Category: etc.

… but do I spy with my little eye something horribly awry?

(Does anyone else see it? And please don’t feel the need to explain it to me; I get it. I just don’t like it.)

This dude from Rockstar Supernova is freaking me out:

Because ……

He is clearly the secret lovechild of two actors I looooooaathe.

Billy Zane:

And — look away first — deep breath and — “gird your loins, people!”

Clint Howard:

Extra Smug Points to anyone who can name the artists of the two pieces in my “Faces” below.

Anyone? 😉

Another repost from last summer’s drama camp.

_________________________

I thought/I spoke

Yesterday at the end of draahhhma camp, came this conversation:

Mother: Trevor is very upset. He says he’s NOT in the play!

(I Thought: Trevor is being a little drama queen.)
I Spoke: Trevor is in the play.

Mother: He says he’s not. He doesn’t have any lines.

(I Thought: Yup. That’s right. This is theatre; you gotta earn it.)
I Spoke: Well, no, he doesn’t have any lines. The kids were told they needed to audition if they wanted a speaking part or solo. Trevor didn’t audition, but he’s definitely in the show.

Mother: Well, I can’t believe that. He loves this sort of thing.

(I Thought: Hunh. Funny, I did NOT get that sense from his constant rolling on the floor.)
I Spoke: Well, that’s great. I’m sure he does. It would be great to see a little more of that.

Mother: Well, can’t you just give him a line anyway?

(I Thought: NO.)
I Spoke: I believe all the lines are taken by kids who auditioned for a speaking part.

Mother: So he can’t have a line?

(I Thought: NO! I’M NOT IN THE HABIT OF GIVING SOMETHING FOR NOTHING HERE, ESPECIALLY TO A KID WHO’S DONE NOTHING BUT ROLL AROUND ON HIS ASS AND BEEN NOTHING BUT A PAIN IN MINE.)
I Spoke: Well, if one of the lines becomes available, I’d likely hold “mini auditions” for it, so there’s always that possibility.

Mother: Well, he’s just so upset.

(I Thought: (BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!!!!!!)
I Spoke: Well, perhaps you can talk to him tonight about why he chose not to audition and encourage him to do so if another opportunity comes up.

I moved my mouth, hoping to find the shape of a smile. I doubt that I did. Mother stared at me, confused; walked away, confused. I could read her mind:

“What?! I don’t get what I want just because I want it, I really, REALLY want it?! Waaaahhhh!!!”

Whatever.

Drama queens.

I wasn’t able to do drama camp this summer. The facility we normally use just jerked us around, wanting more money than they’ve ever taken, and it became too late to find another location. I’m quite sad about it, actually, but I suppose there’s always next summer.

So I thought I’d give some of you who might be newer readers a little retrospective on LAST year’s insanity. (And “retrospective” is really just street for rerun. All da peeps are sayin’ it. True dat.)

So let’s start with Day 1 of last year’s camp. Here’s the post if you missed it.
______________________________________________________

“if you can’t act, BEHAVE!!”

Can I say this? I rather dread the first day of drama camp. And today was the first day of drama camp.

There’s always too much drama.

There’s always the Poor, Fretful Chile who didn’t choose camp; it was chosen for her. Not sure which one she is? Oh, well, she’s the one coming unglued over in the corner. And is that her mother with her, consoling her? Nope, that’s me, trying to brainwash this child into believing that “drama camp will be fun, fun, fun and it’s just the ticket for a jittery kid like you!!”

Then there’s always the Bratty Boy; the boy that says, “Ew. There aren’t any boys at this camp, only girls. Eww. I don’t wanna do this. Ewwww. This SUCKS.” So where is Bratty Boy now? Oh, he’s lying down over there in another corner. Guess he’s just plumb tuckered out from all that participatin’ he’s doin’. Or he’s drunk. Frankly, I’d rather he lie there than bother the rest of camp.

Then there’s always the Little Girl in Floozy Makeup, the one whose naturally beautiful, shining face has been frosted and glossed and rouged past innocence into a macabre rainbow of wrongness. So where is the little rainbow now? Well, I wish I could say she was in the bathroom with a washcloth, making the world right again, but, alas, she’s loudly centerstage, frosty and glossy and rougey.

Of course, there’s always the Parent Who Never Leaves, the one who can’t separate or won’t separate or won’t let the child separate or some other combination of raging parent/child emeshment. Interesting. It’s usually the little rainbow’s mom.

Then there’s always the Parent Who Treats You Like A Babysitter: “Um, so, this is Fancy’s overnight bag. She’s spending the night with little Kiwi, so Kiwi’s mom needs to get this stuff, m’kay? And (eyeing our Goldfish and pretzels suspiciously) these are Fancy’s special snack-ums. I want her to have some healthy snacks, so you can just give her these Honey Crusted Wheat Germy Soy Sticks, m’kay?” Interesting. It’s usually the mom of the sickliest looking kid at camp.

Then there’s always, always the Parent Who Cross-Examines You About Why Little Blandranelle Didn’t Get The Part She Desperately Wanted — And Do You Know She Cried All Day and All Night, Too?!?

But then, ah, then, there’s always The Boy Who’s My Hero, the one who is sure enough about his emerging masculinity that he can go to football camp or baseball camp or basketball camp and STILL come to drama camp. And where is this boy, you ask? Well, he’s the one onstage right now, fearlessly leading the charge before all the other boys and getting up to audition, opinions be damned.

Finally, perhaps best of all, there’s always the Kid With Grace, the truly talented one who didn’t get the part she’d hoped for, because, much as you’d like, you can’t give every kid the lead, can’t make every theatre dream come true. So where can one find this Kid With Grace? Well, she’s the one on the phone with me now, listening as I offer her the choice of two other parts, neither the part, but still oh-so-important. And she’s the one hiding her disappointment with a poise belying her tender years. And she’s the one who breaks your heart when, again, you ask which part she prefers and she says, “Well, which choice would make it easier for YOU to do the best possible show? That’s the part I want.”

Come to think of it, dread is not the right word. Not the right word at all.

If The Beanhouse ever starts insisting I wear “flair,” this is where I’ll go to get it.

I like the ones by Jaime Zollars and Feanne. Also, the Batman and Robin monkeys from Bluebottle Art Gallery. Hahaha!

Just scroll through the Top Sellers and Artists on the left.

VERY cool.

Okay. I’m a dork. I might actually buy some of these. I WOULD OWN FLAIR, PEOPLE! FLAIR!! How much lower can I sink?

But … is it still considered flair if you only use it in your personal life?

Would I be an artsy maverick or an establishment drone?

Where is the line here?!

WHERE IS IT??!!

I feel uncertain and woozy.

(When Sunday is really Monday!)

All right. So lemme think a minute. Where were we last time? Ah, yes. The Vagina Lady, etc. Hm. I’m going to back up a bit, actually. I am so loving this book because I knew virtually nothing about Magellan beforehand and now, I just feel so so smart. And smug. Let’s not forget smug. Smuggysmugsmug.

All righty. Moving on.

Now, in Magellan’s day, any man who took to the seas was facing the most fearsome challenge a man could face. Imagine scaling Mt. Everest. Then imagine Everest taking years, being more uncertain, more deadly. Imagine scaling Everest believing the Abominable Snowman and other fantastical beasts lurked, waiting to kill you. Imagine those things — the years, the uncertainty, the death at the hands of fantastical beasts — and you’ve imagined, in a small way, the life of the sixteenth century sailor.

Knowledge of the world at large was woefully inadequate, mixing myth and superstition, both of which held great sway in the collective imagination. Everyone knew there were giant flame-faced creatures skulking the ocean depths. Everyone knew there were vast whirlpools sucking ships into watery voids. Everyone knew there were huge magnetic rocks pulling vessels into crashing doom. Mostly, though, everyone just knew that there was that point, that uncharted, terrifying point where the sea literally dropped off the face of the earth and that any cursed and hapless ship reaching that point would literally drop off the face of the earth, too.

So imagine being one of these sailors, believing these things, climbing aboard a ship bound for God-knows-where for God-knows-how-long and basically thinking, “Well, okie-dokie, I’m probably gonna die.” Not that all these men were necessarily heroes; no. Far from it, in some cases. Some were abandoning their families. Some were seeking spices and riches. Some were avoiding debtor’s prison. Some were fleeing jail, hanging, torture. Some were just escaping the humdrum of everyday life on dry land. Anything could happen at sea, grand or horrifying; why not take a chance, return home with a nest egg and stories to last a lifetime.

(Whatever, Popeyes! Why not??)

Now, remember when I mentioned that the crew members were planning to mutiny at the first opportunity? And remember when I said that they DID attempt one? Well, what happened next was more than a mere attempt.

It was now winter, brutal, storming. The armada was forced to take refuge in the remote harbor of Port Saint Julian. Magellan, anticipating a long stay, put the men on limited rations.

This did not go over well.

After about eight months at sea, they were seemingly no closer to this “strait” that Magellan was sure existed — this mysterious, elusive strait that Magellan believed would be a waterway to the Pacific, leading him to the exotic riches of the Spice Islands, which he hoped to claim for Spain.

But now, the crew no longer believed this strait existed. They believed Magellan was simply spurring them on to certain death. He blustered a big speech, reminding them of their duty to their royal commission. That they must follow where the journey led. That he was astonished to find “bold Spaniards so fainthearted.” The more they suffered, the greater the reward from the King, he said. What kind of sailors were they, after all?

This did not go over well.

Magellan, no dummy he, sensed the turmoil and decided he must learn one thing: Who was loyal and who was not? Feigning a certain bonhomie, he invited the captains of the four other ships to dine with him on the Trinidad. Only one of them, his cousin, showed up.

The others couldn’t show up because they were too busy plotting. Duh.

(Hey, Magellan! Are you gellin’??)

Later that night, mutineers from two of the ships, boarded San Antonio, found her captain (the cousin) and shackled him. The rest of the ship fell, too, after a skirmish and some bloodshed. One of the five ships, Santiago, like some seafaring Switzerland, remained neutral throughout. But as the sun rose on a new day, the mutineers now controlled 3 of the 5 ships.

They began making outrageous demands. Magellan steadfastly refused, determined to use a small bit of leverage that had fallen into his hands. Unbeknownst to the rebel leaders, Magellan and his crew had captured one of the mutineers’ longboats which was ferrying communiques between the rebel ships the night before. The forceful current had caused the longboat to drift within reach of the flagship and the wily Magellan had extended a glad hand, invited the rebels on board, and fed them a lavish meal. But now he had this boat, you see. So while the mutineers were complacent with their perceived success, Magellan was quietly and swiftly plotting to reclaim control of his fleet.

Pretty impressive, really, since he was outnumbered, outgunned, and basically, hated more than loved at this crucial moment.

Targeting just one ship, Victoria, where he hoped support for the rebels might be softer, Magellan decided to quell the rebellion piece by piece. He filled the captured longboat with five loyal men and instructed them to appear sympathetic to the mutineers. But underneath their loose clothes, the men hid weapons. They carried a letter from Magellan demanding an immediate and complete surrender. If the captain resisted, the men were to kill him.

When the men boarded the ship, the captain greeted the letter with a laugh and a sneer. They killed him.

Just moments after this first boat sailed away, Magellan had launched a second skiff, filled with 15 more loyal men with weapons. So just as the crew of Victoria stood mute and stunned by the death of their captain, they were overrun by this new, even larger group of Magellan loyalists. Overwhelmed, they surrendered. Magellan, in full view of the vanquished men, rewarded his confederates with several ducats each. His colors flew triumphantly from the mast of Victoria.

Magellan now controlled 3 of the fleet’s 5 ships and expected the two remaining rebel captains to realize the mutiny was ending, but the leader of the rebels, aboard the ship Concepcion, stubbornly refused to surrender. So under cover of dark, Magellan sent a single trusted sailor on a dangerous mission: Steal aboard Concepcion and sever the anchor cable.

(Heey, Popeye, how’s about rowing on over to the heart of darkness for me, ‘kay? That’d be great. Thaaaanks.)

Magellan had determined that the strong ebb tide in the harbor would cause Concepcion to drift towards Trinidad, the flagship, where he and his crew were armed and ready for confrontation. The night dragged, loyalists in tense readiness, Concepcion drifting ever closer. When she floated within range, Magellan gave the order to open fire and rush aboard as the crew of Victoria did the same on the rebel ship’s starboard side.

“Who are you for? Who are you for?” the thronging men bellowed.

“For the King! For Magellan!” the rebels cried.

They surrendered quickly and meekly. The mutiny was over.

The punishments were just beginning.

(Stay tuned …… torture and laughs in the next “Smagellan Smunday”!)

(But not any shrinks who might read this blog, natch.)

Anyway …..

Just stumbled onto Jeff Goldstein’s Protein Wisdom today. This is a blog I read occasionally, but, holy moly, what a day to get current!

Seems some professor of psychology at the University of Arizona started commenting on Protein Wisdom over the last few days — and her comments become increasingly crazed and threatening.

I mean, you really, really have to read to believe.

Go here if you want to trippety trip down the trail of insanity. (But not if you’ll be offended by the profanity. Just thought I’d put that out there.)

The woman is seriously scary.

I think I may have lost it. Well, but only if spending an hour reading reviews of a David Hasselhoff CD over at Amazon indicates insanity. If it doesn’t, then phheww, I am A-OK, Non-Insane.

Don’t ask me how it happened. Please. I don’t remember; got that?? I DON’T REMEMBER!! Probably someone slipped some roofies into my iced coffee, shoved the laptop into my sleeping hands, smushed my floppy fingers around the keys until — hahaha — the David Hasselhoff reviews appeared on the screen. Oh, and then that same someone probably sat around, sipping non-roofied iced coffee, waiting for me to wake up and read, all bleary-eyed, not even knowing what I was reading until I was well into the God-knows-what of it all.

Yes, I’m sure that’s what it was. Some kind of hazing ritual. Yeah. Some kind of hideous violation where, ultimately, hilarity ensues!

Anyway, it seems The Hoff has this CD from ten years ago gloriously titled, “Looking For …. The Best.” And this thing has over a THOUSAND user reviews on Amazon, nearly all of which are “5 stars!”

Of course, it’s all part of a running joke, and the reviewers seem to be trying to outdo each other with the rampant cheesiness and ridiculousness of their descriptions. They blatanly misspell Hasselhoff’s name or give him an entirely new name, all while shamelessly rhapsodizing about that which is truly awful. Still, I found it hysterical, reading through some of them.

Maybe it was just the roofies.

Here’s a sampling of the reviews:

David Hazelnut has done it again. Listening to this CD is like being dead: it’s never gonna get any better. Because this CD is unbetterable. It’s the best.
*****
The great German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said ‘God is Dead.’ I believed him until hearing David Handelhopp’s greatest hits. Had Nietzsche been alive to hear the awe strikingly fantastical audial experience atop the Berlin wall, he would have realised that Harkeldoff is his Superman ….
*****
Dungle Hassapoff has paved the way for the rest of us leather jacket clad mortals. He has turned a meager pathway into an open fireroad of hope for wondrous achievement. The sounds are clearly dizzying, much like making out with a girl in a parked car, then realizing that it’s your sister…and then continuing on.
*****
Truly the successor of Schoenberg, dissonance sprouts from his vocal cords like an incontrollable verbal geyser (with hair) …. Philosophy incarnate, his lyrics are ripe with significance.
*****
If someone were to ask me what my definition of “timeless” was, I would open my shirt and show this CD hanging from its gold chain.
*****
There are reportedly thousands of registered songs in the planet, and mere hundreds of them have been sung by David. I say: Leave no song uncovered. Leave no ballad unspun, leave no ditty un-spoke, leave no scat un-scatted.
*****
These songs are just amazing. They cover everything from Freedom for the World to Looking for Freedom for the World. And they touch us in ways we never wanted.
*****
It sends shivers down my back to recount the sensations I felt upon hearing “Flying On the Wings of Tenderness.” It was if cherubim and seraphim were running their ghostly fingers through my afro. Gabriel’s horn was raised and tooted directly at my crotch.
*****
Listen for yourself… while mere words are wholly insufficient, a mere ghost of the all consuming rapture that is Drongvoid Hargleswitchy, they reveal some of the living beauty:

“We’re flying on the wings of tenderness
Riding the rivers of gentleness
Into the garden of love wi’ll flow and watch it grow together
We’ll build a castle out of honesty”
*****
He pulls you into his reality with songful lyrics and heartful thoughts. The tunes are animal-like but passionate, pulling a resonance of life that not many others are apt to pull.
*****
David’s guitar solo stimulates memories of being force fed tapioca as a child.
*****
In many ways, this CD is a microcosm of society in the 21st century.

I would sum up this CD with the following words:

INSPIRATION, GESTICULATION, LIBERATION, EXCLAMATION
*****
If you want to rock out with your parents, or your cool friends, everyone is sure to love “Looking For.”
*****
Like a glittering, solid-gold lighthouse in a fog of puke, David Graffenberg lights up the night with his dazzling display of heterosexual pop hits. He seizes the microphone and punishes it (and us) for fifty straight minutes. From “Crazy For You” to “Everybody Sunshine,” he emanates from your speakers, stinking up your trailer home with pure vocal heaven. Synth beats startle and confuse your house dogs, and the shrill guitar solos arouse the raccoons going through your garbage out back. You meanwhile drown in the utter bliss of David’s vocal charms, a voice that your cousin Deke compared to “three goats kicking a bucket of wolverines.” Your ex-girlfriend once said you would never amount to much. She’s right, but at least you’re enjoying great music at home.
*****
What is this disintegrating edifice we call life?

Where will that bewildering highway of creation lead?

When will those shackles of existence be lifted, and our weary souls transcend to some higher plane?

Rarely do 80’s homo-erotic, perma-tanned, medallion-donning, leather-clad, mullet-sporting, cheese-mongering Miami-Vice rejects produce music so expansive, so stirring and so intellectually acute that it urges one to muse on their own fragile mortality, their own existential disillusion. Yet here, oh wondrous demi-god of Saturday afternoon tee-vee, you have created an Adonis of poise and sound.

Probing behind the murky facade of the flashy materialism and souless decadence of his era, and with a wisdom and humanity far beyond his 79 years is, of course, the wonderful Doctor Menglerhoff.
*****
There’s no escape from his bottomless Black Hole of soul – not that any sane person would want to escape, of course.

*****
I dunno. I just could not stop reading them!

Now, get someone to slip you some roofies and go read ’em yourself.