please listen to the following announcement

We interrupt your regular programming for a brief moment of self-promotion.
Remember how I'm a literary manager? Well, I finally read all those scripts. And I picked a bunch. And now we're doing readings of them this weekend. And I'm in a couple of them. So if you're free at all this weekend, you should come by.

presents

WHAT ABOUT THE BONES?
by Sean Michael Welch
(starring me!)
Thursday November 30th at 7pm
When the host of your dinner party suddenly keels over dead, and nobody wants to be accused of murder, what do you do with the body? And when you've done that, what about the bones?

This piece is HILARIOUS. And I don't say that about everything I do. Ok, well, I kind of do, but this one is really funny, I swear!


THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LULLABY YOU'VE EVER HEARD
by Greg Romero
(also starring me!)
Saturday December 2nd at 5pm
Guided by a blind Narrator, The Man and The Woman journey through their broken pasts, broken futures, and broken skin to find the beautiful place inside of the knives.

This piece is awesome. I can't say that I fully understand it yet, but maybe that's not the point. The writing is really beautiful and funny and gut-wrenching and experiencing it will be better than my telling you about it.

PARKING LOT LONELY HEART
By Colin McKenna
Sunday December 3rd at 2pm
Mickey, middle-aged, unemployed and an alcoholic, stands in front of the ruins of his marriage, when he suddenly finds himself a millionaire. It seems like life has given him a second chance. But the demons of his past catch up and the little family spirals down deeper than they could ever imagine.

This piece is really well written. Good pace, hard choices, good characters. I recommend it. (and I'll be there if you want to sit with me)

HEADS
By E M Lewis
Sunday December 3rd at 4:30pm
A British Embassy worker, an American engineer, a network journalist and a freelance photographer are held captive in Iraq. As the threat of death draws closer, hidden agendas emerge - and each hostage must decide what he is willing to do to survive.

I'm really fond of this piece as well. It's very topical, intense, without being too melodramatic. It's human and epic at the same time. Kind of a Two Rooms meets the current administration.

THE SYSTEM
By Isaac Rathbone
Sunday December 3rd at 7pm
Ray Werner's paycheck is wrong. When he questions Payroll, they send him to Human Resources... who direct him to Accounting... who transfers him to Processing... who encourages him to talk to the Head of Operations... who blames it all on The System.

I dig Isaac as a playwright (and a person, too). If you've ever worked in an office, this play will speak to you. And you'll laugh. And then you'll cry, because it's so true. But then you'll laugh some more because it's funny.

FIRST FLIGHT 2006 will be held at
The Arthur Seelen Theater at The Drama Book Shop
250 W 40th Street, NYC 10018
Suggested donation: $3

For more information, visit us at http://www.boomerangtheatre.org/

waking solo (han's cousin)

This morning, after nigh on two weeks of continuous company, I finally woke up alone in my own apartment. And let me tell you, it was heavenly!

If you'll recall, I live in a railroad apartment, with the bathroom just off the kitchen. So while Brian was sleeping in my living room, any time he had to use the bathroom, he had to walk through my room (and scare the pants off of me). One night, on his way through, I shot up in bed and shouted at him, "OH MY GOD! I FORGOT YOU WERE HERE!"

I'm a very light sleeper -- just ask the doorslammers next door. So sharing my house (or my bed) takes a lot of adjusting for me, especially if whoever I'm sharing with isn't on my same sleep schedule. Sure, I'm super-fond of having a warm body to snuggle up to. And of course I like waking up to a kiss. And I like the intimacy of just sharing a bed -- it reminds me of having sleepovers as a kid, just talking and talking until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer.

But there's something about the serenity of an empty bed, an empty house (hell, an empty building) that makes me feel so much more empowered. When I wake up alone, the day is mine. I don't have to share it with anyone (until, of course, I walk out the front door). I don't have to coordinate showering or coffee-making or commuting. There's an independence to it that truly makes me feel like I own my life.

And mostly, I like that nobody scares the crap out of me before I wake up. Nothing makes me grouchier than waking up before I have to. And being such a light sleeper... well, let's put it this way: you have to be pretty worthwhile for me to share my house or bed with you.

That's all I'm saying.

turkey-lurkey time!

Everyone says their family rocks at thanksgiving-time (probably to get more presents) but mine really does (and you can keep your presents, especially if you're my brother-in-law, Scott, who likes to give me porcelain crap gifts) (in his defense, I give them as well as (or better) than I get...)

So here's a little photomontage (or filmstrip) of the events of the weekend:

My sister (Priscilla) hosted:
My brother-in-law (Scott) also hosted:
They have this great house in Boston, with beautifully painted trim and walls (courtesy of my sister) and brand new floors (courtesy of Scott). And after a week with my cousin in a railroad apartment, it was kind of exciting to sleep behind a closed door. (I secretly walked around naked for about a minute -- they don't keep the heat up really high, though, so the delight was short-lived)

We ate ourselves into a coma, and then played a card game called Ninety Nine, which devolved into a cheating contest, with me stealing quarters from the "bank" to give to players who were losing. My mother made me do it.

We also, much to the dismay, disgust and utter fascination of the one guest not related to the family (Amanda) perfected the Burp-A-Word game. We started with simple words, like Dirt or Ugly, and progressed to bigger words like Gertrude, Ursula, and eventually, The DaVinci Code. My cousin tells me that if I walk into a bar in my glasses and start burping movie titles, I'll have to beat the men off me with a stick. Since I don't have a stick, I'm not ready to test this theory. I'll warn you well before I get one.

We engaged in some Black Friday Shopping Activities. Like wig-demonstrating:
And Comb-Over Creating (out of the discards of Priscilla's brush)
And then on Saturday, we had to take a picture for the Christmas Card. Recall, if you will, that I have been blessed with two large cold sores on my face. And Priscilla had a zit or two that she didn't want displayed in a Yuletide fashion. So we insisted on the photos being taken from far away. Which only sort of worked.

We took tons, and most of them are good, but these are my favorites:
Two cute sisters

The whole Fam Damily:
Stern Christmas:
And SPOILER ALERT
This is the picture we chose! So if you don't want to see it too soon, don't look!
After the Christmas Card Festivities, we went to a hair salon, in case Brian wanted to cut all his hair off (turns out he didn't):
Then, when we got back, I went out and got myself a stupid haircut, which I affectionately call Mushroom Head:
(the color's off b/c I had to take the picture in the bathroom -- and I forgot to lock the door to the handicap bathroom, and this poor guy barged in on me while I was trying to take a self-portrait. I blame Mushroom Head)

And other than last night (watching football and doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzled balanced atop a Comsopolitan Magazine) and sending Brian off to the airport (sniffle) that's pretty much how I spent Thanksgiving.

gifts from the city

Last night on my way home with Cousin Brian, we were waiting on the platform at Atlantic/Pacific when we saw a service change advisory poster. You know, those dreaded little announcements that tell you the local trains won't run tomorrow morning (when you and your cousin will both have suitcases) or that service on the L train has been suspended until hell freezes over. Rarely are they good news.

Until last night.

Brian thought that perhaps this was a sexist poster, telling men to get up out of their seats for women. And while that is always nice, it's (for me) never expected. How I interpret "seat hogging"(and I believe the Lesbian Avengers would agree) is when you sweet, lovely gentlemen somehow manage to SHOVE YOUR KNEES INTO MY SEAT! Why do you insist on taking up twice as much space than your seat allows for? I don't care what you've got in your pants! Unless it's a nuclear bomb with a detonator on your nuts, get your knees out of my seat!
If you don't believe this happens, get on any given train during rush hour and you'll see two large men, spread eagle in their seats, with one tiny little woman squished in between them, like Jack Sprat stuck between the cheeks of his wife's monstrous fanny.

So please, Seat Hogging Men, please heed the Lesbian Avengers' advisory.

But if you can't, maybe you'd like to think about what you're doing. Perhaps even maditate a bit about it:

I can only imagine someone sitting alone in a dimly lit room, candles burning, yoga pants on, breathing in, breathing out, sipping his maditation tea.

"Please, universal spirit, bring me enough anger to rip my boss a new one."

"Ohmmmmmmm. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Ohmmmmmmmmmmm."

"All new maditation tea. Now with 50% more anger!"

And you know what goes well with tea don't you?

that's right. Salad bar fish. (salad barfish)

i am a crappy tour guide.

Don't let the peppy exterior and the love for New York City fool you. I am officially a Crappy Tour Guide.

My cousin Brian is visiting from Iowa, and we haven't really had a chance to hit the town together, since I was shooting a film over the weekend. So this morning, I took a couple of hours off so we could hang out, see some NYC sights together and hit the Brooklyn Museum (since they have some cool exhibits I want to see).

Yeah, the Brooklyn Museum is closed on Tuesdays.

So we made an alternate plan: we'd take the Tram over to Roosevelt Island and check things out over there, then take the F train back to Manhattan. We hopped on the train, got to 60th Street, climbed up the stairs to the tram station... only to see the tram pull out. And the next one? Not for another hour.

So we made an alternate plan: we'd walk over the 59th Street Bridge (singing Feliz Navidad the whole time, thanks to the tunes blaring in the coffee shop at the foot of the bridge) to Queens and then take the F to Roosevelt Island and then catch the noon tram back to Manhattan. Except that I'm not all that familiar with Long Island City, and it looked on the map like the foot of the bridge was not particularly close to the F train station.

So we made an alternate plan: we turned around and walked back to the foot of the bridge. Then strolled down first avenue to 50-somethingth street, where I turned so we could walk through the park that borders the FDR. Except that the street I picked had no access to that park.

So we made an alternate plan: we walked to the UN, turned right, and I went to work.
I hope that the next time Brian comes to visit he doesn't think twice and then make an alternate plan!

campho-phinique anyone?

I have the plague.

again.

only this time it's different.

worse.

uglier.

and on my face.

as if one cold sore's not enough, I have two.

they look even better now, but I can't bear to take another picture of them. that would be like feeding a gremlin after midnight, I'm afraid.

I actually feel like that old ad for campho-phinique, where the woman does the whole commercial from behind her hand.

makes it hard to shoot a film...

a new low.

I don't know, myspace, who worn that dress?

set your tivos (or vcrs, if you're like me...)

That's right ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for me to be on TV! (if you can't remember why, go here for some backstory)

I got a call from Richard (who says the clip of the show makes him look bad, which I disagree with) that our show is going to air on Monday, on the FOX network. It'll be on at 10am in NYC, 1pm in LA, 12pm in St. Louis, 9am in Des Moines and if I haven't covered you, check here, and find out for yourself when it'll air locally.

Wanna see a clip? Go here! Do it now! (Warning: you won't see me until the actual show, but it'll get you revved up and excited to tape it for me. Somebody will do that, right?)

how wasabi peanuts are like guys

If you've never had a wasabi peanut, you're totally missing out. They're these little balls of fire that explode in your mouth, obliterate your sinuses and head straight for your tear ducts. Kind of like a really good date.

1. Wasabi peanuts make you doubt your preconceptions.
You think you know what you're going to get when you purchase wasabi peanuts. You think they'll be tasty, crunchy, hot -- but not too hot -- and fun to snack on. Except that's not true for every nut in there. Some are so hot you have to get up and walk it off. Some are duds. Some make you search for a glass of milk; others, you're fine with just water. Just when you think you've found the perfect balance of salt and peanut, BAM! You're smacked in the sinuses. Or, conversely, you're munching on a bland mass of peanuty goodness, when all of a sudden, enough heat kicks in, and you're in love!

2. Too much is not always a good thing.

It's almost as much fun to think about eating wasabi peanuts than it is to actually eat them. Especially when you first start eating wasabi peanuts, it's important to find the balance between the fun of the crucnhy saltball and the pain of busted sinuses. I like knowing they're in my desk, taking them out every couple of hours and popping one in my mouth. When I have four in a row, I kind of want to die a little.

3. Neither belongs up your nose.

4. It's fun talking about wasabi peanuts with your friends.

Especially if your friends have tried eating wasabi peanuts. Then they know the secrets -- like how inhaling through your nose can actually decrease the pain of a wasabi burn. They can teach you some tricks, like using your hand to fan your face (it both dries your tears and gives you enough fresh air to stay alive).

5. Wasabi peanuts are entertaining.

Ok, so you can't talk to them or send them emails, but wasabi peanuts can make you chuckle when you're all alone at your desk. That's worth something.

6. Wasabi peanuts are not a meal.

A girl cannot subsist on wasabi peanuts alone. She must eat a balanced diet which is accentuated and enlivened by the occasional wasabi peanut.

7. They look so disarmingly cute, it's easy to forget how hard they kick.

Just because it's been a few days since your last wasabi peanut and you've forgotten what it was like, don't expect it to be the same this time. They can always surprise you. Nonetheless, you should be prepared, just in case it was like last time (when you ended up sticking your nose in the sink thinking it would help).

8. You either love them, or you don't.

And, boy howdy, do I love them!

a few scattered thoughts

1. Remember this?
Now it looks like this:
Yes, I have some very important pear eating to do later today. (and yes, in the interim I've acquired a really cool magnetic wipe-off board which current reads, "Kate Rocks? Yes!"

2. Chocolate cupcakes, while delicious, do not make a good breakfast.

3. Has everyone voted today? If not, go and do it! And, while you're there, consider voting the working families party line. They back the democratic candidates in all the major NY offices, so you're essentially voting democrat, but giving a smaller and lesser known party some important backing and support. More about them here. And over at procrastinet, RJ has some really good political writing (go here).

4. So they're trying to move the Intrepid from its mooring at 42nd Street, except that it's totally stuck. The museum is a client of ours, so one of my bosses went there yesterday for the big removal party, and she called early to say that things weren't going well, but that she wanted to stick around to hear the really big suck sound that the ship was likely to make after all those years in the mud. If that had happened, how utterly gratifying would it have been??

5. I'm a day late and a dollar short, but yesterday was Christina's birthday. Drop by and send her a happy birthday note. And check out her photos. She's super-duper hot. Moreso now that she's not bogged down with all that garbage about being in our 20s. (right?)

6. I wanted to do a whole photo essay on the geriatric pumpkins in my neighborhood, but I've waited too long now, and most of them have been sent off to the Great Pie Factory in the Sky, but this guy was along my route to work this morning.
Maybe next year...

the Prospect Park Synchronized Dorking Team!

I like to think that I'll be one of those parents who doesn't embarrass her kids. But I'm pretty sure that's just a delusionary notion on my part. Witness the rehearsal of the Prospect Park Synchronized Dorking Team:
Lisa and I decided that two dorks swinging as one would be more entertaining than one dork swinging alone.

We were right, of course.

However, one dork swinging solo can be exceptionally entertaining.

So much so that the cameraman (her husband, RJ) may have laughed himself off kilter (he was already cursed with a bum knee and a cane, which was constantly being taken from him by his clearly cane-deprived three year old)

See? I'll never be a source of grief, shame or utter misery for my children!

Right???

one of the nicest men, ever

My boss, Stanley Rothenberg, is easily one of the most generous, good hearted men I have ever met, let alone worked for. I could regale you with his achievements in the field of copyright, I could overwhelm you with the cases he's argued and won, I could describe to you his family, the hoardes of people who love him. I could drown you in his accolades. But you might not get how special he is that way.

Last year my firm moved across town. And in the few weeks before we left, my boss was in the hospital. So I helped him pack up his office, filing what needed to be filed, and pitching everything I could. I had a great time, since organizing people is what I'm really good at.

Going through the tons of paperwork in his office, I discovered everything he's held onto for the last ten years -- birth announcements for secretaries, memos of colleagues he was proud of, and miles upon miles of his own articles. And I packed it all up. And when we got to the new location, I unpacked and organized everything all over again. He wasn't young and he didn't have any specific filing systems. I wanted him to come into a clutter-free office that ran efficiently. And he did.

A few weeks later, he gave me a thank you note, with an American Express gift card inside it. "I couldn't have done this without you." I wasn't expecting anything, but when I saw the gift card, though it might be $50. It was considerably more. As a thank you, I told him that I would do it again for him any time, as long as we could skip the part where he went into the hospital.

Stanley bought Christmas presents for all the secretaries who sat near him, not just for me. He was always sharing interesting articles or jokes that made him laugh. Since I started working for him five years ago, he's seen more of my shows than my parents have. He has always been supportive of me and my dreams. He has always been respectful, generous, interested and most of all, friendly.

They are taking him off life support tomorrow, and I hope he finds his heaven full of copyright disputes for him to set right.

[author's note: I just found out that instead of "taking him off life support," the family decided not to pursue additional medication options. There is a subtle difference in that, which I think is important to note here.]

cake terrorist + fashion police = completely out of line

Enjoy, the cake terrorist at work, today said something so completely inappropriate I almost got out of my seat and punched her. And what worries me is that this kind of insidious thinking is what's going on inside all the quiet, mousy people of the world.

We were talking about fashion. About how too many women like to cram themselves into clothes that don't fit, or clothes that show off a lot of skin. And philosophically, I'm all for it. Women should have the right to wear whatever they want, whenever they want, and should catch no flack for it, as we're all individuals in this great country of ours. If you think that falling out of your clothes is hot, then you should have the right to fall out of your clothes in as many spots as you want to. Secretly, though, I'd like there to be some sort of sensor on people's front doors so they can't get outside if they're wearing something that looks appalling. Who designs that sensor? Me, of course.

All of that aside, though, I was prepared for an argument on the right to wear whatever you want, balanced by the responsibility to be aesthetically pleasing to your surrounding viewers. I think that's an interesting argument, from both a social responsibility and/or a feminist perspective, and I can see both sides of it. But what I got instead was this:

Enjoy: The way these women dress is just shocking.
Enjoy's Neighbor: I know, I know.
Enjoy: You know, when women dress like that, they're just asking to be raped.

I'm not kidding. She actually said that. I picked my jaw up off the floor, wheeled around in my chair, checked the calendar to see if it was, in fact, 1950, and said (much louder than I'm sure I needed to), "I cannot believe you just said that!! No woman EVER asks to be raped! EVER!" She started to defend herself, but I cut her off, because to me, there is nothing you can say to defend that statement. The essence of rape is violation. Are these women asking to be violated? Absolutely not. (Are they asking to be fucked? Maybe... But I'm not getting into that.)

One of my co-workers, Francesca, is super-duper smart (she's a recent college grad and hasn't flushed all her brain cells down the toilet yet), so I had to run upstairs to tell her. I made the argument to her that women who dress, shall we say flashily, are asking to be looked at, but not violated. And she managed to come up with some good counterpoints even to the Looked At argument. (I like talking to her. I always come out feeling smarter than before, by way of getting dumber first)

So how many soft-spoken, apologetic, unimposing women (or people, for that matter) are walking around thinking thoughts that the rest of us thought had disappeared years ago? And how do we reach those people, to make it clear to them that rape victims are just that, victims. A woman doesn't bring it on herself or ask for it in any way. Where is Mariska Hargitay when you need her??

I'm opening a bigger can of worms than I know I can handle ("EEK! WORMS!") but I feel confident that no woman wakes up in the morning, puts on her clothes (be they flashy or no) and says to herself, "I'd really like to be violated today." And that it discounts the pain and suffering of the thousands of new rape victims every year to ever say that a woman asks for it by dressing the way she does.

I may have to punish her now by never eating her cake again.