, he gets a pass. If I’m busy with a customer, the Pee-er or Poo-er will probably get a pass only because I’m preoccupied.

But this particular day …

It was early afternoon. Not a big coffee time of the day. I was actually sitting behind the espresso machine, doing paperwork. And lest you think I was diligently attending to businessy-type papers — ah, no. I was literally working with paper. There were paints and paint brushes and strips of paper.

A large fellow saunters right past me, through the wine lounge door, and into the bathroom. Not a word. Not a grunt. Not even a glance my way. I do not exist.
Several minutes go by. He comes back out. Without a word. Without a “thank you.” Without anything but a quick tug at his pants. Which is what can make life so unbearable sometimes, don’t you think? Those millions of teensy differences between how you think people should be and how they actually are. I find it all deeply discouraging.

So, knee-jerk, I decide to say something to him. He’s a step or two outside the building but I say — as politely as possible — oh, and this is key: My innocence and general all-emcompassing goodness in this scenario cannot possibly be overstated, mmkay? So I say, “Uh, sir, just to let you know for future reference, the bathroom is for customers only.”

He stops, turns, glares at me and walks on. But only a couple paces. Then he turns around and marches back towards me, face scrunched in anger. Oh, goodie, I think.

He stops at the counter and I notice again that he is very tall. In that moment, I’m grateful for the 6″ tall pallets that I’m standing on. I silently bless the dumpster behind Ikea from whence these were quickly and cleverly stolen because they’re very handy, make my job easier because the espresso cart is high, AND make me feel tough and bitchen in the face of imminent ass-hattery like this.

“What did you say?” he demands.

“I’m sorry. The bathroom is for customers only. It’s the policy of the owner of the building.”

Annnnd he’s off:

“How dare you say that to me! I AM a customer! I come here once a week for my group. Don’t you recognize me?”

Honestly, I didn’t. If he comes to a group, he comes sporadically. Oh, and may I add that his assumption that coming once a week and dropping a buck seventy on coffee gives him a lifetime poo pass is just precious to me?

“Um, sir. I see lots of people during a day and –”

He interrupts me.

“You do NOT understand! I need the bathroom! I am sick! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I am FECALLY INCONTINENT! When I have to go, I only have like 30 seconds to find a bathroom or I will have an accident! I ran in here because I HAD TO GO!”

I try to speak. Maybe talk to him about a quality product called Depends. But he barrels right over me.

“I mean, do you think I left the place in a mess? Is that what you think? Because I didn’t. I didn’t. What — do you think I’m homeless or something? I’m NOT! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I AM FECALLY INCONTINENT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT??? You totally hurt my feelings and offended me!!”

Oh, brother.

OH, FECALLY INCONTINENT BROTHER!!

Sweet Jesus, will you strike him dead now, just for me, your favorite?

Or alternatively, will you fill my bowels with poo o’plenty that I may pull down my pants and plop on his head?

I mean, I’d be good either way.

But no. No death. No poo-plop. Drat. Instead, I resort to the tired solution of hopeless idealists everywhere: TALKING RATIONALLY. I keep trying to interject, trying to get him to see reason. No, I don’t think you’re homeless, blahblah. No, I don’t think you left a mess, yaddiedoo. It’s just the policy of the building and I get to be the enforcer, yippieskip. Sorry about your butt, etc., etc.

And he just keeps at me, for about 10 minutes.

Mr. Fecally Incontinent is, apparently, fecally incontinent at both ends.

Sad.

And messy.

I don’t know why I let him go on so long. I am just worn down, I guess. When he leaves, I start to cry. At least the little mole man who’s been sitting there sipping his coffee and silently LISTENING TO ALL OF THIS is sympathetic now that the big scary man is gone and he will not be killed by speaking up on a woman’s behalf. And isn’t that nice?

When I call MB later, he says, “Point him out so I can kill him.”

(More to come on this. It’s an ongoing Snint.)

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snint #3

These are chronological. Note my progressive spiral into apathy and aggression.

Dude and his girlfriend walk in.

DUDE: I’m in a big hurry. Can I get a decaf?

ME: Oh, I’m so sorry. I just ran out and need to brew. Can you wait a couple minutes?

DUDE: No, I’m in a hurry. Just give me a decaf Americano.

ME: Okay.

I start on the drink. The girlfriend is trying to decide what she wants. She’s talking it over with him, I guess.

DUDE: Oh, hey. Can you put a little bit of foam on that drink?

Now, it was early in the morning. I didn’t have any foam because I hadn’t made any drinks yet that needed it — no lattes or cappuccinos. And I don’t just make foam and leave it languishing on the counter, hoping someone will want it. It’s against health code. And it’s gross. So it’s made on a per drink basis and an Americano is espresso and water, doesn’t take foam. Plus, he had said he was in a hurry, right? Okay.

ME: Oh. Well, I don’t have any made right now, so it will take a few more moments to make, is that okay?

DUDE (leaning over the counter and scowling at me): Look, I’m just asking for some service, all right? And you’re acting like it’s some big deal to make me some foam. How can you not have any foam made yet? I mean, what time did you open? Look. Okay. Just forget it. I don’t want the drink. Just give me my money back. What was it for our drinks? Four-something?

ME: Sir, I can make the foam — it’s not a problem — you just said you were in a hurry.

DUDE: No! Just forget it!

ME: Okay. Here’s 5 bucks back. This is my place and I think you should go now, okay?

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snint #4

Early in the morning the day after Snint #3, a guy comes in with his friends who are visiting from the East Coast. They order drinks and go out to the bamboo patio in back. After about a half an hour, I decide to go check on them, see how they’re doing. You know, be courteous and such.

I walk out to the patio and stand at the top of the steps.

“How’s everything going out here? Do you need anything?”

The guy looks around the patio and whines, “Wellll, there’s lots of flllies out here this morning. Can’t you doooo something about that?”

For a split-second, I just stare at him. Then — I really can’t say why — I just start flailing my arms this way and that, like a crazy person.

“Uhm, how’s that?”

The guy looks at me, agape. His friends giggle. I turn and walk back to the front of the store.