Apocalypse O'Clock
Rebonjour.
This is the blog. You are the reader. End reorientation.
Today is the last possible day that can be technically called part of the 2005-06 school year, and thus my very final day as a third-year, not a fourth-year. Not that I haven’t felt this minor apocalypse coming since Monday, much less February. People I know are graduating right now. I am eating Buttermaid donuts in my PJ’s and shuffling 2505 songs on my tinny internal laptop speakers. This is what the apocalypse looks like.
Sarah was talking to Linda, a lovely actor in the Court show that we extra for (I like to call it an acting internship), about starting theater companies after school. I have no idea what our company’s purpose would be (besides the postponement of proper adulthood), but I think the company must happen. “You can’t swing a chicken in this town without hitting a new theater company,” says another actor. “But if you’re going to, swing it hard.”
Sarah is still writing her 20-page time & narrative paper. She is oblivious to the climate of apocalypse. (For now.)
I directed an Off-Off show this quarter with Rachel.
They named it The Giving Up Tree, so every week we perverted a children’s book as our opening number. “Bi-Curious George,” “Jewmanji,” etc. My favorite was “Good Night, Moon, and Good Luck”: a reading by Edward R. Murrow.
By the second week they realized that they’d included a lit cigarette in the first two shows, which required a fire code warning to be read every night. So the game of the run came to be to incorporate a cigarette into the show every week.
I love directing. I don’t know if I love it more than performing. Last weekend was the 20th reunion of Off-Off Campus, so we had a few dozen alumni of the group (excluding David Auburn, Greg Kotis) come back. Saturday was the public reunion show, in which the four most recent generations presented sketch work and the alumni volunteered to improvise or perform old sketches. One dude from the 1st generation (read: 1986), now a lawyer, wrote a new sketch specifically for the reunion show, which floored me. Being the new production manager, Leila, the reunion planner, made me emcee the event, which terrified me a little. I envisioned awful scripted banter between me and a ventriloquist dummy. So instead I used the event to gush uncontrollably about my love for the organization, and near the end of the show, I very nearly teared up. Later at the afterparty (please visualize thirty and forty year-olds mingling at a college apartment party) one alum told me that sincerity is always harder to pull off than funny. Another alum told me I reminded him of a squirrel.
I’m directing my first “real” show in the autumn for University Theater. If I was smarter I would have eased into a nice Lanford Wilson one-act, but I had to go and adapt a Bradbury short story. So I’ll be directing my own script, which might not be the best idea, but you know, college theater is too brief not to take full advantage of my ego.
I still want to be a clown. I might be auditing a clown and Brecht class this summer. Then Angie wants to do a clown Greek tragedy next winter, and, well, how can I say no?
Then, later, future, tomorrow. Impossible: the apocalypse is now.
Kristen’s in Africa, probably out in the bush worrying about her MCAT score. (How couldn’t she?) Weird things happening at home.
I’m a lot thrown off.
Is Alpharetta still the electromagnetic center of my being? Is Rafter’s Bar & Grill the epicenter of creation? Can its Bacon Cheeseburger be my manna with a Cherry Coke?
It’s time to go somwhere I’ve never gone before.
Apocalypse now.
Rebonjour.
This is the blog. You are the reader. End reorientation.
Today is the last possible day that can be technically called part of the 2005-06 school year, and thus my very final day as a third-year, not a fourth-year. Not that I haven’t felt this minor apocalypse coming since Monday, much less February. People I know are graduating right now. I am eating Buttermaid donuts in my PJ’s and shuffling 2505 songs on my tinny internal laptop speakers. This is what the apocalypse looks like.
Sarah was talking to Linda, a lovely actor in the Court show that we extra for (I like to call it an acting internship), about starting theater companies after school. I have no idea what our company’s purpose would be (besides the postponement of proper adulthood), but I think the company must happen. “You can’t swing a chicken in this town without hitting a new theater company,” says another actor. “But if you’re going to, swing it hard.”
Sarah is still writing her 20-page time & narrative paper. She is oblivious to the climate of apocalypse. (For now.)
I directed an Off-Off show this quarter with Rachel.
They named it The Giving Up Tree, so every week we perverted a children’s book as our opening number. “Bi-Curious George,” “Jewmanji,” etc. My favorite was “Good Night, Moon, and Good Luck”: a reading by Edward R. Murrow.
By the second week they realized that they’d included a lit cigarette in the first two shows, which required a fire code warning to be read every night. So the game of the run came to be to incorporate a cigarette into the show every week.
I love directing. I don’t know if I love it more than performing. Last weekend was the 20th reunion of Off-Off Campus, so we had a few dozen alumni of the group (excluding David Auburn, Greg Kotis) come back. Saturday was the public reunion show, in which the four most recent generations presented sketch work and the alumni volunteered to improvise or perform old sketches. One dude from the 1st generation (read: 1986), now a lawyer, wrote a new sketch specifically for the reunion show, which floored me. Being the new production manager, Leila, the reunion planner, made me emcee the event, which terrified me a little. I envisioned awful scripted banter between me and a ventriloquist dummy. So instead I used the event to gush uncontrollably about my love for the organization, and near the end of the show, I very nearly teared up. Later at the afterparty (please visualize thirty and forty year-olds mingling at a college apartment party) one alum told me that sincerity is always harder to pull off than funny. Another alum told me I reminded him of a squirrel.
I’m directing my first “real” show in the autumn for University Theater. If I was smarter I would have eased into a nice Lanford Wilson one-act, but I had to go and adapt a Bradbury short story. So I’ll be directing my own script, which might not be the best idea, but you know, college theater is too brief not to take full advantage of my ego.
I still want to be a clown. I might be auditing a clown and Brecht class this summer. Then Angie wants to do a clown Greek tragedy next winter, and, well, how can I say no?
Then, later, future, tomorrow. Impossible: the apocalypse is now.
Kristen’s in Africa, probably out in the bush worrying about her MCAT score. (How couldn’t she?) Weird things happening at home.
I’m a lot thrown off.
Is Alpharetta still the electromagnetic center of my being? Is Rafter’s Bar & Grill the epicenter of creation? Can its Bacon Cheeseburger be my manna with a Cherry Coke?
It’s time to go somwhere I’ve never gone before.
Apocalypse now.
4 Comments:
Word.
Rafters was a pretty sorry sight the other night. Cover band playing Steely Dan, not doing a bad job, but no one listening and the Braves getting shellacked by the Red Sox. That's the real sign of the apocalypse. The Braves are 2-18 in June.
And I haven't even had time to watch a single game. What a freaking shame. Strange as it sounds, being in NYC reminds me of how much I actually like Georgia...
drew,
please! my paper-writing represented the essence of the apocalypse that has crashed around our ears. perhaps, it could even be called the quintessential performance art of the apocalypse...
and yes, wyoming is so stifling that i am reading blogs (i have read both yours and emily's tonight. my head might explode)
i hope that the summer is going well and that the apartment is not a mire of crazy (or at least is a fun mire of crazy)
-sarah
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