12:39 p.m. - 2007-02-16
Which Brings Us to Tonight's Word: Reasonable Stupid
On the way to the taping of The Colbert Report--and yes, you read that right, I was at The Colbert Report, prepare for a "SQUEEEE!" filled entry--St. Caroline of the Nickel Slots and I, along with her buddy Frances, were trudging our way through the snows of New York, snows that had apparently shown up late at the end of a relatively mild winter for the Northeast. The cold had been hanging out in Texas, apparently missing me after all my time in California, and decided to treat me to a real snowfall, and although I know enough not to say this in front of people who live in the Northeast the whole time, I was kinda delighted by it all. After two years without seasons, it was great to get a little bitchslap from winter, but I like that sort of thing. Anyway, as we trudged through snow that had been ripped apart and turned brown and gray the very second it fell, we passed by a basketball court, and St. Caroline, in her beatific glory, pointed out how it was a zone of pure, even white, the only place we'd seen so far that looked ready for making snow-angels. Being her part time dark-other, I said, "Except, you know, for that Gatorade bottle over there." Since I am only part time, I then said, "Of course, that's what makes it. It's the imperfections that make something really perfect."
Please note that statement, folks. God has a sense of humor, and I had only myself to blame.
T.S. Eliot begins The Waste Land by observing that April is the cruelest month. I say February could take down April in the first three rounds, even if April was allowed the first punch and February was drunk. As if it weren't bad enough that, particularly in the Northeast, February is a consistently gray, Beckett-esque, dreary reminder that winter ain't letting spring in that easy, the hollow chocolate heart of February is Valentine's Day, unquestionably the cruelest day of the year. And although I will give a cursory nod to all my friends in relationships who were disappointed with their gifts or who had fights over dinner, I follow that cursory nod with a robust Go Fuck Yourself. Oh, wait, that's right, you HAVE someone that you KNOW you're fucking tonight, whereas the rest of us have the first half of February to look forward to the condescension that we get from you guys, the slightly worried "So what are YOU doing tonight?"s that make it sound as though you're convinced we'll stick our heads AND our cats in the oven, not to mention the cheerful "Don't worry, there's always next year"s that make us want to shove two chalky little hearts in your nostrils and a dozen roses up your ass. I can handle coming home on Christmas and Thanksgiving by myself, and I can certainly handle kissing a random stranger on New Year's, but Valentine's Day blows an entire flock of goats. The excess of available chocolate is cold comfort at best.
This year, however, I had the BEST answer for "What are YOUR plans for Valentine's Day, and should I call the Humane Society?" Thanks to the miracle-working of St. Caroline, I could say, "Actually, I am going to New York to see a taping of The Colbert Report," something that made happy couples say "I'm so jealous!" Ha ha ha. I had originally planned to take an entire week to go see my friends in Philly and New York, but then I got my show and I knew there was no way I could let my actors go that long without rehearsing. So it got cut to a three day trip, which meant just about as much time in airports as on the ground. It also meant that I could count out seeing all of my friends in couples, particularly some of my friends who ARE couples. I will have you know that I was totally gracious. I told every couple that they should not feel the slightest tinge of guilt if they couldn't see me, that I would be back up before I knew it, and that I would be furious if they weren't having a delicious dinner and scorching sex, in whatever order they so desired. It also provided a wonderful out for my single buddies, who could say to THEIR friends and colleagues, "Oh, don't worry about the cat, I have an old friend in town for the night. We will be getting ripped to the tits. Hope she likes the dustbuster you got her!"
February 13th and the morning of Valentine's was spent in Philly with Dolores, my beloved sister and fellow disaffected academic. It was great seeing her. We began by stuffing ourselves with Indian food. Now, she and I are both indophiles, she to the point of getting a PhD in South Asian Studies (specializing in Sanskrit love poetry, biatch!), and she has many South Asian friends and colleagues. A number of them, mostly South Asian, enjoy slipping into South Asian accents as a joke, and they invite Dolores to join in. I have also joined in, on occassion, particularly after we've watched a Bollywood movie together. This is something that we can usually avoid doing in public. Only that night, we slipped up. I can't remember who started it, but after I said, "I'm PEYing for your PUCKING dinner, yaar" we remembered where we were and nearly drowned ourselves in the mutter paneer out of pure chagrin. We're those kind of sisters.
The next morning, though, involved a lot of talking about grad school, and our disillusionment, and how although being an academic in your fifties and even forties can be cushy as you like, academia in your twenties and thirties is an isolating Hell, much of the time. We talked about how scared we were about walking away, and how we had these contingency plans. For example, Dolores may want to move to Greece with her cutie Greek boyfriend (who is SUCH a gentleman, just so you know, although that most contradictory of gentlemen, a Marxist one), but she also consoles the obedient child within by reminding herself, not to mention her parents and faculty, that her advisor has recently relocated to Berlin, which is a 100 euro plane ride from Greece as opposed to a few hundred to a thousand from Philly. She and I have the same issue; in our own heads, we are doing crazy things by walking away from high falutin' grad programs that people would gladly have killed us to get into, because we have both been pretty responsible for most of our lives, rarely making bad choices and staying on sensible paths. To deviate AT ALL is a huge move for us. Yet we nevertheless have no intention of burning bridges or giving up our options, particularly our safety nets, so I continue to study for orals and she continues to work on her dissertation, and so most people around us see us as being sane and reasonable even though, inside of us, we're all "OHMYGODWHATTHEFUCKAMIDOINGIMGONNADIIIIIIIIEEE!!!"
Dolores had a great term for it. She said that moving to somewhere like Thailand at this point would be pretty stupid, but that moving to Greece, where she can find a job through her boyfriend's family and remain in contact with her faculty advisor, is "reasonable stupid." And that's the word, as the title indicates.
I'm not done yet, though, and before I go on to The Man himself, I will say that Dolores said, of my decision to walk away and try to do theatre again, that I was brave. Baby, I REALLY needed to hear that. Happy Fucking Valentine's Day to you and your Greek hottie.
Off to New York! I met Caroline and Frances at Penn Station and headed for the studio. I let out my first "SQUEEEE!" when I saw the awning with The Colbert Report on it. St. Caroline has the distinction of having had the crush on Colbert first (being the foresighted pop-culture prornosticator that she is), and so if we are ever in a situation when Stephen Colbert says, "Alright, I can only make out with one of you," I will readily step aside, but I have to say that the more I see the man, the hotter I get for him. He's dark, lanky, nerdy-lookin', and funny, which is truly my type. I'm shifting in my chair just thinkin' about it. We went in and sat in a waiting room, where I got quite the surprise: I sat in a chair and, after a few minutes, noticed that a woman was smiling at me, shyly. It was Laura Williams, a woman I'd done theatre with in college that I hadn't seen for years. Our party of four (Caroline's buddy Schwartz joined us; that dude is a whole separate entry) expanded, with Laura and her friends, to a party of seven, enabling us to stay very entertained as people piled in and the show's beginning drew ever closer.
I also spent some time looking at this collage of Stephen shots, particulary one where he looks to be about my age. Mercy! GRRRRRROWL! Boy was HOT! Sort of Ioan Griffud meets Robert Downey Jr. I now know EXACTLY the type of guy I'm looking for in life. So. Friggin'. HOT!
After the waiting room crowded with people and we got our tickets, we go inside in precise numerical order by our entrance in the waiting room and take our seats, right in front of the desk. Yeah, I know, "SQUEEEE!" We were then "entertained" by the "warm-up" "comic." There is a reason for the scare quotes: dude SUCKED. I, seriously there are no words. It was as though the guy had found a Random Comedy Generator and had stuck in a few quarters, in order to come up with daring new insights like "Women are into having relationships whereas men really just want to have sex" and "People from Connecticut are more uptight than people from, say, New Jersey," which was old before Connecticut or New Jersey were even FOUNDED. Not to mention the fact that he stole bits from Jim Breuer and Ellen DeGeneres. St. Caroline observed that it was like a time warp, what with jokes about "those new airline security regulations" and "Gee, isn't Bill Clinton kind of a manwhore?" The only awesome moment came during a pause, when a snarky student from The New School called out "How about that airline food?!" Perfect. Shecky McLaugh-o-tron was not happy about being heckled, particulrly in such an apt and succint fashion, although the Saint and I laughed at it more than ny shit he did.
There was also a freebee handout, in this case free Colbert Report T-shirts. The trained monkey mimicking other comedians asked us some questions. When he asked "What is the name of the thing that makes the water run the other way down the drain in Australia?" St. Caroline answered, before he could even finish, "The Coriolis Effect." He gave her a T-shirt, and she gave it to me! THAT was without question the best thing I have ever received on Valentine's Day, on top of having the privilege to even go see The Colbert Report. St. Caroline, Happy Fucking Valentine's Day to you.
Then came the moment. The man arrived. Stephen Colbert. He is not as tall as he looks on TV (which means that Jon Stewart must be able to fit easily into most overhead compartments, if not under the seat in front of you). His hair is also very big and shiny. He did a Q&A to, in his words, "Humanize myself before I say all these evil things," which was so adorable that I would have stepped outside and bought a wedding dress if I would have been allowed back in (BTW, once in the studio proper we were not allowed to go to the bathroom, a big problem for someone who has been eating mozzarella, tomato, and pesto sandwiches for two days straight, not to mention a load of Indian food). The Saint was encouraging me to ask to be his Gay Friend and/or Latino Friend, but after this woman asked "Do you remember me?" only to reveal that she was Stephen's Asian Friend, back for more, and seeing as he didn't remember her, I didn't want to appear unoriginal AND forgettable. I should have said something, though, about my favorite Colbertism, wikiality, seeing as I made it an iron-clad rule that my students were not allowed to reference wikipedia after he got the Colbert nation to claim that the African elephant population tripled in the past ten years. Remember, folks: just because everyone agrees does not make something fact.
Then the show began. "SQUEEEE!"
For reasons that I will never know, The Colbert Report music sucks. During the breaks that signify commercials, they use a lot of bad thrashy punk and metal. I'm talking about "Cut my life into pieces! This is my last resort!" kinda crap that goes beyond the usual teenage angst. I seriously don't know how anyone can listen to that song who speaks even a little English. The only decent moments were "Just a Girl," which reminded me that there was a time when I didn't think Gwen Stefani should be taken aside and put to sleep by kind people, and a thrashy cover of "Science Fiction Double Feature" that allowed me to do Rocky Horror shout-outs at mega-high speeds ("Dana Andrews said prunesWITHPITS/Gave him the runesANDSHITS!"). Nevertheless, as the stage manager's countdown went down to three, we all went batshit crazy. THIS was The Colbert Report.
The eagle screamed. I did a silent internal "SQUEEEE!" He began his intro, and then . . . he fucked it up. He laughed, we laughed. They had to set the whole damn thing up again, and he spent his time playing with one of the production staff, ducking and weaving as he talked to her, to the amusement of all. He resumed. He began the show again. Our group was so loud he at one point said, "You all have had your say, it's my turn now." We punched the air in delight. All the time, I was thinking "Please let there be a The Word tonight, pleasepleasepleaseohPLEASE let there be a The Word tonight!" and then he said "Which brings us to tonight's WorSQUEEEEEEEEEE!" It turns out he was talking about the decision made by my home state to mandate the distribution of the HPV vaccine. As he did his monologue, he got the the disease and said, "The humapapilonavaI'm not a doctor." It was funny. It was a great cover. It was so funny that a couple of seconds later, he cracked up.
Anyone who has ever done comedy can tell you that once you crack, it is WAY hard to get back on track. He went through The Word two more times, each time cracking up at a later point. This was a problem, as the jokes were getting less and less fresh. At one point, during yet another reset, he went out in front of his desk and started doing push-ups, including ones in which he clapped his hands as he went. GRRRROWOWOWL!!!! Never have I so wanted to be a floor. One last time he said "Which brings us to tonight's Word"
Go to Comedy Central's Colbert Report page. Look up the Valentine's show. Find the video for The Word (listed as "Bad Medicine"). When he says those words, there is a "YEAH!" that rises above the sound of the crowd. It prompts Stephen Colbert to turn to his right, point a finger, and say "Thank you!" Now, take a moment to ask yourselves who that finger might have been directed at, who might have yelled out that "YEAH!" Here's a hint: it's the coolest person you know. You say, of course, "Well, by definition, Colbert would only say that to the coolest person I know, so that's something of a tautology." To which I say "Yes, but the point is it was ME! MEMEME! Stephen Colbert said 'Thank you!' TO ME!!!" Lalalalalalalala I am the coolest person ever lalalalalala and it's on film and everything lalalalalalala ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, joy of joys! Oh happy day! This may be as close as I get to fame but dammit, I couldn't have picked a better show.
By the way, if you watch that episode, you will notice that there is a laugh just after "human papilloma virus." This was because of his previous flubs. It is not that we found human papilloma viruses to be particularly funny. I promise.
The entire show was delicious after that beginning. He did the Sport Report, finishing up with a report on The Saginaw Spirit and Steagle Colbeagle the Eagle. Lance Armstrong was the guest. He is a very photogenic gentleman, which is a nice way of saying that he looks like ass in person, and he was particularly douche-y in a suit, but we couldn't say anything because, you know, cancer. In fact, that is a very literal statement, because once he started talking about his cancer relief efforts no one could speak. Not even to cheer. Stephen finally finished up by asking why Matthew McCounaghey looked so much hotter than Lance, and Lance said, to his credit, "I think he's doped up." Round of applause for Lance Armstrong, folks. He made a funny. Not that this makes up for inflicting Sheryl Crow on Austin for as long as he did, but ah well.
Already, Valentine's Day was pretty fantastic, but it wasn't over yet. We met up with the Saint's friend Victoria and my friend Katharine at a pizza place. Now, when I heard pizza place, I was excited, because I definitely didn't want to spend a lot of money and pizza and cheap booze is a perfect way to spend an evening in New York City. The problem was that we weren't headed to that kind of pizza place. We were headed to Pizza Napoletano, which offered a grand total of four pizzas, each of which was some variation of cheese, sauce, basil, and cherry tomatoes (pick any three, or get the supreme with all four!!!). Now, I am never one to turn away a margherita pizza, but these babies were twenty one fucking dollars, and he ordered four for the table and I was still hungry! They didn't even bring bread! I wanted to say to the (admittedly quite attractive) waiter "Honey, this is Valetine's Day and I'm single, so carbs are going to be the only way I'm getting through this. If you can't provide the same gourmet amenities as, oh, I don't know, Sbarro, I am going home."
As much as it sucked to spend that much money on that little food, the dinner conversation was great, and afterwards we headed to a bar that not only had cheap drinks, but had free popcorn! Carbs! Thank God! I had gin and tonics and bought a round for everyone, and it looked like a just about perfect Valentine's Day for a single boy.
Remember what I wrote at the beginning? Well, at 11:20 I got a call from a friend of mine in Berkeley, a guy who I have made out with on occassion. He was calling to say hello and wish me a Happy Valentine's, which was sweet. He also told me that he had been hanging out with someone, and that this someone had wanted to go over to his house that evening. Valentine's Day. Now, I'm sure you can guess who that someone I'm referring to is, because if you know me you know that whatever deity is in charge of my lovelife is a sadistic bastard who lives on schadenfreude. That's right. My unfortunate, tortous, Jesus-H-Christ-on-a-cracker-what-in-the-ass-raping-FUCK-was-I-thinking crush had wanted to spend the evening with a rather attractive gentleman that I myself had been known to make out with from time to time.
A few minutes later, I went outside with my friend Katharine and bummed a cigarette off her. I smoked tobacco for the second time in my entire life, and I finished a cigarette for the very first time. I'm not going to say I deserved it, because who deserves carcinogens that make you smell like an ashtray, but I will say that I think I can be forgiven for it. What I deserved was Stephen Colbert pulling up in a limo, rolling down the window, and saying, "You wanna get out of here?"
I'm not saying that they're sleeping together. I'm saying that it sucked to realize how easily replaceable I was, AND that it is entirely possible that they are sleeping together. Fuck Valentine's Day up the ass with a red hot poker covered in lemon juice.
The good news was that I was with my friends, who had the good graces to say "God, that sucks." I wound up accompanying my friend Katharine back to her place in Williamsburg to spend the night. She offered me an air mattress in the living room, but I told her I'd rather pass out on her floor, seeing as it had been a long time since I'd fallen asleep talking to someone. She agreed, and she missed it, too. We talked about the way that love lingers, that even when you know it isn't going to work and have even taken steps to end something, a person stays in your heart whether you like it or not. It pains me to admit this, but the best words she had came courtesy Dan Fishback. Dan is a fantastic performance artist in NYC with whom I worked on a show; we nearly killed one another. Since then, we've gotten over things and come to really respect and admire one another, but there's still a part of me that HATES when he's right. He said to her, "Katharine, there is a part of our brains that, no matter what happens, no matter how busy or happy we are in our lives, is always thinking about a boy. And when we don't have a boy that we're currently thinking about, that part defaults to the last boy we were thinking about. You just need to find a new default boy."
I loved that, and I thank Dan for that, wherever he is. I also thank Katharine, for putting me up and for listening. Katharine is a gorgeous woman, very much along Jennifer Connelly lines, and knowing she's single makes me hope that it isn't just that there's something wrong with me. Just hearing her say how glad she was to have me there made Valentine's Day better. Katharine, Happy Fucking Valentine's Day to you!
On the plane to and from New York, I kept myself from reading for orals by reading magazines. I caught up on the story about the batshit astronaut, which St. Caroline sagely pointed out is something out of a Coen Brothers movie, requiring Holly Hunter to play the role. Poor woman. People wonder why she went crazy. I say if you have the drive and determination to be an astronaut, you can apply such drive and determination to every area of life, so when you get your heartbroken, you will square your shoulders, put on some Depends, and drive across country to cut a bitch. Hearing a story like that, it made me feel better about feeling bad, about being hurt, about even texting or calling the boy, because I wasn't buying a BB gun and a trenchcoat. I wasn't even calling to be all "Are you FUCKING HIM?!?!?!" to which he'd be all, "Um, maybe, depends on who you're talking about." I kid, I kid. But yeah, I feel better that, between my friends, and the art that I'm doing, and the badass haircut I got from mega-hottie Kelly Behrends (if he weren't engaged, let me tell you, I'd consider him a close second to Stephen Colbert, and BTW when I was telling Kelly I liked nerdy, uptight guys like Colbert he said, "Lucky nerdy uptight guys!"), I'm getting over things and moving on. I can let it hurt, and make some mistakes, because when I got back to Austin I headed straight for rehearsal and was thrilled by the fact that my actresses were way closer than I thought they would be to having their lines memorized. I'm slowly turning back into an artist, and I'm surrounded by people who love and respect me, and that puts me on a list called Lucky, whether or not I have a guy to share the luck with. I may have been stupid, but I think I was, and still am, reasonable stupid.
And that's the word.
