Douchetard

"Don't be a douchetard." --TiZ

That's all I'm saying here. Refrain from douchetardiness. It's easy enough.

Just say no.

P.S. I'm changing text colors for the duration of my stay in the Berky-shires. Does this one work?

Backbone

Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where you backbone ought to be.

--Clementine Paddleford

You're So Vain

You're so vain, you probably think this blogpost is about you.
You're so vain, I'll bet you think this blogpost is about you.
Don't you? don't you?

It doesn't really scan, does it?

But it makes me laugh nonetheless.

Children Are Waiting

But not for me.

I’m in my late 40s, single, an actress and live in a 5^th floor walk-up. I settle for productions of ANNIE where 75 little girls play the game “What animal are you?” As I prepare to respond, “Mangy dog,” they chime in “Tiz, you’re a dove. You’re definitely a dove.”

Children are waiting.

65 orphans are waiting in Kyrgyzstan.

Read more at Elephant Journal

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Carlos II of Spain

I saw a show a couple of weeks ago. Shan't mention which one because I do wish to continue working in this industry. But when I call my agents and ask them to be extra special nice to any client in that production, you know there's a problem.

The creative pedigree looks great on paper, but the result is akin to royal inbreeding...you end up with Carlos II of Spain.

And like him, it ain't pretty.

What a music theater piece needs to thrive...

1. A tone. (And no...a patchwork quilt of tones will not suffice. Weave them through...seamlessly, please.)

2. To know what it's about.

3. Who the protagonist is.

4. Give the protagonist the "I want" song that reflects what the show is about. And make it one of the best songs in the show.

5. A reason for the show to start. (see #6)

6. Do not "passover" what makes this night different from all other nights.

7. Give the 11 o'clock number to the protagonist. Make it one of the best songs in the show (please) and try not to follow with an inconsequential duet between secondary characters at 11:15. Bring it on home.

8. Employ a director who understands this very particular art form.

9. Listen to the soundscape...make sure you have the "la la" and the "blah blah" in the correct magical balance to project your piece forward.

10. Write spectacular gezintas for the songs.

11. Compose songs within a range where you can understand the words/ideas/emotions being expressed.

12. Make sure all your characters are there for a reason. Aimless bodies wandering through the landscape rarely focus a piece.

There are other "rules." Please feel free to write in about them, dear bleaders.

I bring these 12 up because they were all missing. Each and every one of them. There are always exceptions to the rule. Rules change. You can miss one or two (Not 1-3, 5 or 6.) , but ALL? By doing this you make my colleagues' jobs very difficult. VERY difficult. And my colleagues aim to please. They're good kids. They want to be loved. But they are often quite smart. Most of them way smarter than I am. And they know when these elements are awry. And they lose heart. And get frustrated.

And they know you're blaming them for lack of audience response.

And that pisses me off.

First, do no harm. If you're not going to follow any of these rules, blog. In the blogosphere you can be the crazy-ass inbred ruler of your own domain.

LIKE ME!

Why

don't guys I've dated tell me they're/they've getting/gotten married? Especially when I speak with them within a month of said blessed event? And we've always been friendly?

It's happened a number of times and the most recent discovery of this was this morning. On Facebook. AWESOME.

I would really like to know the answer to this question. I know at least one of you has personal experience and can please feel free to freakin' write me about it. Privately if need be. Please don't make me hunt you down. I'm just...baffled.

People are funny.

Does that holy sacrament, or at least VERY legal arrangement, just SLIP the mind?

Bought jam, smushed a frog with the car, got married, went on a trolley ride, did the dishes...

Crap

it is not.

The 43,325,123rd draft of my play is not crap. It's clear. It's tight. It's funny. It's slightly sloppy. It hurts.

It's kinda like me.

I'm so confused.

It kinda works.

Kinda like me.

Kinda.

Like.

Me.

What do I do now?

Moment of Truth

Draft # 43,325,123 of my play T.O.M.B. is printed out, sitting on my counter, calling for perusal.

My hands are over my ears and I am singing, "I'm not listening, la la la. Hoo dee hoo dee hoo, I can't hear you."

I think I'll go to a movie.

It won't last for long but for right now I just can't look. Nope. I've worked hard, I've slept it, I've lassoed so many beautiful friends into helping. Okay, I hog-tied them. And they were good and kind and helpful.

But I'm not excited to look at it. I fucking dread it.

Mom, I used the "fuck" word.

'Cause it could be crap.

But maybe it's not...