Mumbling Madly

I’m in a production coming up where the actors have to tell one of their Big Stories. You know how it is, everyone has at least one or two Big Stories they tell at every party. Many of you may have been on-hand at such a party and overheard me tell such a story. It is time for you to enlighten me on what you overheard, since of course, I’m suddenly blank. What’s my Big Story? (And if you can’t think of one for me, feel free to share your own Big Story…maybe I’ll get inspired)
Confidential to Katie and Tonja: I’m not telling the Bathroom Story. I already performed that story seven years ago, it’s been done, (although I appreciate your input).

I had a huge party on Saturday, my 30th birthday. It was an enormous success and many friends came down with the sole purpose of making art, eating cupcakes, and enjoying the brief sunshine. Check out some of these marvelous flower pins:

Yes, if you click on the pictures it will guide you to my new flickr account. I took TONS of pictures and can’t post them all on the blog so I put them all on flickr. Check out the party pics and I’ll leave you with a just a sampling of the big unicorn pinata show-down in my backyard:

It has come to my attention that someone nearby has a rooster. A ROOSTER. We live in the city! Now, I understand the benefit of having chickens around…we saw several places during our house hunting that had old chicken coops as part of the backyard. But you don’t need a rooster for chickens to lay eggs…you only need a rooster if you want to make other chickens. WHO NEEDS MORE CHICKENS? Isn’t there more benefit to having more eggs? So, perhaps the point of having a rooster is to annoy the crap out of your neighbors. (Oh, man, maybe they’re having cock fights…I didn’t even think about that). As far as noise goes, the chihuahuas are worse…the rooster simply startles me. Every time I hear a cock-a-doodle-doo my brain thinks, “Was that a ROOSTER I just heard?” Then my brain wanders down the same path that I just wrote about (why have a rooster when they don’t lay eggs?) and I forget about it…until a few moments later when the rooster crows again; (”Was that a rooster I just heard?”) And so on and so on…

I’ve been planning…big time. For my 30th birthday on Saturday and the opening of the Soft Rock Spectacular:

I know, I know, it’s one hell of poster–and I’m not on it. However, I am dancing my heart and soul out in this show and it should be pretty damn funny to boot. C’mon down to Re-Bar on Friday or Saturday night and help me ring in my thirties!  And if you don’t, I’ll sic this weirdo on you:

I don’t know why I do this to myself. I attend something that promises to be the best new works of Seattle–no, the entire northwest–and I am blisteringly disappointed. I had really wanted my world to be a little shaken, a little spooked, with all these new upcoming art-eests. But in order to be in the festival one has to have a bleak if not hopeful view of the world. Everything is crazy, rough transitions abound, and nudity is preferable. With the exception of one piece, where the theme was very grandly, “Love,” the remainder of the work I saw was a scattered mess of images, brief dancing, and yes, please, nudity.

“Love” was placed under a microscope by two people at a lectern, several singers humming about love, and images flashing on a screen behind the actors. Quotes from ancient authors, pretty shots of a woman fainting, and tons of words in foreign languages flashed too quickly across the screen. What’s the point? I thought….none of this feels profound. It ended abruptly and the performers didn’t even take a bow, they merely hovered before rushing off to clean and clear the set.

The other pieces were truly performance art–terrible in all its masturbatory glory with brief moments of brilliance. At times I felt like I was at a “happening” in the 70’s. Other times I felt bored and unamused…like when one Portland based performance group started singing that lame country song about putting a “boot in yer ass.” Oh sure, their Wal-mart clothing splattered with patriotism was cute the first few minutes. One girl’s passion for the flag caused her to rip off her clothing, (which didn’t make sense, but she had nice breasts so we forgave her). And what’s more middle America then a pie eating contest? The comic timing before the family prayer was good, but the man laughing hysterically with bloody pie filling on his face was not good. No, it was very, very bad. A bright kick off lapsed into the audience thinking, “Oh God, now I know where this is going…” as the performers gagged, humiliated, and ‘tortured’ the pie eating victim ala Abu Grave Prison. I know, this sounds interesting when you read it but watching it performed was excruciatingly tedious. What is the benefit of this kind of theater? To deeply offend conservative mid-westerners by mocking them? To nudge all the Seattle liberals in the crowd and say, “This country sucks, look at these poor hicks worshiping the flag!” And for God’s sake if you’re going to sing into a microphone at least ATTEMPT to sing on key…off key singing is only funny once, after that it’s just agitating and makes me not want to listen to anything else your performance art might have to say.

The second piece was great simply because there was full frontal male (and female) nudity. And instead of being totally gratuitous (like the other group’s booby waiving patriot) it played fantastically as the dancers were bathed with an electronic light. Their bodies finally outlined in a single silhouette (Yay! We really DO get to see their naughty bits!) against the backdrop. I was trying really hard to understand why, prior to all the cool techno nakedness, the female dancer was shoving her fist into her mouth. This went on for a long time while the male dancer frolicked around behind her in his underwear. Was she anorexic? Was she showing the frailty of human nature? Would she actually shove her entire fist into her mouth? No…that never happened, and I was disappointed. I thought perhaps a fisting demonstration might soon follow but instead the dancers got naked and the audience sat up a little straighter.

I have deep appreciation for the last piece because it was a shade more fun then the preceding three (and I knew the director). Sure, it was manic and people ran around constantly doing unexplainable and unjustified things. There was something thrilling about seeing people mess around with a parachute, perform a ribbon dance, and shake a baby doll at the audience to make a point. Everyone in this piece had freaky animated eyes that bugged out of their heads. (Finally! Facial expressions from the actors that weren’t “Deadpan Dancer Face” or the classic: “I’M FREAKING THE AUDIENCE OUT WITH MY CRRRAAA–ZY SHIT”). I didn’t know what was going on at all (as usual) but I appreciated the energy and they provided cool little flags under our seats to wave around during the show. I’m a sucker for props, and I loved cheering the performers on with my little flag.

So, if you want to be a performer in this festival you can’t be simple. No, you have to beat the audience repeatedly over the head with every idea you’ve ever had. Narrative? What is that? Character exploration? A clear idea you want to communicate to the audience? Hell, no, the audience must feel lost and confused as they struggle to find the inner meaning of it all. (This is performance art after all). We wouldn’t want contemporary theater to be accessible to mainstream audiences, we might actually ATTRACT a broader audience that way.

Oh, and nudity…hands down, you have to be naked.

Several weeks ago I diligently called my dental office:
Me: Hi, I need to make an appointment. Do you have anything on Friday?

Receptionist: No. We don’t work Fridays.

Me: Oh…ok, what’s your last appointment of the day?

Receptionist: 3:15.

Me: That’s your LAST appointment? Huh…OK, I’ll need to take work off. What do you have this Thursday?

Receptionist: I can’t schedule in June yet because I don’t have my calender.

Me: Uh…it’s May 29th and you don’t have your calender for JUNE? That’s only in a few days.

Receptionist: I know. It’s my higher-ups. They haven’t given me my June calender so I can’t schedule you. Sorry.

Me: OH…I guess I’ll call back.

So, I called back in a week and got an appointment for 3:15 on Thursday. I arrived fifteen minutes early and decided to sit in my car, in the parking lot, and read a book. At 3:08 the receptionist opened the door and hollered, “Mara?!”

I was so startled I dropped the apple I had been eating (to get my teeth sqeaky clean). “Yeah?!” I yelled out my car window.

“They’re waiting for you!” She yelled looking exasperated.

“My appointment isn’t until 3:15,” I replied, noticing my clock read 3:08.

“No, it’s 3,” She said and went back inside.

I packed up my things and exited my car, pausing to look at my day planner: Dentist 3:15 (Leave work at 3). I felt annoyed. I sat down in the dentist chair and mentioned to the Hygienist that I had been told 3:15. “No one is mad at you,” the hygienist claimed, which I found to be a total lie. This woman was the most passive aggressive dental hygienist I’ve ever met. When she asked me if I wanted fluoride and I said no she said, “Well, you know, you were inquiring what you could do to avoid cavities, next time you get a chance, just swish a flouride based mouth wash around.” I decided to opt for the fluoride. My actual dentist isn’t bad, even though he pronounces my name “Mare-uh” which I HATE but haven’t bothered to correct him because, you know, I only see him every six months. It’s not like I see him every day. After he did his work (patched a little cavity and gave me a seal on a receding gum line), the hygienist plowed through my mouth like a woman who wanted to leave for the day.

After I diligently swished my flouride, the receptionist informed me she had a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out, “This is why we like to have people in a few minutes early.”

“Hey,” I said, wanting to lay it out, “My appointment was scheduled for 3:15.”

The receptionist lowered her voice, “I know, but the hygentist saw you sitting in your car and said, ’she’s just sitting in the parking lot eating an apple!’ so I said I would get you. When we say 3:15 we actually want you in the dentist’s chair at that exact time.”

“I did not know that,” I replied, making a mental note to never bother with this dental office again. “That’s good to know.”

“Are you leaving soon?” The hygientist asked. “You’re parked behind my car.”

So, dear readers: any Seattle/Renton dental recommendations? I feel like I’ve gone the random route before (read: conveniently located near home or work) and now I want to raise my standards. Word of mouth should be leading me to someone better, a little more flexible, without a hygienist who wants me out of the chair ASAP.

Katie, Josh, Matty, and I went to local gallery, Viscosity, and experimented with the basics of glass blowing. We LOVED it. Seriously, we had such a great time. Sure, they did a lot of assisting, but we managed to get our hands nice and hot near the “Glory Hole.” From picking the colors, rolling the melted glass on the end of a stick, to blowing into a tube to expand the melted glass we each played a nice part in constructing our own glass float. I would highly recommend this class to anyone in the area!

Going Green.

For starters, I was raised as a happy little hippie recycler. I once heard a reference to my siblings and I as “granola children” to which we laughed: “Granola? We never got granola…wheat germ and plain yogurt maybe.” My Mom was Green before the term was coined. We grew a lot of our own food, our dinners were made from scratch, and instead of microwave dinners we ended up with the ‘nothing-is-in-the-pantry-let’s-pull-out-the-frozen-pesto’ kind of fast food. Mom always stacked newspapers and made monthly trips to the recyclers (this was before curbside of course). She drinks out of mismatched mugs, uses sheets from the 80’s, and hates to shop. Therefore very little is ever thrown away in my parent’s household. Mom doesn’t use trash bags, has one of the first (and not very functional) water-saving shower heads, and cuts up t-shirts for rags. I grew up throwing banana peels and other food waste under the sink in a bucket for the compost pile.
I try…there is a lot my mother does that has influenced me as an adult, however there is a line. Yes, I reuse ziploc bags…but not the plastic bag the bread came in. Josh couldn’t stand our mismatched and slightly bent silverware so I caved and let him buy a new set. Both my parents use public transportation to get to work–which I did for year until we moved and I switched jobs. I just can’t bring myself to use cloth maxi-pads.

I remember in the early nineties the whole hippie, save the earth, ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’ trend hit the airwaves, fashion, and the media. This was perhaps a response to the first Gulf Crisis, the desire to purify and contain our fragile world. Or maybe it was because the word “Ozone” was being thrown around. Images of landfills, clear cutting, and baby animals with their little heads stuck in six pack rings prompted me to take action: I hand painted a gigantic earth onto one of my tie dyed t-shirts. Teen magazine had a whole spread on hippie gear: from head scarves to flowey peasant blouses. Since I didn’t have any money I handmade peace necklaces using a homemade clay recipe from “Feed Me, I’m Yours.” I painted the necklaces with bright tempera paint, coated them with nail polish, and sold them.

Now we focus less on the iconic images of the three R’s and more on the actual product. My necklaces should be painted using lead free paint, using vegetables dyes, and purified water. Houses are being built green and sold for huge prices to wealthy ‘green bandwagon’ buyers (case in point). Milk should be organic, chicken without hormones, and red meat should come from the happiest grass-fed cow or, better yet, a buffalo.

The Green chatter started bubbling as soon as people realized that temps were heating up, hurricanes were shaking, and, for reals, global warming is a fact. And then Oprah had a big special on being Green. None of her news was earth shattering: If you’re not going to use your plastic bags as trash liners then for God’s sake keep a cloth bag in your car for shopping trips. Throw away the Comet and use vinegar and lemon juice. Unplug your toasters (which I’m really bad about actually). Replace your lightbulbs. (My Mom has this dim little fluorescent from eons ago still flickering in her laundry room).

All of this recent attention on going Green has prompted me to reflect on how we as a society have grown environmentally. Who doesn’t recycle? In Seattle it is illegal to throw away paper or cardboard boxes; you receive a fine if you try to sneak them into your garbage can versus your recycling can. Gone are the “Save the Whale” stickers, hello “Go Solar,” and “George W. Bush: No Tree Left Behind.” I have ebbed and flowed as a life long environmentalist. You can repackage the concept over and over again but the fundamentals are still there: reduce your ‘carbon footprint’ (god, that’s such an NPR term) and your children’s children will still be able to play under a tree. We won’t be burned to a crisp by rising temperatures. Ice caps won’t melt and turn the world into a big swimming pool. Sure, the hardcore religious folks believe that the world is going to hell anyway, that eventually the rapture we’ll happen and the good will be plucked off this good for nothing planet. Why bother taking steps to improve the earth we live on when the righteous will be transported to heaven leaving the smog behind? This opinion frustrates me. How wonderful it would be to just throw it all to chance, the hope that the earth is meant to combust, and any effort we may put into saving it is fruitless. I like to work more for the present: right now, the earth needs me.  You know what I mean?

At first glance this is a terrible picture…Josh has taken to playing Uno long distance with his friends.  They all have cameras set up so they can see each other playing. Hobbes was sitting in for Josh during his hand.