Super-secretary!

I was feeling really frustrated about working here because the woman I'm working under is providing information on a strictly "needs-to-know" basis. Four days into this job, however, and I know all that I need to know, so I'm doing a lot better, getting familiar with people's names, the job expectations, etc. I've also discovered the hands-free headset, so now I can type and answer the phone at the same time. Mostly I'm calling people who are expecting appointments to let them know they've arrived, so I spend a lot of time trying to remember people's names and surfing the internet.

Here's a fun exchange that happened yesterday:

Suit: Hey, hello there, how are you?
Me: Fine, except my internet just crashed!
Suit: (chuckling) Ho-ho, what kind of sites were you looking at?
Me: (blinking up at him innocently) I was reading "Hamlet!"
Suit: Uhhh...

In other news, we had a photoshoot for promotional photos last night. These are the pictures that are going to go out to newspapers for advertising purposes, so they're not the finished product--but they look pretty amazing considering the director lit it with three parcans and it's only about 75% of the costumage. This picture is of the main character, K (in the bowler), surrounded by the rest of the company. It's a set up-picture, but it's really creepy and I think evokes the theme of the play well. I'll have more info on the play (including seeing-it details!) soon.



I'm really tired today, but with the help of a bag of Haribo (the gummi bears, not the Harry Potter themed ones I love so very very much, alas) and two cups of coffee I'm getting through. I was feeling achy before rehearsal on Tuesday so I did four sets of Sun Salutations, and I'm still sore--I guess this means I should do more yoga or find a job that doesn't involve me sitting for hours and hours and hours and...

I have nothing to say

Only that Thomas Jefferson once said that "the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants" which is what was on printed on the T-shirt that Timothy McVeigh wore when he blew up the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. I don't believe a government that takes handguns out of it's citizen's hands is tyrannical however.

I have got to stop it with the news.

A picture's worth a thousand words

I could write about what's going on in Virginia, but I won't. There's a TV in the lobby where I'm sitting, so I've been watching it for the past couple days and trust me, that's enough.

Last night Cathy and I went out for pizza. Cathy is one of my friends from Point and a working theatre professional in Chicago. We had a great time talking about theatre and debating the merits of Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy over Laurence Oliver's Mr. Darcy. I haven't seen the old version of Pride & Predjudice, but Cathy assures me it's suitably terrible, saved only by the fact that it's such a great book it's hard to ruin it completely. (although Chris Columbus could probably do it. If I do nothing else, I will stop that man from ever adapting another book into a film.)

Hm. I seem to have jumped in a pond and come out wet. And incredibly sexy."

For the record, Colin Firth has said that Mr. Darcy was supposed to be au naturel when he jumped into that pond--but the BBC wouldn't have it. I support the BBC's decision. Anything that gives breeches more screentime, is okay with me. But, really: would Darcy have ruined his nice silk shirt? Really?

We figured if there was ever a Mr. Darcy-off, Colin Firth would probably win based on a certain diving-into-a-pond scene, but obviously Laurence Olivier would give him a run for the money based solely on the fact that he is Laurence Olivier. I've decided to buy every movie he's ever been in, just to get my DVD collection jumpstarted. Am I a little biased? You bet your fur I am. I'm also really missing my copy of "That Hamilton Woman." Life just isn't complete unless I've got Olivier dressed as Nelson at my fingertips.

"Wait, what period is this?"


It also occured to me today that, in this environmentally-conscious climate, it might not be such a good idea to wear a button that has a picture of someone bludgeoning a polar bear to death with the butt of a rifle. I just think it's funny that someone went out of their way to make a badge out of this. Death to all polar bears. The sooner we clear this menance from our ice floes, the sooner we can get at their oil.

I found this picture while reading the news earlier. It's such an interesting photo, because of the juxtaposition of our first president and our current president. I'm not saying George Washington was the greatest person who ever lived, but he just might have been the greatest president ever. To think about the legacy that he created being manipulated and abused by the recent administration makes me just writhe in anger and embarassment.

Breathing room!

I checked my bank account today and discovered that my final paychecks from London had been deposited, so now I am doing better financially than I thought I was. What a relief. I was going to write a blog entry that started out "Should I take sailing lessons? Hmmm...do I have $300? No. Ah. That answers that question." But I mentioned to one of the high-flyers here who had "Boating World" on his business card that I would like to take sailing lessons and the first words out of his mouth were: "That's a great way to meet guys. Rich guys too. Guys who own yachts and who want to learn to sail them. You should do it." After I got over the shock of a middle aged business man encouraging me to take lessons so I could "meet guys" I started thinking this might be a good idea. You know. Meet some rich guy who could keep me in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed while I pursue my theatrical career and take me out for stress-free boating weekends. Mmmm, boats.

Musing on a Saturday night

I feel a little bit like Peter from "Jesus Christ Superstar" (technically not blasphemous, since this is a Rock Opera and not the Bible) :

I think you've made your point now
You've even gone a bit too far to get the message home
Before it gets too frightening
We ought to call a halt
And could we start again please?

I think it's hitting me that I'm not going back to London, not anytime soon, anyway. At work on Friday I endured several incredulous stares as I informed my coworker that I a) didn't have a car, b) commuted 45 minutes on the train and c) didn't think the eL was that crowded. Also I called it the Tube by mistake twice. Then today I went grocery shopping and kept looking for things that don't exist over here--like squash and powdered potato and leek soup. I am also terrified that I'm falling back into the American Lifestyle: I've tried to avoid Starbucks for my caffeine fix, but it's not easy. There are no alternatives, and even the free coffee they have in the offices where I'm working is the Starbucks brand. I've bought lunch the past week because it's easier than making it--but then I also have to get dinner, since there's no time to go home between work and rehearsal. I've lost forty pounds in the last year and a half, and I'm looking forward to losing that last twenty, but that's not going to happen if I don't stop eating. I suspect I'm just bored, lonely and stressed. Last night I had a pint of Ben and Jerry's--the whole thing!!--and I sat there looking at the container going "what the hell is wrong with you? Why didn't you just get the little ice-cream cone like you were planning? The whole thing?! You had a huge sandwich for lunch!!" I'd like to think I'm the same person I was when I was overseas, but I don't know why resisting temptation and ham sandwiches is so much more difficult over here. I suspect it's me and not the city of Chicago so much: Chicago has been good to me, I have no real problem with it, the problem is I keep thinking eventually I'll be back where I belong. Only that's not right.

Well, other than being a huge drama queen, everything is going well.Rehearsals are getting more and more interesting. I've been finding it challenging working with this director, as his style is totally different from mine, but we seem to get along pretty well. I will be working at the same place I was on Thursday and Friday all next week, temping as a receptionist in a very cushy place. I went on a spree tonight--after I washed my clothes I took the oh-so-fashionable granny cart up Clarke Street, past all the yuppies having dinner at the sushi places. I went grocery shopping and bought a ton of veggies, which I am going to make into a salad that will do me for dinner for next week. They were also having a special on Healthy Choice meals, so I scooped up a bunch of those. And I bought some leeks: tomorrow's project is going to be turning them into soup. Then, after a production meeting, I'm going to check out a place I found that advertises "The World's Best Scones!" Oh yeah? I'll be the judge of that...

9:30 and very tired

I'd feel bad about reading my email at work...if the full time receptionist next to me wasn't doing the same thing. I got called yesterday to come in and reception, so here I am.

Right. Non-serious business first. Here's the first picture I've seen of Johnny Depp as Sweeney Todd:

hmmmm...hmmmmmmm... I've been scrutinising this photo for awhile. Glad to see Johnny Depp's cheekbones will feature prominently in this film. I love the pinstripes. Not sure how I feel about the "holster" he apparently has for his razor. It looks like they're going for a stylised 1830s period. And, obviously, this is makeup and hair for a movie so it looks positively gothic...presumably it will mix in better with the rest of the set and other characters. So. I'm still worried, still hopeful.

I also wanted to write about the bombing that happened yesterday in the Iraqi parliament. I'm sure you've all heard about this: a suicide bomber walked into the cafeteria and detonated a bomb, killing eight people. This event, more than anything that's happened recently, is showing how badly the war in Iraq is going. Who knows the best way to end it? Iraqi politicians, working in their equivalent of Independence Hall, are attacked. American soldiers, soon to be supplemented by a "surge," are being attacked. Al-Qaida is rearming. This region is tearing itself apart. It's depressing, it really is. Even though I don't believe all the hype about how the war is getting better every day, it's disheartening to see such a blantant example of the political spin falling apart. I hate being right! I'm also frustrated that this is all over the news but I seem to be the only one worried about this. Everyone is so distracted by their jobs and their lives and rehearsals and I'm getting stomach ulcers, thinking about the kind of situation we're creating over there. What's to stop al-Quaida from walking into the Capitol building and detonating a bomb? It's no longer possible to say "that's impossible," as this organisation has shown itself extremely capable of doing things that no one thought was possible. And they're only attracting more recruits. Five years ago I had hoped that we wouldn't hear about al-Quaida anymore, but now they're all over the news. So one minute I'm minutely examining Johnny Depp in People magazine, the next second I'm watching CNN in horror. Welcome to the new world.

Is there anyone else who has slightly mysterious bruises?

~Or, how to make $200 and not be a prostitute~

~Or, Nicki Satisfies her Taco Craving~

Couldn't pick a header, so you get to vote, gentle reader.

I've been temping for the last three days. By "temping" I mean doing all the bitchwork (sorry, I know) that secretaries don't have the time to do. For the past two days I've been stuffing envelopes with tickets and name badges for a conference in Vegas. "Did that really taken you two days to do?" I hear you ask. No, it took TWO of us two days to do. Luckily I had a fellow temp, a very intelligent, well-travelled, liberal (huh, sounds like me) young man to work with, so we filled our time with discussing the state of the world and why Barack Obama will save the nation and feed our children. So it was boring work, but it passed quickly. The only bad thing is that my arms and shoulders are killing me! and I have these little papercuts all over my hands. I think if I get called to go to work tomorrow I am going to say "erm, um, no thanks" and send out some more resumes. I've also had rehearsal for the past two nights, so I've been getting home late. It's fine. Tonight I waited for a half hour for a bus that didn't come and got completely soaked. Luckily I had Andy Claude to talk to or I would have gotten really down. As it stands, when I came out of the skyscraper where I was working today I felt really sad. Homesick, like. Only I don't know where home would be. So I got some tacos on the way to rehearsal, because I've been dying for some Mexican food. They were really good.

Easter Sermon

Today is Easter Sunday. This is the big holiday for Christians around the world: not Christmas, as so many merchants would have us believe, but TODAY, the day that we celebrate Jesus' return from the dead. Jesus features in other religious traditions, such as Judaism and Islam, but he is not hailed as the Messiah because they don't believe in his Resurrection. Bear with me. Up until this point, there are many things in the Bible that are explainable, such as Jesus being able to heal people. After all, Pharoah's magicians could replicate most of Moses's tricks. Depending on what denomination you belong to, you may be asked to believe in other miracles as well--I'm thinking of Catholics here. The commonest theme across Christianity is Easter: this is the big one. Do you really believe that a man came back from the dead and then rose up into heaven? Well? Do you? Do you believe in miracles?


I find it frustrating that today we are asked to take on faith so many things that we can't see or that aren't adequately explained to us. I'm thinking mitochondrial DNA and imaginary numbers. Does anyone else remember imaginary numbers?! Negative one to the e power or something like that?! Come on!! When I put my foot down about imaginary numbers in ninth grade, I flunked math for the first time. But we're asked to do the same thing about Jesus's life. It's hard to be a Christian today, with so many historians trying to dig up His life, or decide what parts of the Bible are "true." What exactly did He say? This is where faith comes in. What is Easter? Easter is faith. It is faith in someone who said "Follow me" two thousand years ago and is still waiting patiently on the other side of the mountain to see if we will or not.

Faith is not easy. I've taken an interest in history lately (in case you haven't noticed) and one thing I'm struck with over and over is how history books tend to condense things. Even books dedicated to a sole topic will rush events so that you are reading about battles that took place over the span of several days in a few minutes. The same thing happens with the Bible. Jesus is in the garden of Gesthemane, two minutes later He is being crucified, and then He is resurrected later on the page. But think about it: Jesus had to live each of those minutes, and throughout each of them, he had faith. Of course he had moments of doubt--He may have been divine, but he was also Human--but He never stopped believing, He never stopped trusting.

This is the truth I'm meditating on today. I didn't go to church this morning, and for once Easter didn't inspire the normal rush of joy and emotion it normally does. Instead I felt sad that Jesus was gone: Jesus has gone up to Heaven, and left us mere mortals here behind. Prayers seem very thin when what I need is someone I can go out for pizza with. Then I realised that I wasn't thinking about Jesus, I was throwing myself a pity party for being alone in a big city. Why settle for pizza when there's a banquet in heaven? Ooo--was that a little too TV evangelist? Faith, that's what gets me through: belief that next week I'll get that job or meet some new friends. Faith that our leaders are going to come to their senses and that people will start to disarm their weapons. Faith in myself and faith in Jesus. I used to kick myself for making Him too human, but now I'm reassured when I read about Him doubting. Don't we all? The point is, He had faith, and so I should have faith in Him. It's not easy, but if I start to doubt too much, there is always--always!--that little voice at the back of my head that says "trust me." Faith in something you cannot see is not the trait of a backward religious fanatic, it is a act of strength in an increasingly fragmented world. No matter what I learn or what I read, I will Believe.

He is not here. He is Risen.

Alleluia!

three cats is three cats too many

So there's another cat in the house now. Her name is Maisie, although I've nicknamed her "Gollum" since she has a hairball problem. And she's not so much a cat as a cat puddle. My roommate thinks she was abandonded because she is extremely overweight. When she lays down, her front legs completely disappear. Cat puddle. She actually got into my room this morning, causing me to throw her out in a panic because I was on my way to a job interview and wearing black trousers. I accidentally threw her right in front of one of the other cats, so then they had a hissing match--only Maisie wasn't all the way out of my room, so I had to prod her out with my boot, prompting her to take a swipe at me. I felt bad, so when I came home I apologised by scratching her butt. So now we're friends, except I have a weird rash on my hand.

Oh, God. I'm becoming one of those people who tell CAT STORIES. Somebody, please, buy me a dog.

The whole reason I was up and running around in a panic this morning is because I had an appointment at a temp agency downtown. I think I really, REALLY impressed the agent, because she asked if I'd like to work a couple days next week--without having to take any of their computer aptitude tests or a typing assessment--90 words per minute and climbing! woot! Next week I'll be working for a company that organises events for non-profits. MUCH better than selling it all for a multinational corporation. And I got a response to one of my emails yesterday about stage managing a musical this summer--luckily it's a remounting of a show they've already done, so most of the hard part's done. Right? Right.

Then, on my way back home, I stopped at the Cultural Center to get some brochures about things to do in Chicago. Thought briefly about staying for the lecture "What is Plato's Relationship to the Divine?" Figured that was already covered in "Hedwig." Grabbed some leaflets about boat trips on the river and a magazine about the Lincoln Library. There is a free tour of Chicago tomorrow at 1:15, so I think I might go back and have a walking tour. Although I think I might have to break down and buy some gloves. Stupid cold weather.

So life is good. Not bad for only being here five days.

Never have so many been so interested in my continuing employment

I'm feeling very cheered, despite some bus issues yesterday. Both the director and the TD were asking me for resumes last night to pass along to their friends ("it's an Equity theatre! you'll get paid!") for future jobs, and when I got home, my roommate thrust a card into my hand for a production manager at another company, which is also Equity. So I feel like I've made the right choice by moving to Chicago. I cannot believe how much theatre there is here. Not only that--PAID work. What a concept. I'm a little leery jumping into an Equity company straight off because I don't know anything about the union, but I would probably have to ASM for awhile anyway so I could get my card. My only worry now is how to feed myself while I'm looking for paid work. Also, at some point I need to finish my new play. I wish that I'd paid more attention to East London, but, eh, that's what books are for.

So I took my first bus ride in the city yesterday, by myself. I put my shiny new CTA Gold pass into my Oyster card holder for good luck and jumped on the Clark Street bus. I've ridden on buses in several major cities, and Chicago is easier than most since it's on a grid, but I managed to get lost twice. Firstly because I got off too soon, and then secondly because I got off too late and turned down the wrong street. I finally managed to find the rehearsal space, but only after the director and sound guy had given up on me and gone to Dunkin' Doughnuts for coffee. (I came too and got tea. It was nasty.) It was extremely frustrating and kind of embarassing, especially when I asked a woman where the wesbound Addison Street bus picked up: "Um, on the other side of the street? Right there? See the sign?" In my defence, the bus stop signs are confusing: they show the whole route, not just the stops in the direction you're going. Also, the same thing happened the first time I tried to ride a bus in London: I ended up going twenty minutes AWAY from Lewisham before I realised my mistake. Of course, that time I didn't have people waiting for me out the in freezing cold. (welcome back to the Midwest! Sucker! haha!)

I also have this cat thing figured out: they're like furry goldfish, right? They're fun to look at, they eat a lot of food and they don't come when they're called. Like goldfish.

PS: Does anyone else have the musical "1776" stuck in their head? Like, proper stuck? No? Just me then.

"Like a different way of living now."

I completely forgot to thank my incomparable parents yesterday for hauling me and my stuff down to Chicago. They rock! I know they were grumbling about the three flights of stairs and the fact that I insisted on bringing a ton of books, but they were, once again, amazing. I'm so glad to have my babies around me again. How could I quote from "Twelfth Night" in last night's journal if I hadn't had "The Complete Works" by my side? I really believe all theatre people have Shakespeare's Complete Works with them, even if they aren't into Shakespeare, or they're modern dramatists or they flat out hate Shakespeare: every theatre person will have his brick of a book somewhere, maybe just propping up a table. The quote I was looking for was Sebastian's aside to the audience after he's mistaken for his sister (not as weird as it sounds, Viola was dressed as a man at this point...okay, it is as weird as it sounds.). He has a speech which concludes "If this be a dream, still let me sleep." London seems like a dream now. I have these memories and knowledge of the city, but it's as if I was dreaming an incredibly detailed dream and I've woken up now. Parts of it are still memorable, but parts of it are starting to break up and drift away. Am I being over dramatic? Of course. I like Chicago, but I don't feel connected to it like I did with London. Give it a few days, I hear you say? Pfft. I loved London before I ever set foot in it. But now I'm living here, and stage managing and meeting theatre people, and I seem to have slotted in to this life so easily it's as if nothing happened before it. As if I've looped myself and there's a part squeezed off. Everyone keeps reassuring me I'll go back: I don't WANT to go back unless I can do theatre, unless I can pick up where I've left off. Or maybe it was just a dream. Maybe the city doesn't really exist, except as some kind of Otherworld, like Tir na n'Og. Maybe it's the speed with which I've been assimilated into Chicago that's causing disorientation. Or maybe it was a dream. Who knows?

My kinda town...

Chicago, that is. Hello from the Windy City! I found a place to live in Andersonville, which is north of the heart of the city, with two other roommates and a pair of cats. Yes, cats. One of whom (the shyer one) has decided she loves me and wants to be with me all the time. Apparently my reputation hasn't preceeded me. I'm feeling very welcomed to this city. My roommates are both very nice and helpful--one of whom is actually an actor in the show--and I finally met the director of the Castle. Finally. So, even though I'm in a huge city, a million miles away from anything that's familiar, I'm already feeling welcomed. Today's goal is to get a CTA travelcard (which is like an Oyster card, but not as cool) and catch up on rehearsals. The show is very movement-based, so I need to go decipher some blocking notes. The ASM has been very organised up to this point, which is great. Now I just need to step up and make sure that the transition goes smoothly. One thing I've discovered since being back from London is I am definitely more assertive, whether it's dealing with store clerks or telephone call center employees. Rrrarr.

Right. Nothing much else to say. I've been hearing from a lot of Point people--so if you're in the Chi-town way, come along and see me.

Apparently my parent's computer ate my six-page essay about Prez Bush and other wacky ideas. Currently experiencing technical difficulties. Back in 5.

Nicki unpacks her soapbox...

This short story is my life

I’ve been frantically looking for an apartment in Chicago ever since I arrived in Green Bay: I’m anxious to get to work with the theatre company down there, but also, the sooner I find a place to live, the sooner I can get a “real” job and start paying back some of those huge student loans, which I like to personify as the Dragon with myself as St. George. This is not easy because my parents have a very. slow. internet. and I’m not familiar with Chi-town, so reading descriptions of neighborhoods goes completely over my head. I have a few leads, however, so Dad and I are driving down tomorrow to see a couple places. My parents have been very understanding of me, and if they’re smiling indulgently at my international airs at least they’re not letting me see it. Mom and I went out shopping yesterday for new trousers, since the courduroy ones I bought in London are literally falling off my a££ and I needed some more hair dye. (I know it will come as a shock to some of you that my Belle Watling red is not natural, but there you are.) Also I found new boots for $5. $5! Pointy-toed and fashionable! $5! Then Dad and I went out last night for a drink at St. Brendan’s, the closest thing to an Irish pub in Green Bay. It felt very normal to be sitting there clutching a pint of Newcastle instead of a can of Bud—not that I’m turning into a heavy drinker, I’m just a girl who knows what she likes*--and it was great to talk to Dad about our family and being in West Side Story in the sixties.

Today was the first break in the façade of okayness. I got a new cell phone and dad was asking me about the contract length. “Two years!” I said “I might as well sign a contract for two years since I’m stuck in this country!” Blink. “Er, no offence.” Dad suggested I should go back. I could have fought a little harder to stay, it’s true I didn’t do absolutely everything I could have, but I thought I wanted to be here. It’s just turning out to be harder than I thought to transition. Again, I think once I get a job and start meeting some new people, also theatrical therapy, I’ll be fine. Green Bay is a VERY small town. I’m at KaVarna’s right now, the “local” coffee shop, working on my new play, and having tea and scone. It’s not the barrista’s fault that she doesn’t know how to make tea, or that the only stuff they have here is horrid Earl Grey instead of an afternoon blend, nor that the scone is less scone and more “concrete with berries” and that I had to ask for an individual jug of milk because this is America and we have communal pitchers here and that it’s the little things like that which are adding up to make me sad. When that happens, of course, it’s time to consult the magic Stephen Sondheim eight-ball which tells us today “And you think of all of the things you’ve seen, and you wish that you could live in between, and you’re back again only different than before.”

Although, I’ve finally cleaned all the black stuff out of my sinuses, which can only been a good thing.

*Ale.

"And every day...Some go away..."

And I'm here in Wisconsin. Can't say "home" exactly, but I'm safe in my parents house, happily enjoying 50 degree weather. The trip was surreal, if uneventful. I slept on the plane for almost four hours (happily drooling most of the time--unfortunate side effect of sleeping pills) and then finished reading The Guardian. I thought I would be more upset, more emotional. I don't really feel anything, just sort of hollow. I don't believe that there's a whole cityful of people living and loving without me today. I'm a little numb, sort of going through the motions: I need to find an apartment, get my book together for this next show, go to the bank, get a dog, etc but I'll do all those things without going through Trafalgar Square or getting on a Tube. It's very strange.

It was the end of a perfect day.

I arrived at the London Eye at the same time the snow did. All morning I lolled around the house, enjoying sunshine and blue skies, and then as soon as I got to Westminster, bang, snow, freezing rain, wind…my jeans were soaked six inches up the cuff by the time I got to the ticket office. Twenty minutes later it was clear so I finally got the last touristy thing out of the way: the London Eye has become the biggest icon of the city (not to mention tourist draw) since it was erected in time for the new millennium, but I’d always shunned it as being touristy. I changed my mind though when I realized it would afford me a view of the city I haven’t had before, and I’ve had many. So I went. It was beautiful. The whole city laid out like a maze underneath me, the buildings uniformly grey up in the sky. I played at picking out favourite landmarks and gazing off down the river. The only thing marring my trip were two American women, probably about my age, who were obviously on a vay-cay-shun and who kept exclaiming “oh, that’s a pretty building!” *click* “what is that?” *click* “That’s another good one of Big Ben!” causing me to forcibly restrain myself from pointing out they’ve just taken a picture of Charing Cross train station and the bell tower which contains Big Ben, but there you go. I mean, what is the point of having a picture of something if you don’t know that it loses sixteen minutes every year and that Charing Cross marks the final stage of Queen Eleanor’s funeral journey back to London? The Amies were out en masse today…everywhere I went I heard them. I hate how I sound when I talk to Americans. My voice gets higher and I tend to say “like” and “ya know” more. To my ears I sound more apologetic, almost “hey, we’re Americans together, isn’t it embarrassing?” I went to the King’s Arms in Greenwich for a roast dinner (I had planned on going to the Trafalgar, but they don’t serve dinner on Sundays, so I had to content myself with stealing a box of matches instead. I wasn’t overly upset though because they didn’t have “Hardy’s Kiss” on tap anyway.) and the girl behind the bar THERE was an American! Whilst I was tucking into my roast (and a very acceptable ale called “Broadside”) a gaggle of tourists came in and struck up a conversation with the girl behind the counter, and she was very friendly, suggesting they take a bus ride, a boat ride…again, I had to stop myself from leaping up and offering myself as a tour guide. Instead I ordered treacle sponge for dessert. I remembered how much my parents enjoyed the double-decker bus tour and, if you only have a few days, they are a great way to see the city. But to truly enjoy London, you need to walk it. And walk it and walk it and walk it. I’ve been doing so much walking I’m getting shin splints. I feel like I’ve got the whole city embedded on my brain, details, maps, history, culture. It’s full: there’s no more room. Tomorrow I’m going to do laundry and spend a day inside off my feet. I’ve settled on a plan of action re: moving back to the States, but the idea of memorizing another city is overwhelming. I’ll have to take it one day at a time.

First thing on the agenda though: find a place where there’s pints of ale and British people. I don’t want to have a squeaky voice again, ya know? I’m leaving in three days. Well, two, I guess. It’s still hard for me to fathom moving away permanently. I know, everyone says I’ll be back, and never say never, but I won’t be the same. I keep watching commercials for shows at the end of the week, or seeing notices for plays I’d like to see and thinking “well, I’ll miss that…I wonder what’s playing at home now?” And I have no way of knowing, so it’s a very disconnected feeling. Soon all the necessary daily objects that fit into my city life will become souvenirs. I was talking to a friend the other night about how I was feeling: I always thought, somehow that I had made the Decision to come to London, study here, and that the rest would take care of itself…and now I’m faced with the need to make yet more choices about what to Do with myself. Only this time all the choices are equally appealing and cool. The only thing I know is that I am choosing to come back to America, and that I must do Theatre. Now is not the time for temping, getting money ahead, saving for “the future.” The future is here. The day has come. It’s very exciting.

PS: Next year’s scene painting project? If you look closely in the middle you can see the auld one-handed adulterer, as Joyce referred to him.

This is my 300th post on this blog. It is a poem I wrote for Grandma (but don't tell her, it's a surprise)


"Look! I have brought you a present!
Flowers in my hair.
I have returned to you with a headful of memories
And clothes perfumed with a far off city. Look!
I have brought you a present: I have returned to you,
New and improved."

To rule them all!

I've been wandering around the city for the past few days, absorbing it, if you will, and my feet are so sore that I can barely stand up now. I've worn out my elegant European sneakers. Alas. Today I went to see "Citizens and Kings" an exhibit of painting in in the time of Revolution and Enlightenment (1760-1830) because that's probably my favourite time period. Period. The show was really interesting, but I was well peeved that the first room was called "Rulers" and yet they hung George Washington's portrait in the next room called "New Statesmen." Granted, he was framed in the doorway, so if you were standing in the right place he APPEARED to be in the Rulers room, and, okay, technically he never "ruled" although he did, infact, rule, but still. Diss! Washington for king!

friends who will love you like a maniac...

Some of the staff at the Fynn went out for a drink after the show, but I didn’t because I can’t bear to watch the best friends best friending it up around each other. I don’t begrudge them their happiness, but it makes me long for the people that I knew at Point who are now scattered to the four winds. I invested so much energy and love into them that I don’t have the stamina or the desire to do it again. I’ve learned that not everyone I’ve met will become a Friend, sometimes you just drift apart, or leave, or sometimes you meet more interesting people. It happens. I miss my friends. To that end, I think I’ve finally decided to move to Chicago which is close (well, closer) to everyone and do the unthinkable: theatre. Anyone got a freezing garrett what needs moving into?

Today I went to see Benjamin Franklin’s house. I didn’t realize that he lived in London for nearly twenty years before the War of American Independence. His house is just off the Strand, and apparently the landlady’s son-in-law used to perform illegal dissections there, because they found the bodies of nearly ten people in the cellar. The tour itself was somewhat disappointing: the house has been “renovated” to the period, (the staircase was so period-y uneven that I nearly fell down and killed myself in a period manner) but there is no furniture, no paintings, no rugs, nothing, not even wood for the fireplaces. The tour guide, a woman in costume, took us from room to room where recorded conversations played which she would join in or not while projections helped keep track of who was speaking. It was more interesting as a piece of theatre than as a tour, but I found the lack of information frustrating—I learned almost nothing about Franklin, nor about the London of his time. The actress couldn’t deviate from her script, and she disappeared before the end so we couldn’t ask questions. Although I suspect she wouldn’t have been able to answer them anyway. I suspect that my five quid would have been better spent on a biography of Franklin, which I’ll probably do anyway. The best part happened when I left the house and walked into a group of tourists on a walking tour. I was putting my hat on (when wearing period hats, one must observe the rules of the period, which includes taking your hat off when you’re indoors) and the tour guide shouted out “Nice hat!” which prompted me to give him my best courtly bow. I think I’m going to end up in a couple photo albums.

Like my hat?

Oh WEEP ye jealous mortals, ye envious clay!

(why is it I always get a new hat on a bad hair day?)

And yes—before you ask, I’ve worn it outside, in public, with actual people. No one has said anything yet, but I can’t figure out if that’s the famous British reserve or not being able to figure out what they’re seeing (“is it some new fashion trend?!” “Yes.”) or if they’re just green with envy.

I have to confess, gentle readers, that owing to a certain indisposition on Saturday, I didn’t make it to Apsley House. And when I presented myself bright and bushy-tailed this afternoon, the house was closed. I thought I sensed a malicious presence behind the door giggling at my frustration, but that was probably my imagination. Probably. Luckily. Covent Garden was still open, so I did a bit of shopping. I very nearly bought an antique makeup case with an ornate “N” on it that I thought looked like Napoleon’s seal…which was sitting right next to a bust of the emperor himself. The guy behind the counter offered it to me for £25 which caused a short bark of derision. I may not be an expert in antiques, but I was pretty sure I had seen the Napoleon bust at a tourist stop in France. Then I had to go waltzing into Nauticalia and to finally buy the pack of Nelson playing cards I’ve had my eye on (they were on sale!!!) and also a Nelson bottle stopper, which I intend to stick into a bottle of Napoleon brandy in a highly ironic manner. I managed to not buy a scale model of the Victory, but only because I really can’t justify useless objets d’art unless they started life as theatre props. That, and the ones on display were tacky and plastic. I considered buying the wooden model (on sale for £200!) and making a project of it, but decided I have shipped (ha!) enough stuff home for one trip. I also, somehow, said no to a signed program of Richard III with Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier. Somehow. It was hard…I did ask the seller if he’d be back next Monday…oh, I tempt myself. Lessee: Food/Olivier. Food/Olivier. Food/Olivier….

Then I went to see “The Entertainer” at the Old Vic. I wanted to see it mostly for it’s value as a revival of an old and groundbreaking play, but I was completely drawn into the story. It’s about Archie Rice, a music-hall entertainer who is trying to keep his form of entertainment going while his family slowly decomposes around him. It’s quite shouty, but the playwright managed to keep it from being a mess and everyone got their points across. I’m fascinated by this script. I would have loved to sit in on rehearsals. The performances were amazing—no, not amazing, they were inspired. There was no “Development” of “Character:” everyone arrived onstage fully formed and totally willing to launch into this savage piece. It was so good. I’m going to buy the DVD of the movie when I get home—Laurence Olivier first created the role, and he’s in the movie. Wait—how have I not mentioned that yet?! Oh right: because this play was BRILLIANT and all you people reading this in Britain should go see it.

Volunteering

I offered to come into the theatre today to help out with auditions for another show, only to discover that we have water coming through the roof--not a great deal, but it's enough to have to put down a couple buckets to catch the drips. Not exactly the sort of professional image the theatre wants to present to potential actors. Another reason I came in was because the general manager shamelessly played on my internet addiction and said I could use the computer--the connection at home is prone to crashing my computer. I am going to send out another batch of resumes this afternoon, as soon as I get the theatre lights on(and put down cloths to protect our lovely cream carpet. The more I think about going out to California, the more I don't want to. I've already been away from home and family for so long that to take another nine months suddenly seems really difficult. I want to start my own company, and that's not going to happen if I keep skipping off to foreign places and working for other people. I do, however, want to keep working in a theatre, even if I'm applying for grants and looking for directors, so I'm trying to get hooked up with a company in the Midwest for a few months. Or not. Maybe I'll just go back to temping and become middle class. That would be nice too. :)

Not much else going on: I'm going to visit Apsley House tomorrow, where the Duke of Wellington lived. Not because I care about Wellington (wanker) but because he stole a lot of Napoleon's things which is what I'd like to see. Interesting note about Wellington: one of the stage managers at the theatre told me that her great-great-however many greats-grandfather was actually an illegitimate child of the Duke. I don't think she appreciated it when my first impulse was "sorry" though. And speaking of dukes--or rather, not--the House of Lords has voted to make the House of Lords an almost entirely voted in governing body. Which is somewhat unprecedented--it would be like the Senate voting to give themselves a pay cut. I don't know much about the House of Lords other than they like fox hunting and when you get a title you have to make a speech, and that Laurence Olivier did a damnfine job of it in "That Hamilton Woman." (I would quote here, but my DVD is somewhere on a boat right now....jealous....)

bits and pieces...

I mentioned to Deb how my suitcase has more room in it than I thought, after I gave her half of my wardrobe, and she promptly gave me four shirts and a hat. Check out those collarbones—Kate Moss, eat your heart out! Or not, since you are a supermodel.

Don’t hold out too much hope for me but…I did spend an hour writing today. Shock! The first time in months. Any good? Who cares?! Afterward I went to the Inland Revenue today to fill out a tax form for getting back my income tax since I am not a British Citizen. The Inland Revenue office is located in big building called Bush House, and is right across the street from Somerset House, where Nelson used to pick up his paycheck. Then I stopped in at the place where I used to temp to say hello to everyone and drop off some flyers for the show. It was so lovely to see everyone—and to have people come flying down the hall, fling their arms around me and go “oh, we really miss you!” instead of what happened when I got to the theatre: “Nicole, you don’t really have to wash out my costume, it’s fine.” “No, it needed washing.” “No, really, don’t.” “No, I insist.” “Oh, well…okay. Thanks.” You’re welcome.

Randomest moment of the day was this exchange I overheard at Earls’ Court:

Woman 1: “…so, I don’t know, it just seems like a lot of work, you know, like a lot of studying and reading and stuff like that.”
Woman 2: “Yeah, so I guess you’ll never marry a Jewish man then.”
Woman 1: “Yeah. I could become a Buddhist though…”

At which point I went scrambling for my journal to make a record. I’m not real up to date on Buddhism, but I’m pretty sure they read books too. I’m sad that my journal is almost full—full to the point of I have to buy a new one tomorrow. This one goes from June of last year until now and is so full of odds and ends, stories, ticket stubs and pictures of Nelson that it’s practically a work of art. I will be sorry to lock it away with all the others but, well, all good things must come to an end.

"because you idiot, it's dull, it'll hurt more!"

I can’t tell you his name, but I will say that we had a famous actor in the audience yesterday. Don't want to name drop and be unprofessional. No siree. Although, if "Colonel Brandon" means anything to you, you know who I'm talking about. Anna knows him and had been promising he would come in--getting all nervous in the process. I had a plethora of interesting things lined up to talk about: his recent play at the Royal Court (or “the Court” as my friend Sarah once referred to it and has yet to live down), how he liked our play, etc. And then how does Anna go and introduce me? “This is Nicole! She loves Harry Potter! She has a Harry Potter tattoo!” and off she goes to mingle, leaving him rolling his eyes at me and probably thinking I’m some kind of rabid fangirl. No, actually, he was quite nice—taller in real life—but he made some disparaging remarks about the set which made me think he likes his own opinion quite a lot. Anna told me later that he had majored in stage design before becoming an actor. I wish I could have been a little more intelligent, but at least I didn’t ask him for his autograph—unlike the waitress at the restaurant where they went that night—as I was also rushing off to a party and was worried about missing my friends. I did, however, squeeze his arm on my way out the door and trill “Looking forward to Sweeney Todd!” I’m such a dork.

Today is Monday! Glorious Monday. I was going to go to Bath today, until I discovered that train tickets are £50 the day of, and £18 a week in advance, so...I'm going next Monday! Today I went to see "The Science of Sleep" which was B+ good. Gael Garcia Bernal was, of course, fabulous. I think I might cast him as the Neapolital rebel Caracciolo in my Nelson movie. I'm sure he can speak Italian, since he managed French, Spanish AND English in this movie. Apparently he can also breathe underwater, something which doesn't surprise me. And now, since I have a night off, I'm going to actually cook dinner tonight: salmon and rice and spinach. Yes, spinach. Apparently I have a taste for it. Who knew?

why am I always on a plane or fast train?

Traveling...but not in love, still I think I'm doing fine. O what a world we live in! I've been turned onto Rufus Wainwright, and I'm completely enamoured of his song "Oh What a World." I had plenty of time to listen to it tonight whilst waiting for the number 53...it picks me up at Westminster, gives me a beautiful view of London as we cross over the Westminster Bridge and then drops me off twenty feet from home. Although I'm not sure it was worth a thirty minute wait tonight. Oh well.

I'm reading "The Talented Mr. Ripley" which is quite good, although I can't get the feeling out of my head that I'm the main character. I love where I'm living, but it has a slightly unreal feel to it since it's so beautiful and unlike anywhere I've ever been. I'm miles away from everyone and most of the people I knew from London are gone or busy. I'm staying out of the way, mostly. I don't want to get too caught up in people's projects and then have to leave in three weeks. Mostly I'm happy, but the cloud of going home hovers over all. It doesn't help that it's Spring! here, full on spring, with daffodils and lilies of the valley and clusters of crocus...

I did get our deposit back today from the apartment (less £25, which I suspect was just the landlord being cranky) so now I have a little breathing room on the money "sitch." And I'm healing nicely from the trauma of moving--I managed to not throw my back out this time, and the blister on my finger is healing nicely. Remember back in October 2005 (see blog archive) when the power went out for three days in my dorm? I used my cup of loose change as a candle holder, so I've had about 25 pence rolling around, stuck together with candlewax. Before I moved I got the brilliant idea of making a little tinfoil boat and holding it over the cooker until the wax melted off the coins. Worked like a charm! I was so impressed with my ingenuity that I tried to pick up a coin before it was quite cool and...yeah. Not the smartest thing I've done. Still, it's just a little bump from the side of the coin--it could have been worse, I could have QE II imprinted in my finger.

steal this internet

All I’m saying is, if people don’t put a password on their wireless internet, they’re basically asking for it to get stolen. Is all I’m saying.

The show went very well tonight, no thanks to me: I usually put the lights up for awhile before the show to warm up the theatre--I know, I know, it’s not the purpose God intended them for, but it’s either that or I come it at noon to run the heaters—and tonight I forgot to put them down before running the show. So, come the first blackout…no blackout. Thirty seconds of panic later and everything was okay, but…I think the actresses are getting a little exasperated with me. Last night the sound didn’t cut in the right place because I got the computer screwed up with the CD player and hit the wrong button, and tonight I just lost my focus. I blame the jerk in the pub. The theatre is above a pub, hence the name pub theatre, and since last summer it’s been reopened by a guy who looks sort of like a “Sopranos” extra—let’s call him Tony. Tony’s okay, but we in the theatre can’t figure out why he bought this pub, since there’s hardly anyone in it except for him and his gangster-wannabe friends who sit around in their leather coats and their gold chains watching racing. Some of us also suspect they use illegal substances. It is not the type of place I would frequent, let us say. (I prefer pubs with names like “The George” and “The Lord Nelson” that have dark woodwork, squishy stools and fireplaces.) Anyway, tonight when I went down to make the announcement the theatre was open, one of the pub’s “patrons” a tall, scrummy looking black guy was coming out of the toilets and he looked me up and down and goes “Helloo girl.” This happened before once—I came through the door and he looked up from the sofa and said “Helloo” in this disgusting scrummy voice. Tonight I was so incensed that he would A) call me a girl and B) have the audacity to assume that it was OKAY for a scrummy old man to hit on a perfectly normal woman who was doing nothing to invite it, that I just looked at him and said “No. NO.” Then he laughed and went “Aw, what do you mean, no? No?” And laughed some more.

This happened, oh, roughly four hours ago, and I’m still incensed about it. Down from “livid” but still pretty mad. One of the other women at the theatre mentioned that he’s done it to her as well, and also to some of the actresses that have been around. So now I’m triply mad that this person feels perfectly free to prey on theatre folk—God knows there aren’t any women in that pub for him to hit on. I’m quadruply mad that the only suggestions open to me are to ignore the guy, or to talk to Tony and ask him to tell his mate to knock that sh*t off. Yeah. Right. I can just see what would happen the next time I run into Scrummy Guy: “Hey, Tony said I shouldn’t talk to you anymore. What’s the matter, girl?” And then I would be forced to remove his eyeballs with my fingernails. I begin to see why women marched in the streets in the sixties. You Sir. You do NOT have permission to hit on me. GO AWAY. If I say nothing, he wins. If I make someone else go do the calls, he’ll just hit on them. If I tell Tony to talk to him, I’ll come across as a frigid cow. If I kick him where it counts, I’ll get arrested.
Although it would mean I’d get to stay in Britain for the trial…well, maybe when the show goes down.

HRH and other important things

I'm all moved out of my flat...all my possessions, boiled down to two suitcases, one box and my backpack. Now. If I could just remember where I put everything...I am very sore from cleaning and also lugging suitcases around. Can barely clamber into the tech box at the Finn (in manner vaguely reminiscent of some ancestral sailor, except instead of carrying a knife in my mouth it's usually my mobile...).

Meanwhile, I was shocked to discover life continued apace in the City on the river...apparently Prince Harry (that's the younger one--not the heir, the spare) is going to Iraq. Well, his regiment is, and he is going as well, although with some special agents to "mind" him. Naturally the British public is outraged that they're going to be footing the bill to pay for a set of babysitters, but I think it's great. I'd rather have trained killers being paid to protect royalty by using their skills than sitting around getting bored. Tony Blair has announced that Britain will be decreasing their troop presence in Iraq signifigantly, bowing to some public pressure, at last. I'm slightly cynical that Harry going to Iraq might be the best PR move the royal family has made in the past decade...although I shudder to think what the outpouring of grief might be like if he actually doesn't make it back.

Also a good week for the royals because Helen Mirren, who played The Queen in the movie The Queen (which is really good, btw, go see it), has been invited to the palace to take tea with The Queen. The real one. Not "meet" her, not have her photo taken with her, but TAKE TEA WITH THE QUEEN. Sweet hell. How cool would that be? I would love to take tea with The Queen, just for the opportunity to feel like and idiot as I fumbled with my cucumber sandwich, making an idiotic remark about Nelson (as I am wont to do) whilst spilling the beverage of the Nation on my neatly pressed skirt. I definitely think The Queen (the movie) has done more for The Queen's (The Queen) image than anything she's done for herself lately, even travelling on commuter train. Lucky Dame Helen!

How to Vanish a TV

1. Discover roommate has left you her TV to deal with.
2. Hire cab to take offending TV, bag of clothes, bag of kitchen items, slightly-less beloved books, etc to charity shop.
3. Donate bags of stuff. Discover charity shops do not take electrical equipment in Britain.
4. Bring TV back home.
5. Place TV on curb. Affix sign that says "FREE."
6. Wait ten minutes.
7. Voila! TV is vanished.

David Copperfield, eat your heart out.

I told Lisa I would clean the house if she wouldn't charge me for the internet--fine. But when I got up this morning, I discovered that she had left her duvet, pillows, bedding, bags of clothes, kitchen stuff (including jars of Chinese spices in the fridge--all of which had to be washed out before recycling), and TV in the house. Needless to say, I was not happy. I spent all day today re-arranging STUFF just so I can be in some sort of position to clean tomorrow. I have arranged for a shipping company to come and pick up my beloved books Wednesday, but even so I've decided to part with another five: all my history books are going to get sold down Charing Cross Road tomorrow. Tears! Acid Tears! I feel like someone's cut my arm off. (no--Nelson is still coming home, although Wellington didn't make the cut. Wanker.) I also went through all my theatre programs, which was emotionally challenging. So I've spent a lot of the day alternately mad, upset, sad, cranky and also very tired. At least I've been eating well--hey, someone has to clean out the freezer. I took a suitcase (my big suitcase, the one you could fit a person into. No, really, I'm actually not exaggerating) down to Waterloo and gave about half my wardrobe to my friend Deb, who's lost nearly 150 pounds and is now just about my size. Why, you ask? Books, my dear Watson! I can always buy new clothes...besides, everyone knows that it's minus twenty in Wisconsin, I'll just be sitting around all day in my Canada sweatshirt, in a fug. I know y'all will find it hard to believe that I have my possessions down to two suitcases and one box, but there it is. I just wish I didn't have to.

For the record, if anyone is looking to buy me a birthday present next winter, the books I'm missing are:

"Freedom Just Around the Corner"
"His Excellency George Washington"
"Wellington and Napoleon"
"Rights of Man"
"Our Musicals, Ourselves"

they say the meek are gonna get what's coming to 'em!

I hate packing. I'm never moving again unless I can throw everything into a car and take off. It takes me forever too, because I have to sit there and go through everything and relive all the memories. It's exhausting. This morning I recycled my Representative call book, old drafts of my thesis and took down all my photographs and postcards. Exhausting. Luckily there is a marathon of "House" on tv so I can sit and recuperate--oh, yeah, and they're turning off our TV and internet tomorrow. Durrr. I hate moving. I'm having a packing box delivered on Monday so I can ship it home on Wednesday, so there's not much else I can do right now except sit around and wait for four o'clock to arrive so I can go to the theatre. I took a small (5kg) box of books to the post office yesterday to mail home, but it would have cost me £65, so I brought it home again...I know I have a lot of stuff, but I'm getting rid of an entire garbage bag of clothes as well. Ironically it's mostly the clothes I brought here: they're too big for me now. See, if I could throw everything into a car, I would keep them for when I get up to my fighting weight again, but now they're all going. I'm trying to see it as not getting clingy about personal items, but that doesn't really fly when you consider the only reason I'm jettisoning clothes is so I can bring home Vincent's thousand page biography of Nelson. Well, everyone has priorities. I'm just proud that I haven't bought a matching bio of Lady Hamilton yet.

I'm going to be moving to a flat in Blackheath for three weeks. A friend of a friend, both of whom are theatrical persons, is going to be moving to Bristol to assistant direct up there for a month, so he's letting me have it for cheap. Blackheath is right near Greenwich. I'm so happy I'll be back south of the river, and right near one of my favourite places in the city. It's going to take me an hour to get to the theatre still, but...the fastest way there is to take one of the river boats. Bliss.

Jekyll and Hyde is a crap musical

Not even, but the lyrics are so terrible that I can't bear to listen to it. Why do I do it then, I hear you ask? Well, I've decided to give some of the more neglected shows in my collection another listen...so far I've mostly confirmed my resolution to not listen to them. Although, J&H does bring back good memories of painting in Point when I had my CD player (old skool!) strapped on, trying to stay out of everyone's way as I completed assignments. Speaking of Jekyll and Hyde, does anyone remember a bad movie call "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?" It had the potential to be such a cool film and then the movie makers had to ruin it by turning it into a vehicle for Sean Connery when, let's face it, his only vehicle at this point should probably be a Rascal. There is some kind of sub-genre out there about ninteenth century people who have somehow managed to accomplish great thing scientifically before it was technically possible. See "League" also "Wild, Wild West," "Brothers Grimm," and there was one other one...anyway, "League" was on the other night, and I was watching it, fascinated, because the CGI in this movie was so bad. It was early days, after all, but even by those standards it was baaaaad. The guy playing Jekyll and Hyde was quite good though. When o when will filmmakers learn that there is still no substitute for the real thing? Also no substitute for quality acting: "Wild, Wild West" may get zero stars out of five, but it's still a joy to watch because Kenneth Brannagh manages to bring something real to the comedy bitterness of his character, even with a ridiculous beard and southern accent.

Speaking of Southern accents, when is Manhunt going to be made?! And more importantly, who's going to play John Wilkes Booth?!

All right, I confess, I'm just avoiding cleaning and packing. Now that I have all this free time I don't know what to do but sit around and surf the internet. I did send out another five resumes today...at least I think it was five, I kind of lost count after awhile. I do have a job offer in California, near where "Sideways" took place. Money-wise, it's about as good as I can expect, and the contract would go through December, potentially. So what's stopping me? Well, at first I tried to put a brave face on leaving London by saying, bracingly, "No, it will be good to go home and be near family again!" but now I am sincerely looking forward to going home and being near family...and I suddenly don't want to go away again. Of course, the image of me floating around wine country and walking my dog on the beach compared to me slogging through two feet of snow is appealing. There is a sort of unwritten rule in theatre: never turn down paid work so I can't believe I'm even considering saying no when the only other option would be temping unless I heard back from other theatres, but...it's very uncool and old-fashioned to say that you'd like to settle down, have a family, be stable, especially when you're in your early late twenties, but I feel a lot older, what with all the traveling and moving I've done. Stability would be a nice change, which is why I keep harping on about the damn dog. I'd like to move into a place knowing I'd be there in a year, invest in all the little condiments that you only use once in a blue moon that hover in the backs of cabinets for years, things like that which don't happen when you have to move every six months....oh, that reminds me, I must go consolidate the onion powder and onion granules into one shaker. :P

The TV is talking to me

If London Underground's response to someone writing "Eddie Murphy thinks it's okay to make fun of large women!" on a Norbit poster is to remove said poster from the platform...they're not exactly encouraging people to stop making political statements on movie posters. Is all I'm saying.

Speaking of vandalism, I read an article about how when the Hitler waxwork went on display at Madame Tussauds in 1933 it was promptly splashed with red-paint by some far-seeing Communist. It was removed, used as evidence in the subsequent trial, cleaned up and put back on display...where it was promptly hit with red paint and tomatoes again. Eventually Madame Tussaud's put it behind glass, but even then they had to clean the glass daily because people spit on it. The figure was eventually "liberated" in 2002, and is now the "third" most hated figure in the collection, behind Osama bin Laden and...I forget the other guy. I haven't been to Tussaud's yet, but I think I'll go in the window between the show closing and me leaving. Looking forward to seeing all the historical waxworks--I'm more interested in the fact that Hitler was paint-bombed and survived a direct hit during WWII than looking at some stupid celebrities. Also they have a Nelson figure. I feel bad that Hitler's only the third most hated figure though. I mean, historically, he's caused a bit more caos than bin Laden. Maybe I should take some paint along and show that all is not forgotten.

on and on and on...

The show is great. We had first preview tonight and it looks great. Everyone was positive about it, which is really nice after all the long nights I've put in recently. Must get a picture of the set up. It's amazing--especially the floor moulding, which was cut and screwed by yours truly. But it has been very stressful. I'm not sure why since everyone was very prepared for this show and tech went smoothly. We techies have a common ancestry with sailors (maybe that's where it comes from) and all I'm going to say is a captain and crew need to trust and have faith in one another. Is all I'm saying. I'm glad the show is up, on its feet and getting laughs. Makes it all worth it. I only got one minor injury this time, and I'm embarassed that it's a wussy, British wound: a steam burn from the kettle as I made tea this morning. I'm so tired I've forgotten how to speak British: I was talking about cilantro yesterday for ten minutes before I realised the sound designer was giving me a weird look for not saying "coriander."

I think I may have also gotten a job offer in California...but I'm too tired to process words right now and emails are just beyond me. Bed, here I come.

passive agressive backpack

I'll admit it, occasionally when some "stand on the right"-er is leaning into my "walk on the left" zone as I'm zooming upward, in a hurry to get home, I'll turn my shoulder slightly so they get the brunt of my backpack. Call it escalator rage.

So it's only twenty after midnight and I'm home. Load-in went very well. I think it's because we all knew each other and had fun, and the set didn't weigh seven thousand pounds. Also it was not ninety degrees in the theatre. I am absolutely knackered though. The only reason I'm writing now is I turned the heat on so I can have a heated towel for my post-load in shower. Ah. Crap, I meant get-in. We're in London, so it's load-in...oh, I'm going to have to ask someone how the "five minutes, places" thingy goes again. Whatever.

I skipped out for a couple hours to go see Chinatown since today is Chinese New Year. Happy year of the Pig! I even wore a red shirt to load in. This is the way to celebrate New Year's: overpriced Chinese food, eaten standing up, while being buffeted by thousands of other people. There were several "lions" parading around Chinatown, Lisa explained that if businesses gave the lion money, they would have good fortune that year. So these teams of dancers, a few in the lion costume, drum players and flag carriers, go from business to business, dancing for money. Only the business doesn't just hand out cash, they attach money in a red packet (red is good luck) to a bunch of lettuce (not sure why lettuce), then dangle it from the end of a pole out the first (American second) floor window, so the lion has to jump up and get it. Then the lion eats the money and spits the lettuce back out at the business--spraying anyone who happens to be nearby with leaves. Once we were so close I could see the dancer drop kick the lettuce back up onto the roof of a restaurant. It was well cool. I'd love to see how those costumes worked from the inside. I bought a little pig pendant for happiness (figured I'd hang it in my car if I get one) and a little paper dragon, for good luck. I promptly tucked the dragon in the back of the set--I just hope that it doesn't get noticed for the first time when someone is preparing to go on and they're startled out of their wits!

Free newspapers

I never take the free papers, but I do read them when they're lying on the train. I also like to intimidate the vendors when they shove them in my face saying "free! free!" by screaming back, "but what does it cost the EARTH?!"

Today the news has been about three shooting deaths in Peckham, the borough next to the one where I used to live. Used to go see movies there, it was about a 20 minute bus ride. It's one of the poorest areas of London, and police are thinking these deaths are all gang related. Now all the free papers have screaming headlines like "Gang Uses 12 Year Olds as Gun Couriers!" and "Gun Deaths on the Rise!" I'm concerned about the violence, naturally, but I compare it to the gun violence in NYC or, for that matter, the psychos with the closets full of rifles in Wisconsin, and I think the police are lucky that they are just now having to put together gang and gun taskforces. I can't believe how much the atmosphere has changed since I first came to London. Then I didn't see any armed police, now they are regularly patrolling around Trafalgar Square and Westminster. 'Course the first time I came I had stars in my eyes...and no one had yet attempted to blow up the Tube.

It's also Fashion Week! in London and the drama!!! is all about the Fashion Week! directors not! banning SIZE ZERO models!!! Which is disgusting and we are totally against super-skinny models! We support HEALTHY models! Not size ZERO! models--like this woman! And this woman!!! and here's a few more pictures of models that we totally find disgustingly skinny!! So I'm feeling fat. I ate a big bowl of (haha, almost typed "hate" there) of steamed vegetables for dinner tonight, but now my stomach is eyeing me up suspiciously going "what is this? Is this plant matter? Is this...broccoli?"

And I've realised that recently all my theatre-going choices have been based solely on star appeal and not actual artistic content. Wicked? Idina Menzel. Bent? Alan Cumming (a-- ---- -- ---e). Love Song? Cillian Murphy. I justify it by saying "well, hell, when am I going to get to see these people again? I could always read Bent, but when am I going to get it onstage? Pfff." Today I was smucked in the face by this image going down the Tube and I realised I was going to have to go to the theatre again. Yes, that's Daniel Radcliffe in Equus. And yes, yes, he gets naked. (and yes, there's more to that picture--bless google) I'm not sure how I feel about this. I can remember being 18 and living in Door County and carefully scrutinising the new Harry Potter and giving my grudging approval. Now that he's trying to make a legitimate theatrical name for himself, I am just all a tizzy. And not sure how to feel about an actor that up until very recently I thought of fondly as I might a young brother. Naturally, in all big sisterly concern, I must go see this show and make sure that he is capable of giving a good performance. I hope I will be able to give an unbiased opinion in face of any...distractions.

argh

Damnit, I was all galvanised to start my own theatre company and now I'm getting interviews for SM jobs all over the country. Curse my experience with London shows! Although, some of the places are local "community" theatres, so it will definitely be a watch and learning experience. Oh well. Finally some good news for a change.

Meanwhile, more proof that God loves us:

Love lies a-bleeding

"O, man, let me plant your bleeing heart within my garden,
Let me nourish it with my laughter and water it with my tears.
O, my garden, full of light and joy, o my rest and beauty
You are grown so dear, ever full of blossoms, peace and thorns."

Love you!

Galvanised

Like a tin pail, I have suddenly become galvanised about the future. I know, I know "Again?" I hear you cry. It all started when I got an interview for the Bristol Renaissaince Faire, and I was talking about it with Niki, our director. It would be cool! I said, but she asked me if it would really help me in my game plan. Overall, that is. Well, I don't know, I said, I'm not sure I have a game plan. What do you want to doooo with the fuuuuture? she asked me. Well, that's easy, I want to start a theatre company. So then she started asking me more questions about what kind of theatre company and I started talking about all the potential in places like Green Bay, but how they were lacking...dedicated, professional theatre people (me, basically, if I can say so in all humilty) to take amateur productions to the next step. Also there is never any new drama. But as I was talking, I started to listen to myself for the first time. I sounded like a three year old jabbering about her new pony. This isn't the first time I've talked about starting a company "when I grow up." And then I realised, as I listened to how excited I was sounding that maybe...maybe the time has come. I keep thinking about the potential for starting a company the right way, not some "lets do a play in a warehouse" or crappy St Nobby's summer stock, but real, new drama, but a proper company with a mission statement and a three year plan. I'm going to get some books on starting a small business and start reading about getting funding and grants so that I can start a self-sustaining company that will feed my ego. No, seriously, I've seen enough good/bad/inbetween theatre to know what I want to do, now all that's left to do is...do it. Before, as Niki pointed out, I've got to start paying a mortgage or having babies. And think how nicely a dog would fit into the picture if I was working for myself.

I went to see "Love Song" tonight--had a fish 'n chips and ale then off to the theatre, I LOVE london!--because it is literally a now or never situation, as the show closes on Friday. Oh, it is a good play. Such a good play. I could really relate to it--the dialogue and all the scenes were like snapshots lifted out of real life. Cillian Murphy is a genius. He was so good I forgot he was Cillian Murphy. I walked out of the theatre feeling uplifted, but a little sad for the main character--it's a play about love after all, but he ends up alone. I think I'm impressed the tweeners sitting next to me though about my comment about "my friend? who works at Steppenwolf? In America? Yeah, she saw it and she said it was really good." That's what I want to do--start the next Steppenwolf. hmm....

Censored?

For only the second time since I started writing, I've taken some content off my blog. One of the associate directors at the theatre (a friend of mine) called me up and asked me to delete all references to the show I'm working on. Reason being, if you google the theatre, my blog comes up and it doesn't look very professional if the stage manager is complaining about the actors. It never even occured to me that people other than those of you whom I have given my address to would read this, so I was shocked when I suddenly realised total strangers, seeking information about the theatre might suddenly come across my whingy rants. (and they have been whingy lately--I have not been at my best, have I?) Naturally I took down everything about referring to the theatre. Now I'm just positively horrified at myself--reading back over what I've written. How unprofessional have I been? I should have confined myself to a journal or a sympathetic ear, in private. I've forgotten about what a public forum the internet can be. I'm embarassed and ashamed, and going to be keeping it in from now on. Durrr.

How many people does it take to buy costumes?

Three if you're this production. Billie, Niki and I went shopping by committee in Camden, which was fun. We bonded and found a great costume--not sure how period it is, but the actress is happy with it, the director is happy with it and I'm happy they're happy. Now all I have to do is return the clothes I bought to Topshop and try to resist the siren call of this well cute little hat I saw when I was in there last week. I was unable to fight off the temptation today when I went past a bookstore today--I bought a book of photographs of Trafalgar Square. Four pounds! 'course it's going to cost me about twice that to mail it home, but come on! It's Trafalgar Square! Four pounds! A book! I have a legitimate addiction! I also found out our director's birthday is on October 21st, which is, of course, Trafalgar Day and the Day Nelson Died, as commemorated by countless paintings and etchings: Sudden Death + Instant Glory will be the title of the painting I'm going to do as soon as I get my hands on my art tank. It will be...ironic. I think I made Niki smile though as we were wandering around Camden Market and I kept muttering under my breath: "Fat people don't have discretionary income! Why would we make fun dresses in bigger sizes? Fat people don't want to wear fashionable, fun clothes! Your money is not welcome here, fat people! It instantly loses any worth it might have because you're fat, fat person!!" Although, I don't think I would be comfortable spending money in Camden anyway: most of the clothes are the product of third-world sweatshops and probably cost about two cents to produce. But, overall, a productive day.

"from now on we will travel in TUBES!"

...Does anyone know that Tenacious D song? "Two Kings?" It's really funny, except for that line, which is not so funny when you actually do spend a large portion of your time in tubes.



I went to see the William Hogarth exhibit at the Tate Britain. I love that the Tate has chosen this image as their poster image, the image that says "THIS IS WHAT THIS EXHIBIT is ALL ABOUT!" and the one that a stuffy board of directors sat around debating: "hm, what will get people in to see this exhibit?" "I know, how about a picture of a bored playboy johnny-come-lately and his drunk, cheating wife whose boyfriend may or may not be in the next room?" "Genius! I love it!" Hogarth was a painter/engraver in the early mid 17th century, whose "speciality" were series of paintings, usually on some moral topic or another. This painting comes from my favourite series "Marriage ala Mode" where a poor aristocratic woman is forced into marrying a rich young man and they end up spending their lives by drinking, gambling and cheating on one another until the husband catches his wife in the arms of his laywer: the lawer kills the husband and is then sentenced to hang, at which point the wife kills herself in despair. I love it. It's got everything: Sex. Wine. Syphllis. Murder. Dogs. (Hogarth loved dogs: not sure why.) Until this exhibition opened the four paintings from "M ala M" were hanging in the National Gallery, another favourite haunt of mine. I'm glad I paid £8 to see them in the Tate Britain, but my one complaint was the huge number of people, all squashed in to see these very small and very detailed engravings. I think the Tate needs to either have less paintings or spread out more. Also it was very hot in there, but I guess when you're a famous painting you can refuse to be shown if the temperature is under 80. Then of course there was the tall jerk in the suit who kept huddling in front of the paintings, prompting me to mutter under my breath "hey, don't bogart the Hogarths!" which was funny.

Afterward Sarah and I went out for sushi until we realised the restaurant was a dim sum place. So I got bao and dumplings instead. Mmm. I'm all cultured and stuff. Now Lisa has made some soup, so I'm going to curl up in front of the TV and finally get rid of this cough I've had for the last week.

The Paris Post

Hello true believers! I'm back, safe and sound, both feet firmly on the ground. My trip was uneventful, but I'm tired and sore from walking all over Paris for the past three days.

I flew in on Wednesday evening and met my friend Sarah at the airport. Sarah went to Goldsmiths and worked on "Hedwig" with me, and she was kind enough to offer me a place to stay whilst I was in the City of Light. She also showed me around, translated menus for me ("what is cafe au lait? ...oh, wait.") and ran interference if one of her six cats decided to make friends with me. The first day I wanted to go see Napoleon's tomb, so we went to Les Invalides ("Le On-vahl-eed") via the Arc de Triomphe.
Practically all roads lead here--during the 1840s and 50s, Paris was torn up and laid out again in a pleasing, sensible geometrical pattern. Easier to get around, but harder for revolutionaries to build barricades. Most of what I thought of as "Paris" comes from WWII movies when there's tanks everywhere. I was struck by how same everything looked: neat sandstone buildings with ornate ironwork balustrades and doors. It gives a city a lot cleaner lines, but it got confusing after awhile where I was.
My reaction to anything in Paris was this: "Wow! Wow! That's amazing! Wow, that's...a lot bigger than I thought it was." When we first saw the Arc de Triomphe I was blown away by the scale of it. It's HUGE! I guess I was thinking about Wellington's arch in Hyde Park, but this is more on the scale of...um. Can't think of anything. Anyway, it's huge.

We finally got to Les Invalides, which is a (huge) hospital built by Louis XIV (the Sun King) for his veterans. Which was nice, until you consider the fact they were only veterans because HE declared war. Anyway, now it's a huge museum for France's military history. I was keen to see the parts on the Revolution (the first one--there were several) and First Empire--both of which were CLOSED for refurbishment!!! Dar!!! Disappointing! Sarah and I wandered through the other exhibits, but we weren't really interested. (I may be biased, but I feel like the National Imperial Museum in London does it better: more civilian stuff alongside the war stuff) Then we went into the chapel where Napoleon is buried. I say "buried" but he's actually in a huge sarcophagus that's sunk into the main chapel like some kind of massive red boat. This picture doesn't do it justice: really, it's massive, like ten feet by four feet by six feet. When Napoleon's nephew decided to become Napoleon III he turned his uncle into a hero and the First Empire into a little cult, and brought Napoleon's body back from St. Helena. While we were there, a whole pack of French soldiers was also wandering around (there are other war heroes buried here) resulting in this picture. I can't imagine what having this guy in your national history must do to your psyche as a soldier. If I was a drill sargent in America, I would pound the lessons of G. Washington into my pupils heads, but here they learn about this short megalomaniac who ruled most of the known world. Hmm. (remind me to ruminate sometime on why I'm so obsessed with military history...)

This is the church where Napoleon is buried:

After that, we hopped on a bus and went to Monmarte, to meet Sarah's boyfriend for coffee. Jean-Pierre is a a communist philosphy student who's working on a doctorate in polical science. (well, this is France) We waited for him in a very existential little coffee shop populated by thin glamourous women who were smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine and making dramatic statements about the world. (at least, I assume they were.) Unfortunately JP could only stay about five minutes because he had to work, so we decided to wander amongst the shops and get some dinner. This being Monmarte, the bohemian setting of "Moulin Rouge" I immediately began to drink absinthe and conduct a tumultuous love affair, before we stopped for pizza for dinner.

The next day we went to Versailles. Which defies description. For starters, the house, the chalet, the main building, whatever, is HUGE. Louis the 14th, who built it up, had about twenty rooms for his personal use, and the queen had about ten and so on and so forth. Huge. Just beyond believeable. And every room was an art lesson waiting to happen: paintings, tromp l'oeil, sculptures, bas reliefs. It looked like a set for a movie. Every surface available was covered in marble, and if that wasn't convenient, it was gilded. Or covered with miles of exquisite embroidery. It makes your eyes hurt. Truly. I kept thinking about the ridiculous clothes people wore back then against the ridiculous wallpaper and began understanding why women were always passing out. None of the pictures I have does it justice, but I did buy a visitor's guidebook which you are all welcome to take a look at when you come visit me.

Again, we were thwarted by "conservation activities:" the Hall of Mirrors is being conserved for the future, so half of it is covered up by scaffolding and screens, the other half...is less impressive because of this. Inside the tunnel in the scaffolding they blew up an etching of a night at Versailles and put mirrors on the other side, which led to this kind of fun picture:

On the way home, Sarah convinced me to stop and see some actual touristy things. I agreed, since we hadn't had much luck with Napoleon (although I did get a small plastic figurine to go with my Nelson), and we stopped off to see Notre Dame. This was actually smaller than I expected, but more beautiful. It was recently cleaned and it gleams quietly on it's little island like a pearl.

Then, of course, there's the obligatory shot of me in front of the Eiffel Tower (or "Tour Eiffel" or "Le Dame Fere"). Again--Eiffel Tower: WAY bigger than I imagined! I thought it was, you know, some piffy little metal thing, but it's huge! And divinely displayed again the black sky lit up like a copper penny.

The next day we were both a little drained, so we didn't get going until after twelve. We missed getting the boat tour because I was buying rechargeable batteries for SOMEONE, but I didn't mind too much because the street we were on had pet shops, so I got my dog fix for the day. Then I had an idea: why don't we go see the Opera? My thirteen year old self immediately declared this was a great idea! so Sarah (poor Sarah) and I set off down the road. Soon we come to a huge, imposing grey building and she says "well, this is it." My thirteen year old self tells me this is not "it" but at the same moment I realise she (Sarah) means the Louvre. The mother and father of all museums. And it is (you've probably guessed it) HUGE. I mean, when you say art museum, I think of the National Gallery, but square foot-wise, this probably covers all the National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square and probably Leceister Square too, for good measure. (or, for my GB readers: the Ashwaubenon mall, including the blocks on either side that have Best Buy and JC Penney). And it's four stories tall. "Can we go in?" I say. I was expecting it to be free, but it's not. I totally take that for granted in London. Sarah has a suggestion: we were going to meet her dad to watch rugby, but since I am clearly in sightseeing mode, we agree to part ways. I'll do the Louvre, see the Opera and meet her back at her house. She hands me a train ticket, gives me vague directions to the Opera metro (somehowe we both forgot a map), pats me on the back and wishes me luck before disappearing into the crowds. I am very excited: there's so much stuff here! And I only have two hours. Well, if I showed you on a map where I went you'd say I saw a lot, but the only reason for that is because I started walking and I didn't stop. You can't stop and read all the plaques--and not just because they're all in French--because there is SO MUCH to see. I saw the Egyptian exhibit, French paintings up until 1820, De Brun's "Life of Alexander" series, then veered toward the large-scale paintings, passing on my way the Mona Lisa (which is hanging by itself on a wall surrounded by bullet proof glass), the Venus d' Milo (who gets her own room--it's in her contract) and La Victoirie, which was really cool.

Also really cool: Napoleon's coronoation picture, which is, I swear, taller than my parent's house. I passed through the 1700s and 1800s display (I love furniture) at a leisurely pace--this area is almost totally empty, unlike the crowds arond Ms. Lisa) and run into Napoleon III's state apartments which are GORGEOUS. The height of Victorian splendor, all red plush and gilt and mirrors. Completely alone now, I felt like I was walking through a memory, I could almost hear the waltzes and smell cigar smoke and hear taffeta skirts and wine glasses tinkling. Unfortunately by that point it was time to go, but it was fantastic to be able to just react to art and objects like that. usually in a museum I have to stop and read everything--but when it's in French that's not possible, so all I could do was have an honest emotional reaction to pieces of art. Of course, then I come out and this is what I'm greeted with: reminding me that all Art is but an imitation of Real Beauty.

After all that walking, I decided to treat myself to dinner at a bratisserie--roast duck with garlic potatoes. The waiter was horrified I didn't stay for desert.

I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find the opera, but there it was: bobbing and peeking out from behind street signs like a low-flung moon. It's very squat and quite low inside: I was grinning like an idiot as I made my way up the stairs, and the guy who was checking bags gave me a weird look. But it's the opera house!!! Like where Phantom of the Opera took place!!! And not the stupid movie or the tired old show in the West End, but the real, heart-stopping piece of musical theatre that captivated me when I was younger and got me started on all this. It was quite a moment--after all that history to have a moment alone with my history was nice. They didn't let me past the main foyer without a ticket to whatever was going on, but I could see the grand staircase with all the candelabras and mirrors, and I was very happy.

So that was Paris. There's lots of other fun stories, like the nice Americans who we met on the train coming back to Versailles who kept asking us about who this king or that emperor was, and the bad Americans like the ones I was listening to as I consumed my cannard last night whine about "how I don't want to be a suburban mom but I want my kids to be American!" I like Paris. I feel I could be quite comfortable there, if my heart didn't already belong to another city. I would definitely go back.

"And I don't have the time to waste on you anymore!"

Alison is gone. She's GONE. Out the door three minutes ago and in about 12 hours she'll be back in New York. I don't say "home" because three minutes ago she WAS home and now she's GONE.

And I am very upset. I feel sort of like a puppy watching its owners walk away through the chain link of a shelter fence.

I hate this! I hate watching her leave--the worst part is knowing I'll be doing the same thing in seven weeks time, only there won' be anyone to say good bye to me. I'll leave the same way I came in: making no noise and creating no mark. Good bye and good luck and get out. Only to go to the US and to what? Nothing. Friends scattered across the globe by the winds of chance, held together through tremulous internet connections and lacksadasical postings. I get to start all over again. Whoopee. I'm sick of starting over. I'm sick of meeting new people and making new friends. So, fine, I'm not the edgey globe-trotter I once fancied myself, but then again I never thought I'd have to go through this world alone. I don't even have a dog.

Jesus.

I'm done now, I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I'm going to go pack for Paris--why am I complaining when one of my new friends here is letting me sleep on her floor for free? I'm not complaining, I'm just upset.

I miss Alison.

Maybe I'll go chew on some furniture...

Love conquers all

Alison and I fell ill last night with some random superbug that had me in bed at 7 pm marveling at the delicate shade of blue my fingers had turned. Apparently all the blood in my body was needed to combat whatever was attempting to throw my stomach into reverse. I felt better this morning, but only after I had lain awake half the night, alternately wondering if I was ever going to get feeling in my toes again and casting a modern version of "Gone With the Wind."

I'm beginning to start to think about possibly regretting staying on in London. Not because I don't want to stage manage again at the Fin, but because of one simple fact: Money. More specifically, I'm running out of it. It costs me thirty six quid a week for a travelcard, as opposed to fifteen when I was a student (I know, I know--it's a rip off, you should see the papers here) which is my major expenditure, now that I have my cocaine habit under control. I'm just worried that after I get my own apartment, and a car, and a cellphone and a dog, I won't have any money left over for...but then again, what am I saving up for? It's not like I'm going back to school, or even traveling anymore. (where would I go?! Canada?! hah!) I guess it's time to be a grown up and start paying back some bills. I am fortunate, all the debt I'm carrying is student loans and not crazy-interest credit cards. I just wish that I didn't suffer a minor heart-attack everytime I looked at my bank statement.

But, that's really all. Nothing much else going on. I'm flying to Paris tomorrow, and even THAT I'm feeling guilty about: it's hella money, not even counting the carbon emissions, and all the justification for "when am I going to get a chance to go again?!" doesn't make me feel better. Hopefully I'll feel different when I'm on the plane. I suspect that all these money worries are more related to the fact that I've just paid my last month's rent here and I'm trying to live off of four hundred pounds for the next seven weeks. Eminiently possible--but not with such high tastes. Nelson watches notwithstanding.