And, So Far, This Is Sunday

It's hotter than Satan's Own Cum outside - loathsome weather.


Last night's Horror Over Drinks at Theatre Downtown played to its largest audience yet - there were only about ten empty seats in the whole joint. Pretty sweet. And, considering that we weren't able to have a brush-up (and I wasn't able to go to the tech rehearsal - just like Fringe) we fell right back into it. I broke some more of John's glassware. And I found myself throwing in everything but the kitchen sink as far as ad libs were concerned. I use to hate doing that - but with this show, there's something I really like about that feeling of laying down the railroad tracks seconds ahead of the train.

John had our Fringe money - my favorite thing, as you now know, is a plain, white envelope with twenty dollar bills inside of it. I wish every place would pay me that way - it would make paydays more exciting, more cloak and dagger, somehow.

There were a lot of pats on the back and atta boys waiting for me at the end of the show, which is nice. People really seem to like it - why does that surprise me so much? - my own insecurity, I suppose - my feeling that just my participation in something somehow dooms it to disgrace and failure - anyway, that's my shit to deal with, nobody else's.

On that subject, I'm still having trouble enjoying a show as I'm performing it...the moment. Most of the time I can look back and say, 'Damn, I'm proud of that.' But something in my nature keeps me from rolling around in accolades and good cheer during the run of a show. Can't do it. Feel like that would somehow make me an asshole.

Which kinda sucks cause let me tell you - laughter - I fucking love that sound. It's an opiate, a sweet milk of the poppy to me. I love that. Making people laugh, hearing them laugh, knowing, 'I did that.' It's amazing and complex and important to me. But it seems like I'm designed to hear the stutters, the fuck-ups, the misses, just as loudly as the homeruns.

God, I hope the next show I'm in has very simple costumes for me - counting backwards, I've been a washed up demon, a dirty tribesman, and a cow. I just want to wear jeans and a tee shirt on stage. No fuss, no make-up, minimal sweat.

But I am glad that, for our show anyway, it looks like this extended run is going to be a success.

The downtown Library didn't have a copy of You Can't Take It With You - but I found one at Barnes & Noble, found the characters of Henderson and Donald. Henderson is a bit part - only three pages in a Three Act play - but it's funny - he works for the IRS and he's your basic officious little prick, reading over it I had that feeling of, 'I know how to do that.' Donald, on the other hand, is a larger part - but it's a part that's suppose to be played by a black guy - he's the boyfriend to the maid and he's written in the cliched way you'd expect a black guy to be written in a play from the 30s or 40s or whenever. Very "OH'TAY" if you get my meaning. Now, I don't know if they're just going to make him a white guy and have the humor come from a family from that era not giving a shit about their black maid being a checkerboard chick. But there is a line of dialogue where one of the characters refers to them as, 'very Porgy and Bess' Smaller part of not - I'd rather be Henderson, I think.

Tonight is the SOTR audition. I'm sort of nervous sort of relaxed about the whole thing. My mood is swinging pretty sharply between those two extremes on this one. We'll just have to see how it plays out.