High Culture

The thing about really good theater -- it's transcendent. It somehow allows you an insight into humanity.

Truly great theater gives you a glimpse of something in yourself that perhaps you didn't know was there.










Last night I went to this very important theater event.


I saw something in myself.


It was my inner 60-something southern slut dressed in mauve. Turns out, my inner Blanche is a drag queen.

I guess, somewhere inside, I knew this already, huh?

Rattle and Roll

Thursday night I was super exhausted from my busy unemployed existence. Seriously. Phew.

So, I snuck into bed early, cozy with my book. I thought maybe the cat was jumping on the bed in a clumsy-boozy-er way than usual, as there was a little shimmy. That lasted longer than it should have.

A couple of thoughts flashed through my head -- starting with that scene in The Exorcist where Regan insists that her bed is shaking. Someone (Dad, I'm looking at YOU) let me see that movie at an outrageously early age, and the idea that I might get possessed by a demon was central in my early phobic period. I remember lying in my bed in the scary dark really trying to make sure that my bed wasn't shaking, a sure-fire early sign of demon possession. Anyway, I dismissed that idea pretty quickly and moved on to the realization that, hot-damn, it's an earthquake! Sweet!

There is a real sense of being in the moment at times like this, when you're feeling the escalation of the quake, a little jumpy and vaguely threatening, like the ground is growling, warning you that it might strike or it might just sit there and eye you warily, but you better just be still, bitch. There was rattling in the kitchen, I thought of things that might fall from shelves and walls.

It lasted forever. Slow shimmy in the quiet.

The phone rang, when it subsided. I ran to answer, and Anne said, "I was just calling to ask IF YOU FELT THAT EARTHQUAKE?"

I was sort of gleeful about the whole thing. It kind of felt punk rock to me.

The whole concept still -- even the ads on the busses for this site, complete with its friendly icons for potential distasters -- CLICK HERE FOR TSUNAMIS -- gives me a sort of dreadful thrill. I kind of want to clap at the insistence that I “DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON.”

I'm aware that this is probably a completely inappropriate reaction, but I'm cool with that. I suspect it's better than being terrified all the time. And, I suppose I'll get a couple of jugs of water and some canned soup or something, just in case.

Just in case the ground goes all PUNK ROCK on me again! EFF YEAH!

Local Flavor -- Now with very expensive polyester glitter.*

I don't start my new job until Monday.

My stuff came on Friday, which kicked off a three-day unpacking-and-organizing one woman show -- I might have been a little intense during that time. I emerged, blinking and dust-covered on Monday morning thinking, "What now?"

I've been a little task oriented. I think that behavior is something about staving off anxiety (WTF HAVE I DONE?) and other such unpleasantness.

So, this week has been spent, much of the time, going on Adventures, studying my map and plotting public transportation routes with a vengeance.

Yesterday I took a walk down Market Street, which, as it turns out, is both a main byway that bisects the city and a teeming petri dish of crazy. I'm not exactly a stranger to crazy -- Chicago has crazy, they do, I just think, much like kudzu, it's tempered by the harsh winters. In San Francisco, the mild climate and rich fertilizer of liberal leanings and general Bay Area-ness leads to a hearty and varigated display of fully actualized crazy.

Crazy mills about quietly, crowds of crazies act as a general groundcover and a few bloom from the crowd like lovely strange blossoms.

Like this chick:



(Forgive the poor image quality -- it's best to photograph them from behind a cell phone, so you can perpatrate like you are texting)

So, here's what's happening there:

This lady is snappily dressed in leather pants, a fierce leather jacket, and a studded belt. She is wearing white cotton gloves. She is arranging and rearranging the mattresses that fill this dumpster and then yelling down at the milling crowd of groundcover crazies, who are summarily ignoring her. She is yelling: "NOW! PRETTY NOW, YES!" She's a little yoda-like in her grammatical construction, which is a nice touch.

This chick:



Note the bright hues -- the yellow hair, the fushia leggings. I caught this snap of her as she was striding indignantly away from a bank of pay phones(very rare!), where she had been yelling and gesturing wildly into a reciever.

These were the only two lucky shots I got -- later, I went to the Museum of Modern Art, where I actually heard a woman say, as she contemplated a painting, "Nice use of color."

Crazy.


*The local news is covering the upcoming Chinese New Year parade, and the floatmaster just told the intrepid reporter that they used nearly 600 pounds of glitter in the construction of the OVER TWELVE FLOATS -- including these lovely coins, hand-etched out of foam rubber, and covered in "very expensive polyester glitter. The best in the world." Only the best for you, people.

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

Why, I've been in a coma, lying unidentified in a sweltering hospital in Brazil, under a sheet graying with age, with a wrist band that says "Juanita Doe."

When I woke, I had a brief period of temporary amnesia. Unsavory locals led me to believe that I was the daughter of a diplomat, held hostage in exchange for the institution of free tuition at clown colleges across the land.

I was forced to be videotaped blindfolded, yelling "VIVA LA BOZO!"

Eventually, the group realized the futility of this exercise -- as the diplomats cared not about me or red noses.

In the end, I was released into my own recognizance.

I wandered the countryside until, dazed and dehydrated, I stumbled upon a starbucks, ordered a double shot skim iced vanilla latte, and my true identity came back to me in one exhilarating, caffine-induced rush.

Just kidding.

I've been doing that stuff everyone does in December, gifting, and traveling, and hanging out toasting to the providence of the new year.

Also, wrestling with a decision that has now been, finally, made -- Guys, I'm totally moving to San Francisco.

I know! Can you believe it?

They totally have mountains there -- AND OCEANS!

It's kind of a long story -- basically, Fauxinica did a seductive snake dance and entranced me with her wiggling -- all "you should move heerrrreee. . ." and, "Come and woorrrrrk with meeee agaiiin," all the while while fluttering her fingers in a way that was decidedly NOT SPIRIT FINGERS, but kind of similar.

So I went out there, I interviewed with (literally) TWENTY SEVEN of her coworkers. Apparently, they all agreed I indeed spoke English and did not smell too bad, even though I had a cold at the time and was snotting into a tissue throughout the day.

After subsequent backs and forths and searching of my soul and discussions with people who have opionions like "DON'T LEAV ME!" or "YOU SHOULD GO!" and then saying, to hell with it, you only live once, and other such nonsense, I did it.

I accepted the job.

I'm moving.

I'm so scared, y'all, but so excited, too.