Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
Either that, or i’ll wind up doing a Gumby and Pokey skit in Production class tomorrow…
Kitschy retro diners are supposed to make you feel as though you have stepped away from the outer world and into the protective womb of the fifties. All the counters are clean, all the waitresses wear white, and all the food is decidedly nationalistic — with only slight nods to South of the Border Sauce to even remind you of the global complexities that await outside after you pay the balance of your check.
Today, sitting alone at an empty counter, i found myself wondering how strict a typical retro diner is with its staff about anachronisms. To my recollection i have never been served onion rings in such a fine establishment by anyone wearing a digital watch, but not all potentially meal-spoiling anachronisms are so conveniently dated. What about hair scrunchies?, i mused. And, at that point at a loss for some other easily identifiable item, or breast augmentation? Before i could get too involved in that particular arm of speculation my waitress arrived with a menu and, to my unending delight, bobby pins holding her hair back.
As she handed me my menu i thought that i am never quite sure what to think of my physical appearance, which i described just last night as “androgynously timeless.” Still, today i am surely at my best: just enough stubble to suggest i might not be in high school, bangs carefully crafted with a sticky mess of pomade, wool scarf wrapped around my neck. I never expect anyone to notice me, though; i am typically a cypher on a crowded street, slipping through a crowd while remaining completely unremarked on.
My waitress commenced flirting with me shortly after i informed her that i was trying to decide if i was hungry enough to have something beyond my initial order of rings. Her hair was auburn and pulled back by the aforementioned bobbies, leaving only a few escaped crinkles to frame a face set with remarkably blue eyes. Actually, the flirting coincided exactly with my first free refill of lemonade, which by rights should have cost me a dollar sixty-nine.
The subtle irony of her name being Laurel did not escape me.
I, of course, am oblivious to flirting even when aware of it, if that makes any sense at all. Eventually Laurel coaxed an order out of me, and by the time she disappeared to put in a request for Smokehouse Turkey Burger i had finally caught on. Back she came, burger in hand. She smiled. As i ate i listened to her talk to a co-worker about how she needed off on Friday because her roommate was in a show, and she had promised months ago to attend but had then totally forgotten. She intermittently peeked over her shoulder at the fryer, idly drumming her fingers on the counter if she felt as if it was taking too long.
I decided the cut of her khakis could not have existed before the seventies, though i have no ideas about the origin of the style of underwear which non-too-quietly broadcasted itself through said pants. She came by to give me my fourth free lemonade refill and asked me if everything was okay, and i quickly gulped down my food to reply. “Yes. You could bring a check,” which came off as very charming, i’m sure.
As i came within three bites of finishing my burger i wistfully glanced out the window at the bustle of South Street, trying to imagine the stores that would have dotted its sidewalks fifty years ago. I can already tell that i will be one of those old people that talks about how different things were when i was young because i do it already and, i suppose in connection to that, i am fascinated by the idea of Philadelphia as it was decades ago. The buildings, the cars, the fashion, the people.
As much as i might like to pretend, we had no place there: me with my headphones draped around my neck and her with those bothersome khaki pants. Unable to find a way around my unsuspended disbelief and into the background of a scene from Dobie Gillis, i decided to leave. Laurel deserved twenty percent, if not for the pleasant flirting then for the seven dollars of free lemonade, and i found that my wallet contained exactly one hundred and twenty percent of the bill — down to the last cent. I placed it on the counter, neatly folded on top of a clean napkin, and left without a word.
Finally… they actually managed to nominate some people for best-non-weblog content that actually have good non-weblog content.
Of course, i am still better… (actually, i’m a wee obsessed with Photojunkie at the moment… two things especially: his archives are sorted by which camera he used, and his last series of pictures was all of local singer-songwriters. How neat is that!)
Clay under my fingernails now, even after a thorough hand washing. Serves me right for taking a class that involves visual art.
Bill couched it carefully to me… Production Design… it would help my emerging directorial conception. Very useful for identifying and bringing forward the thematic elements of a play. Close textual analysis of a Greek tragedy of my choosing, as well as The Tempest. Assurances that my less-than-meager skills as an artist would not limit my academic success (and threaten my near 3.7 GPA).
All of the couching in the world, though, could not have stemmed my alarm at spending forty whole dollars in an art supply store this morning. As for the clay, well… i do have that GPA to protect.
The first project sounded fairly simple. Pick a geometric solid and create it in any medium of your choosing. Pick a play. Create all of your set-pieces out of that geometric solid so that they can be puzzled back together into it. Simple enough; i bought bricks of super-light clay. It still makes sense… it will never solidify, so i can tweak it up until the last minute, and it will be easy to squish back together if i make too awful of a shape. I choose an irregular polyhedron that resembled two pyramids crashing into each other — figuring that something essentially square would be much easier to deal with than something that resembled a multi-sided die.
There i was, thirty minutes ago, in my sculpting glory: making a sturdy rectangle of clay, marking off the lines i need to cut, slowly peeling away the outer layers until i was almost there — one more slanted side to uncover with a quick slip of my newly purchased modeling knife. And, slip it did, directly across the knuckle of my left thumb, leveling off the entire side of it.
To my credit, i did not panic, even when the innocuous-looking flattened side of my knuckle turned quickly into seeping red. I calmly held my hand away from the clay and finished the cut to complete my polyhedron, and then walked to the bathroom and scrubbed the clay off of my hands. I intermittently passed my thumb under the water, transfixed by the way the steady running stream carried away the blood, leaving my thumb looking perfectly fine except for a vague squareness.
Satisfied that i would not lose my appendage to some strange clay-based infection, i left the bathroom only to be faced by my unsteady geometric solid, all-but tottering in place amidst a pile of scraps. I could see my mistakes immediately… too rash in tracing the sides, my crashed pyramids looked more like rectangles caught in the act. So, before heading off in search of a bandage, i decided to piece my clay back together into a rectangle so that it would be ready for another try sometime tomorrow. There i sat, bleeding thumb held back away from my hand in an attempt to forget that it was conveniently opposable, pressing together the clay i had just so painstakingly cut apart.
And this is only 5% of my grade…
Fuck editing.
Drexel University has disappointed me more than a couple of times during my three and a half years here. Bad scheduling, botched financial aid, boring classes. But, for once, just once, they have come through for me. In this round of co-op interviews i was offered not one, but two jobs. Two. Both of them at major companies around the country and specifically in Philadelphia, both in Communications, and both very well paid. For once i am faced with the opposite of my typical Drexel decision; instead of trying to make the best of something i don’t like, i am faced with trying to discern what the best is between two excellent choices.
I haven’t got a clue, and i need to find one by Tuesday morning.
And, meanwhile, i’m sure you’re thinking “Yo, Peter, what happened to all that ‘i’ll be less busy next term’ crap? Where the hell have you been?’ Well, it’s a damned good question. I’ve been stage managing The Vagina Monologues. But, no, not just stage managing. Scheduling. Promoting. Publishing. Just about everything i could possibly do up through this point short of acting or directing. And, it doesn’t go up for another three weeks.
Anyhow, i’ll have more to say about that soon. There is something to this Winter, the verging on adulthood that is almost tangible. I’m not alone in this feeling, but i still feel alone in the sheer lust i have. I want everything. I want rock star, and i want business man… i want travel, i want home, i want love, i want happiness, i want maturity. I need more of everything; i need more time. The one thing i can say for Drexel is that it’s five-year program creates an illusion at once grand and awful… allowing you to put off the real world for that much longer but just making you want it that. much. more. badly.
I want all that and i’m sitting at my computer in my fucking jeans and a tee-shirt, listening to myself play guitar. I want it all and, as i’ve just found out, if i were to get it all i wouldn’t know what to do with it at all.
I think this calls for a drink.