Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
You know how i’m always talking about how totally pornographic i’d be with a webcam? Or, alternately, are you a SurvivorCam fan? Well… a small brown box just arrived in admissions, and all it contains is packing material and your gateway to my luscious naked ass. Be very, very afraid.
So, after months upon months of bitching and whining, i’m actually internet window-shopping for a webcam as we speak with my credit card in hand.
I’m having a hard time deciding ultimate whether or not i want a cam. Firstly, i’m sure to shell out $50 to $100 for it, which i could be putting towards a decent digital camera or new musical gear. But, more importantly, i don’t really want to take the mystique out of my bitching and whining. You can hear my songs; they are real. I can talk and talk and talk about how wonderful my songs are, but ultimately you can sit down and listen and decide for yourself because i make them available to you.
I am painted differently on here than i am in real life, which is why my friends occasionally have trouble when experiencing both narratives simultaneously. It’s really not intentional on my part; it’s just like how the sound of your own voice is wholly different when you just hear it vibrating through your own cheekbones compared to listening to yourself on an answering machine. Part of what allows me to illustrate myself in such a fashion is that you’re blind to me; when i talk about fabulous hair cuts or early morning beauty, you have to just take my word for it. Aside from the scattered and few pictures of me i occasionally let slip through the great majority of readers don’t know what i look like. And, maybe i enjoy that. Maybe having my image streamed onto the site at regular intervals will make it all too literal and boring. Maybe you’ll get bored with me once you see me for how i am.
So, if you were me with $100 burning a hole in your pocket, what would you do?
I literally ran into Laurel in the middle of the street the other day, and we talked for a while (after removing ourselves from the traffic flow). I don’t know about what. She said that i’ve come out of my shell (i made sure to clarify that “shell” didn’t have anything to do with “closet,” and she assured me that everyone was quite sure i was still inside of that), and while i first i was a little offended (Did she mean to imply i was some sort of corner-lurking little dweeb? I mean… moreso than i actually am?) as the conversation ebbed and flowed i saw that i really didn’t seem like the same person i was a few months ago. One of my other theatre friends recently commented that she couldn’t have lived with “the me from last year,” but she could definitely live with me now.
I feel like i should spend time staring in the mirror after comments like these to try to see what’s different, but i think that’s something the old-me would do. Maybe the new me isn’t such an obvious narcissist…
So, yeah, theatre. First i bitched about it, and then i got sucked into it, and here i am bitching about it again. I don’t like to act. Maybe i’m good at it, and maybe i’m not, but i only really like the attention i get and being able to stand on a stage above everyone else. That’s it, though. And, yet, somehow i’ve managed to have rehearsal every night and a song i have to arrange and sing and now i’ve got to learn how to method-act my hand being crippled for half of the show. And i have to learn how to scream.
I’m thinking that last bit won’t be to hard. In the show i get struck hard with a hot curling iron, and it both breaks the bones in my hand and burns me badly. My director keeps trying to give me suggestions on how i could perfect this prolonged scream of anguish and despair, some of which were: “Haven’t you ever put your hand into a fire before?” “Go home and try pouring hot wax on yourself. I can give you some pointers on sensitive spots to try.” “Stick your head into an oven later! And make sure to vocalize through the pain.”
Good direction, isn’t it. It’s like in high school … i had to play these two brief minutes of being drunk, and i just didn’t know how to do it. I was straightedge, i was innocent, and i had no idea what alchohol did to human body. My director coaxed and fixed and pointed and when it came time for performance i still looked like some foolish kid who was a little bit dizzy. In retrospect, he should’ve just bought me a bottle of vodka and let me learn the easy way. So, i’m off to find some hot wax… yum.
