I’m very excited about today’s journey, in which I take to new heights my status as celebrity in my own mind. Normally, I try to steer away from meta-journalling, that is, writing a journal about writing a journal, but I find that lately, my life has been following a quite cohesive storyline paved first by my journal entries, and maybe I should give credit to said journal for helping me recognize the ridiculous patterns of my life, and my ability to predict them in mood before they fully pan out in circumstance.

A case of self-fulfilling prophesy? Perhaps. I think it’s all a part of my subconscious effort to make my life into a doomed HBO series. Not that this entry really has anything to do with that, but I’ve never been much of a theme-nazi.

(An irrelevant quickity: “Art used to imitate life, but life imitates TV.” Name the song, artist, and album, and I’ll send you one of my nipple hairs.)

Before we begin today, I’d like you to meet the newest member of my staff, whom I’ve brought aboard to help out with the technical aspects of over-dramatic journaling. He’s been rigorously trained, particularly in the area of Technical Design for the Reverse Weekend Recap (TD4RWR, or Pulp Luva Tech), and in emergency evacuation procedure and CPR.

Sound-effects, lighting, and pyrotechnics will all now be executed under his guidance, in keeping, of course, with my gracious creative input. I’m very excited to see what he’ll bring to the Wild World of Luvabeans! I’m sure he’ll do his part to help me in my mission to make my life as much like a farcical seriodrama as possible. (I’m still looking for an intern to help with editing and soundtrack. Interested parties, please leave your resumes with personnel. Thank you.)

Backed with glowing recommendations on his behalf, I proudly present to you my new Technical Dwarf!

“Hey.”

Now, folks, Technical Dwarf is not a dwarf in the “little people” sense of the word. In fact, I know that by coining him “Dwarf,” I risk rankling the true “little people” of the world. Their ranklement is understandable, but unintentional on my part.

Nope, TD is a Dwarf not in the “dwarfism” sense, but in the more mystical, straight-off-your-Magick-cards sense. Behold. We here at Luvabeans.diaryland.com are equal opportunity employers, and recognize the veritable wealth of creative and technical expertise that can be pooled from the woodland creature community. (And no, this is not a satirical statement either for or against affirmative action.)

That being said, Technical Dwarf, why don’t you tell us about your past experiences.

“Wha?”

You know, a quick rundown of the “who’s who” and the “what’s what” behind the technical genius that is Technical Dwarf, your resume in a nutshell, your experiences and aspirations in all things technical, and so on. I have it on good authority that you’re especially adept in the dramatic manipulation of sound effects, particularly double-blind microphonic communication. Do tell.

“Um. I used to work in the drive-through of Bob’s Big Boy? Dude, that job fuckin’ blew.”

… Yes … but … maybe you could share some of your expertise, how you deal with emergencies, technical code analysis, etcetera.

“Um. Well, there was a short circuit once? Like, I spilled my slurpee on the speaker at Bob’s Big Boy? And the whole thing, like, fuckin’ busted? But then I kicked it and it worked again? That was fuckin’ bitchin’, yo.”

… Yeah … Great, TD. But …

“Heeheehee-yuh-huhuh … So, like, my boss? After I fixed the machine by, like, kicking it? He thought I was, like, a genius at working the loud-speaker? So, he put me on drive-through, like all the time?

“But then this one day I was, like, stoned? And I, like, totally piped music through the drive-through loudspeaker? Like, totally on accident? And it was like, Rage Against the Machine, and so it was, like, them singing ‘FUCK YOU, I WON’T DO WHATCHA TELL ME’ like they do in that one song about the cops and shit? Dude, that song is bitchin’.

“But it was, like, blasting, like, right in the face of this soccer mom and she was driving, like, a fuckin’ SUV full of like a thousand kids or whatever, and she got all pissed because Rage Against the Machine was coming through the drive-through loudspeaker and all the little kids heard the, like, cuss words and shit, and they were like probably only allowed to listen to, like Barney and, like, Raffi and shit. God. Parents are, like, such fuckin’ fascists.

“Yeah, but so this, like, soccermom-fascist-bitch got all, like, pissed and came inside and, like, bitched at the Bob’s Big Boy manager? You know, Larry?

“So, Larry came and like, totally bitched me out, and I got totally fired. And that was, like, so lame because it was so totally not on purpose that I, like, fucked up her kids or whatever, and besides that, Larry was all like, fat and shit and he had this, like, crazy skin condition he got from a dirty tattoo needle? And he smelled? But, like, not in the good way that chicks dig?

"And the dude couldn’t even get fuckin’ laid if he was in, like a morgue full of, like, dead cheerleaders or whatever. You know, because even dead cheerleaders wouldn’t, like, let him bone them, Larry was so fuckin’ lame. He was totally jealous of me. I think he, like wanted my ass, like, in the gay way.

“Yeah, but it wicked sucked, because this fat, scabby dude and this fascist suburban bitch like, totally got me, like, fired and so, like, I didn’t have a job and I couldn’t buy weed for, like, a month. So I had to cop this, like shwag from my cousin? For, like, a whole month?

“Yeah, that was totally lame.

“But, then I got a girlfriend and she’s, like, wicked cool. So I just take her weed from her. She’s got some real tasty buds, yo. They’re from Vermont, or Oregon, or some shit. I am hooked up! She’s totally bitchin’.”

TD, it’s really none of my business whether or not your girlfriend’s a bitch…

“Dude, that’s, like, bullshit. Where do you get off calling my girlfriend a bitch?”

Sorry, TD. I think maybe I misunderstood. I apologize.

“Shyuh. No shit. That’s like, bullshit. I don’t care if you’re, like, my boss or whatever. You don’t call my girlfriend a bitch. That’s, like, bullshit.”

Um, OK, got it. Ixnay on the irlfriendgay.

“My girlfriend is totally not gay.”

No, that’s not what I …

“Aw, if she is, though, would you make out with her? Aw, that would be, like, un-be-liev-ably awe-some. Dude, I’d totally be, like, your Technical Dwarf for free if you had, like, a hot lesbian make-out session with my girlfriend. It’d be like pro bono? Except it would be, like pro boner instead? Shyuh!”

Technical Dwarf, first of all, you’re an intern. You already work for free. The experience and connections you’ll gain from helping with this illustrious and world-changing site are insurmountable, and priceless.

Second of all, I’d appreciate in the future if you refrained from using google-happy phrases such as “hot lesbian make out session” on this page. I already get enough hits for “men who like to drink breast milk” and “sex with my pregnant sleeping sister-in-law,” and – shit -- now I’ll get exponentially more. Just watch your Ps and Qs, young man.

“Dude, I’m totally not a ‘young man.’ I’m like 300 years old. Also, like, strictly speaking? I’m not even a dwarf. I’m an ogre, I’m just, like, really short because I’ve been smoking weed since I was, like, 13. But, like, you can keep calling me TD, because I know that’s, like, the job and shit. And I hear it looks better on a resume, whatever that is. Oh, and if we’re talkin’ google shit, you might not want to mention a full song lyric and the phrase ‘nipple hair.’”

Oh. My. God.

This is the last time I take on an intern recommended to me by a misshapen guy under a bridge with breath reeking of goat.

But, TD, you’re right. It’s time to resign myself to google-ability. Big whoop.

Well, folks, now you’ve been enlightened by the brief but informative autobiography from our growth-stunted pothead ogre, Technical Dwarf…

Moving on.

Oh yes, there’s more.

And now ….

Ahem. And. NOW!

(TD!)

“Wha?”

(Cue drumroll, you little ass.)

“Aw. Shyuh.”

AND NOW …

Drumroll…….

(Hm. Nicely executed, if a little tardy. Kid’s got potential.)

THE RETURN OF THE REVERSE WEEKEND RECAP!

Cue: THUNDER CLAP! HARPSICHORD!

Harpsichord?

“Dude, trust me.”

Right.

So, Sunday. I woke up, utterly confused, on Cy’s futon, with no clue as to where I was. Then I remembered that I had spent the night at her place. She lumbered out of her room, we had some apple crisp and yogurt, and I went with her to her church.

Trippy, that. I haven’t been to church on my own volition for years. I went mostly out of curiousity, and partially just because I thought it would be nice. And it was. The parishioners were mostly between 20 and 35, there was a lot of music, and there was food afterwards. I didn’t quite know how I would be received, honestly, and felt a bit hypocritical as a passive non-believer amidst the honest “Amen”ers and “Thank you, Jesus”ers.

Some things I realized:

Religion, and religious folk, often get a bad rap simply because they’re taken out of context. When you see a snippet of a service on TV, with close-ups on “the saved” and the donation basket, you roll your eyes and dismiss the whole scene as a blanket of brainwashing. When you’re actually in church, however, even if you don’t believe in the divinity that is preached, but are surrounded by people who do, and who genuinely love that divinity, it can be beautiful. I was greeted with a surprisingly un-condescending “welcome to the fold” feel. I sang with the rockin’ choir because I like to sing, I sat back and watched because I like to watch, I even ate the cracker and the grape juice because they looked yummy. No one minded that I didn’t believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. They were glad I came to sing and partake of their after-service bagels.

It was warm, and enjoyable, and incredibly lonely. Like being in my private cocoon in amid hatched and protective butterflies. I suppose the cynical would switch those roles, and cast me as the butterfly, ablaze with personal enlightenment, among a legion of ignorant chrysalises, but I don’t see it as such. I find the strength of faith in people like Cy to be truly admirable. It was lovely to be a part of it, even as an outsider.

Temporary intimacy can bring loneliness right to the surface sometimes, can’t it?

I then went home, vacuumed my apartment, and went for a long walk downtown, stopping at Whole Foods to make a meal of the free samples. I do that all the time. I could write a big diatribe about the political and social dynamics of Whole Foods, but I’ll save that for another entry. MAN, my life is exciting!

Here’s a tip: If your grocery budget is tight, head to an organic grocery store and scour for samples. Don’t be ashamed. I’m not, but maybe I’m not a great basis for comparison.

Think about it. If they have the gall to charge eight bucks for a head of lettuce, and try to offset that by setting out baskets of free high-fiber bread chunks and carrots with blue cheese dip, you can bet your ass I’m going to partake generously of the free chunks and veggies. I’m sure the staff recognizes me, the unabashedly frequent Whole Foods scavenger, but I don’t think I give a crap. Well, I suppose I do give a crap, or else I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it’s a crap no bigger than a baby’s toe.

Anyway, from there I went up north to lacquer my face and the faces of my fellow actors in heaps of skin-destroying goth makeup for my show. Then I put on my costume, a hideously boxy 50-year-old dress and jacket, the seams of which are rotting to such an extent that every night, I take bets from my cast members as to which seam will bust before the show. “Who’s guessing the zipper? The zipper, going once? Do I hear an underarm?” Uch.

After we were all noired up, we performed for a crowd of decent size, especially for a Sunday. One guy in the audience was completely agog the entire evening; he never stopped beaming, and he was much taller than everyone else, making him look a bit like a dippy giant, a retarded Abraham Lincoln.

Anyway, end show, applause, they like us, they really like us.

Costume and partial makeup removal, dress hang-ups and prop replacement, byes and kisses and see-you-next-weeks to the cast.

I walked home with Dv, who told me about his attack last year. Some asshole punched him in the face on a deserted street, knocked him out, and stole his wallet. It reminded me that women aren’t the only victims of random violence. Dv and I seethed together.

Seeeeeeethe ….

TD, what the hell was that?

“What, dude? It’s, like, a sound effect, yo. Like, onomatopoeia.”

You know that word?

“What word?”

Never mind.

Anway. Dv and I parted ways, I went home, scrubbed off my makeup, and went to bed, where I laid bored and sleepless until about 3:30 AM. Don’t know what that was about. It happens sometimes. I didn’t sleep long enough to dream.

End Sunday.

Cymbals! (Fade symbols … up fresnel #5, pink gel signifying sunset, up fresnel #4 signifying sunrise, up full stage lights) Drumroll ….

Saturday!

Cymbals!

I intended on Saturday …

Cymbals!

Jesus, TD. You almost made me shit myself. Once is enough.

“Sorry.”

Anyway, I intended on Saturday ….

(Phew)

… to get up and go to my Eating Disorders support group, which I haven’t been to in a couple of weeks, but I decided against it. Without fail, every time I’ve gone, it’s thrown me into an immediate emotional and self-destructive tailspin. I step out of the office and back into the city, and can’t do anything but chain smoke and try to get as far away from myself as possible. Part of it, I think, is my strange urge to take responsibility for everyone in the group. I want to comfort them all, but that would obviously be inappropriate in a support group, so I restrain myself to making a few jokes, and it’s exhausting. But it’s necessary, I suppose, so I should go back. I’ve been doing quite well the past couple of weeks, though. I stopped weighing myself, which was a scary thing to let go of, but it’s amazing what a difference that makes.

So, instead of going to the support group I slept in, got up, and … what? I don’t know. I showered, properly removing the makeup and hairspray from the Friday night’s show, a process which had been neglected the previous evening due to immediate and prolonged post-show revelry. By Saturday morning, all the Aqua Net and Ben Nye products had matted on my face and knotted in my hair in such a way to make me look like a frightful Bride of Frankenstein.

I changed my sheets, tidied my apartment, got dressed, and went for another prolonged walk.

I decided on Saturday to join the frequent buyers club at a favorite bookstore, enrollment for which involved me writing a bunch of my personal info on a card, including my birthdate. The store clerk looked at my birthdate, then looked at me and said “Scooorrrpiooo…” with this little eyebrow cockage, as if to say, “I know all about you people.

I’m flattered when that happens, because its usually meant as a flirtation. I wish I was an accurate Scorpio representative, as we’re supposedly the most smoldering and FUCKING INSANE of astrological signs, but I’m not. Scorpios are also supposed to be mysterious, bitchy, jealous, possessive/independent control freaks. I’m none of that. Well, maybe a bit of the mystery, but no more than anyone else. I’ve got the Scorpio loyalty and independence and honesty down, and the proclivity to go to extremes, but I have a hard time crediting those random characteristics with my date of birth.

(Little tidbit: I have the same birthday as Charles Manson. How cool is that?)

Yeah. So, after that, and another prolonged walk, I went to the theatre to make-up very quickly and suit-up very carefully, for another show. BIG CROWD! So much fun. For any of you familiar with the show I’m in, there were 3 rotating groups in Saturday night’s audience, which made for an invigorating cacophony of noirish background noise during the scenes, and also made for increased improvisation during the hallway transitions. For those of you not familiar with the format of my show, that was “blablablablablabla, blablabla hallway transitions.” Thank you.

Oh, wait, I love this song …

“You’re not sure, but that’s OK, / ‘Cuz I am and I’m not afraid”

(OK kids, that was song #2 in the Lyric for Nipple Hair Sweepstakes. Song, artist, album, and year. Have at it.)

I went to Cy’s after the show, where we chatted a bit over chamomile tea, which lulled us into a pleasant drowsiness. We set our clocks back and went to bed. That was a lovely night.

“Did you girls, like, make out?”

Thin ice, TD. Thin ice.

End Saturday.

Cue sound effects: “PANTY RAID!!!!” (Pillow fight sounds, fade-out to sounds of girls giggling and moaning)

TD, you’re such an ass.

“Haw. Dude, that would be, like, so hot.”

Friday was blaaaaaaaaaaa work, which is getting progressively blaaaaaaaaa-er as the days wax and wane. Uch. I’m feeling dangerously unproductive. Just to warn you, if I disappear for a bit, it’s because I’m forcing myself to dive into unnecessary tasks of reorganization and self-motivation. I’m getting bogged down in intangible torpor, and something must be done!

I’m hungry.

No, but Friday … I was late for my call to the show, because I headed there immediately after work, after having to literally run home for my character shoes and bloppy mascara. I love that about “showbiz;” having to find your rhythm and anticipate setbacks in your routine preparation, the ubiquitous threat of disaster. It’s great. All was well, however. The rotting seam on my zipper completely busted 20 minutes before the show, but Cy sewed me inside the dress, I put the grody jacket on, and la-di-da. We had a good crowd again, and everyone was in good spirits. A friend came to the show unexpectedly, and he hung out with us after the show. I had glass after glass of JD’s on the rocks … a couple of which tasted mysteriously like gin & tonic (yuck), but I wasn’t drunk.

We closed out the bar, to the lulling strains of Axl Rose singing “Welcome to the Jungle.”

I walked home with the rain bouncing off my post-costume Aqua Net helmet, my teeth chattering in triple time to the rhythm of my feet, but I wasn’t cold.

Drinking but not drunk, chattering but not cold. The night can throw you the most sensational suprises.

End Friday.

Cue music: “You in the JUNGLE, bay-beh! You’re gonna DIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!”

What?

“Dude, that song is bitchin’, yo.”

Fade to Black

House lights up

Technical Dwarf, ladies and gentlemen. Pulp Luva tech-expert.

“Tech-spert?”

No.

Maybe I should bring on another intern to help with the soundtrack. At least suggestions for a theme song.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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