Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
by krisis
Palin visited Tony Luke’s for her ritual Philly Cheesesteak, rather than either of the horrific, fatty, over-promoted pair of Pat’s and Geno’s.
That’s the best possible Palin-based reason any Philadelphian could have to vote for the Palin-McCain.
Seriously. She won’t be giving you any better reasons than this one.
by krisis
Saturday night brought me to the upstairs at Plays and Players Theatre on Delancey Street to see the inaugural Fringe Festival effort from The Burn Ward Theater Company.
Burn Ward presented three one acts – two brief scenes, and one more substantial play. The scenes were well-acted distractions, and the play – Mittens Descending – was an utterly hilarious farce. I wish I could go back and see it again.
Mittens is named for an anthropomorphized, caustic, middle-aged, gin-swilling cat with an eye for mischief and an encyclopedic appreciation of classical music. He’s the debatably imaginary best friend of Lenny, who we first meet as a Batman-loving seven-year-old frustrated by the Barbies and make-believe of his little-girl neighbor, Rebecca.
Lenny and Mittens are an inseparable team when on adventures battling pirates and nightmare kings, but in the real world Mittens is more high maintenance than any friend or pet should be. He demands constant attention and obedience from his young charge, but in exchange offers only capricious, catty companionship. When the two have a brief falling out over Lenny’s weak streak for anarchy Mittens leaves in a huff, en route to other unspecified mischief.
We are then reintroduced to Lenny, now an angsty teen who hasn’t heard from Mittens in years. A breakup with his now-girlfriend Rebecca leaves Lenny’s life spinning out of control, which is compounded by the misguided efforts of his laughably inept therapist. After a disappointing visit to Dr. Goldstein’s office Lenny has hit rock bottom, and it’s at this moment that Mittens makes an ignoble return to wreak havoc on Lenny’s life.
From there the play escalates to a life-and-death struggle between Lenny’s actual responsibilities and the fey, narcissistic logic of Mittens, now on his eighth life and looking to relive past glories.
As a character Mittens reminded me perversely of Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer – a whimsical-yet-toxic antagonist so well-played that you hope he will show up in every scene. Rachel Gluck crosses gender (and species) to inject understated panache and a throaty purr into a role she originated at Drexel University. Bedecked in elaborate face paint, a shabby jacket, and tufted ears poking through her hat, she’s as much the charming Harvey as the chilling Frank of Donnie Darko.
Though the plot’s trajectory grows increasingly dire the script is full of humor, and not just from Mittens. Lenny is an amusingly thorough failure at everything from convincing his girlfriend why she shouldn’t leave him to writing songs for his ridiculous vampire rock band. And, while Lenny’s life is a black comedy, his visits to Dr. Goldstein are wry verging on slapstick. The doctor is a misplaced beach bum who will do anything to get his patients to leave him alone, offering kumbayas along with fistfuls of Wellbutrin.
Despite being a group of recent college grads who still throw keggers as fundraisers, Burn Ward’s presentation was all-pro. Fringe too often acts as an excuse for aimless efforts by groups that are more interested in making a statement (or a complete absence of one) than entertaining an audience. Mittens was the opposite – no ulterior motives, just entertainment in the form of a snappy piece of pop-culture still pervasively weird enough to be at home at the Fringe Festival.
While I expected better than amateur from a group of theatre junkies, I was honestly floored by the quality of the production. The acting was universally strong and clearly well-directed, even in the brief scenes that preceding Mittens. The entire ensemble was adept and entertaining, especially Mark Maher as Lenny.
Mr. Maher was so in-the-moment as a rambunctious kid and an over-medicated teenager that our fourth wall into his world was completely transparent. His major failings and minor successes were all-the-more resonant for watching someone actually be an angsty teen instead of just miming along to the archetype of one. His grounded performance made Mittens seem all the more real.
The upstairs at Plays and Players isn’t the kindest or roomiest space – more like a stuffy attic than a theatre. Burn Ward technical director Brian Browne made the best of it with a revolving stage that allowed Lenny to climb out of his window directly into his Rebecca’s room in real time, once even continuing conversation from one scene to the next.
The Burn Ward Theater Company is barely a year old but they have already figured out the formula for a successful show. Their biggest misstep was in choosing a venue with too-few seats; each of four Mittens performances was a sellout!
While other Fringe companies pack their bags and hibernate until next September, Burn Ward will continue to fundraise and perform throughout the year. Keep an eye on the company’s website or their FaceBook page for info on upcoming shows.
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Disclosure: Burn Ward was founded by Drexel grads, but I was never in a school production with any of them (though I later starred in show with Mr. Browne). However, I am good friends with one of the founders; she did not act in or direct this show.
I don’t think our relationship influenced my opinion, as I honestly had no idea of what to expect, and harbored a fear that it would be either painfully dreadful or dreadfully painful. Similarly, she seemed to be terrified that I would hate the show.
Happily, neither outcome proved true.
by krisis
Last night Gina and I were completely out-of-sorts, which lead to not one of our more productive rehearsals ever, except for it seems like whenever we have one of those “Real End” is impossibly great. Probably because it’s our oldest tune.
(Actually, en route an LP meeting last week I discovered that Gina has a Blogathon 2001 best-of disc in her car, which is the only existing high fidelity copy of all of those songs, including the first ever demo of Real End. Which is kinda awesome. Like, it doesn’t sound like us – it’s got a borderline indie-rock awfulness to it but it still totally holds together. I think if we still sounded like that people would like us better.)
In any event, the point of this post is that after our incredibly unfocused rehearsal we walked a few blocks over to The Dive to open for our new band-friend Kursten Bouton.
It was an interesting excursion. The Dive is, in fact, a dive. It’s essentially a South Philly row home that happens to be a bar.
We were in the upstairs, a tiny triangle of a room fronted with an abbreviated bar and terminating in a stack of huge speakers and a strange, little, wooden sidecar of a room containing an awesome, old, 16-channel board with wooden trim that I had way too much fun with. The mics and stands were a little suspect, though, and if we ever head back there I’ll probably bring my own.
Despite a relative lack of audience we had a good time hanging out with Kursten again and hearing even more of her repertoire (though my favorite pair is still “Don’t Surrender” and “Polaroid Migration”). After a few songs of intro I talked Kursten into doing an Ani song with me, and in a pinch we belted out “Gravel.” Afterwards AC played a solid 45 minute set, ending with a comfortably loungy rendition of “Noncommittal.”
Pretty fun, but mostly because of Kursten. The Dive is a cool bar to have in the neighborhood, but I’m not sure if I’d head out there just for the open mic when I could hit South Street instead.
by krisis
Last Saturday we awoke to some vicious knocks on our door, and declined to answer.
It was another block party on our street – another one of dubious legality where we were given less than ten hours of notice before its start – one situated plumb in the middle of our first long weekend together this year. We keep to ourselves, and no one thinks to ask us to sign their petition, or remind us there is a party upcoming, or ask us we have anything to contribute (such as, I don’t know, my mixing equipment? But, I digress).
So, we declined to answer. The first time. But a few minutes later the knocks came again, insistent and vicious.
We had hoped to sleep in – at the back of the house, away from the noise.
No such luck.
I dressed quickly, pieces patched together, and flung open the door to be greeted by an unfamiliar face. White, stubbly, firepluggish but not so intimidating, a tattoo or scar on his cheek next to his eye.
“Izzat your car?” Gesturing broadly at a boxy sedan parked a few spots to the right of our door. Already a tent had been struck on our sidewalk, nearly obstructing our front steps.
I replied sharply. “Look, we don’t own a car, and even if we did we wouldn’t have to move it for the block party. That’s not how the permit works.”
I closed (not slammed) the door to an echo of protest (“Hey, I’ll break your door down and kick your ass”), but that was a wolf not big or bad enough to warrant my concern on a summer Saturday morning. I’ve lived in South Philly long enough to know an idle threat.
Nothing else happened, and several hours of booming, inescapable music later we left. We were dressed as sharp as my earlier words for Erika’s engagement party, and everyone on the block saw us depart just as the daylight was ripening into a pretty golden evening.
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The party, which is a topic for another time, was wonderful. The two parts that are germane to this story are that I drank quite a bit of Bombay Sapphire and we that took a cab home shortly after 3 a.m.
I stepped (stumbled) out of the cab, intent on a trip to the bathroom and the chance to get into some more comfortable clothes (having entrusted Elise with my wallet and the ability to do arbitrary math).
At the steps I fetched (fumbled for?) my keys, and when I looked up I was greeted with black magic marker scrawl across our door:
Steer Clear of Queer
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Was it the message or the gin that sent me into hysterical sobs, pounding on the door with my fists until it was feeling unsure on its hinges?
Does it matter? What was I supposed to feel, or do, the first time a message of discrimination I’ve heard off and on for years at parties and bars and from passing cars found itself tangible and branded on my home?
The next part is a blur: Elise getting to the door, our exchange, my dash into the house only to collapse on the floor, crying, screaming:
“This is our house; I just want to live here.”
Elise, rational and sober, called 911, and discovered as she shut the door that our newfound aphorism had been accompanied by an even more tangible reminder – used cat litter fed painstakingly through our mail slot so that it would be swept across our threshold when the door was opened.
I’ll spare you the visit of the police, protective and sympathetic, or my repeated calls to Lindsay, my voice splintering and breaking as I screamed to her that I didn’t understand, upset as much about myself as with my demographic-sharing double, the straight white male who thought this sort of thing was okay to go writing on someone’s door because he didn’t have enough muscles or force when he opened it or because he left the house in a wrong-colored shirt, and also how I would be happy for people to write on my door and shove crap through my mail slot for the rest of my life as long as they left Lindsay and Kate and our gay neighbors (yes, the irony) alone and in peace.
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I would never compare this experience to the discrimination that other people endure every day. It was passive – intimidation from a coward. It’s not even really about me. It’s not even really offensive, as a statement.
Yet while I would never compare, it remains that those words were written on our home, and that the crime of petty vandalism was undoubtedly about hate. I articulated as much to the lieutenant in my living room, feeling strangely sober and my stare fixed on the floor.
“Do you feel that this was a hate crime?
“Yes, officer. All that matters is what he thought of me when he opened the door, and the intended effect of his message.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you and your roommate.”
“Fiancee,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “We’re getting married.”
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With Sunday came concern; we had no way of knowing if the vandalism was an arbitrary one-time event or the first step of continuing harassment; we didn’t know if it was the work of a single actor or a faceless group of disgruntled neighbors. But we discovered that – after the initial shock – we were not concerned about the words on our door.
To scurry out that morning to clean it off would mean we didn’t want the neighbors to see. To cover it up surreptitiously by cover of darkness would mean we didn’t want to be seen responding to it.
Both would show that the message met its mark – that it had intimidated us. We may be a lot of things – maybe even a little queer – but one of them certainly isn’t easily intimidated.
I’ve been avoiding this box all this week because I’ve been uncomfortable with my own voice – the voice that got me into this mess – just as I haven’t felt comfortable in my own living room. Now that our door is finally back to its single solid color (plus a peephole) I also feel okay to return here, my virtual home, to begin to describe how I feel … how I’ve felt the graffiti on my own skin all week, how our house feels different now, and how every time I approach our door I am ever-so-nauseous in anticipation.
As to why we ultimately decided to leave the words on display until our landlord could have them painted over in broad daylight for the entire block to witness, Elise blogged it better than I ever could, so I’ll let her speak for me:
[I]t doesn’t reflect on us, it reflects on the people who did this and on the people who allowed it to happen. It’s a reminder to us of what emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually small people are capable of (though we would still see it there whether we painted it over or not), and it’s a reminder to everyone else that while this time we were the target, it could just as easily be them, next time.
They probably have not realized this, yet.
by krisis
It seems that my attendance of concerts varies inversely with my enjoyment, and as I become more ubiquitous at local open mics and active in the local music scene I am increasingly unable to enjoy the music of anyone else unless they are completely flawless.
(Recently, Ani DiFranco, but locally Alexandra Day.)
Other than those bastions of perfection, everything is open to critique – whether I’m trying to be critical or not.
Last month I saw an indie musician who could not get his physical and vocal tics under control long enough to simply sing one of his strong songs. A few weeks ago we saw Regina Spektor open for Ani DiFranco, and I criticized her enunciation and her poor setlist compilation abilities.
Last week at an open mic I rolled my eyes at a hapless guy who played three songs all in the same position. Last night we saw a local band, and I didn’t think anything was in the right key for the singer, and their bassist was useless.
I was a critic to begin with, but now that I’ve been playing more actively I’m all-too-cognizant of all the ways a performer can go wrong, and as soon as I spot one I can’t help but be cruelly unforgiving of its performer.
Critiquing Regina is one thing – she’s a major label hit that ought to know how to open for an audience of strangers by now. It’s the other examples that are more dangerous. If I can’t appreciate and complement other independent and local performers then I am always going to be that asshole with the ego, and people will judge me even harsher for it.
I know I’m not perfect – I’m brutally cognizant of my many flaws as a performer, and they’re the primary reason I don’t perform or record more often. I suppose I just expect every artist that have the same ruthless urge to self-censor until improvements can be made. And, when I do it on their behalf it makes it hard to make connections or friends, and you need both to get noticed as a local musician.
If I was Regina I would have started with one of my crunchy pop hits and followed it with something alliterate and obscure to catch the less mainstream Ani fans. But, maybe that’s not how she’s gotten this far, so who am I to correct her?
But, if I was an indie on my first tour, grasping for new audience members, I’d play in the mirror more often. If I was that hapless guy I would have found a different position to play my song in, or played something in a different key for my middle song. And, if I was the lead singer last night I would have taken voice lessons, tuned down a few of my songs, and backed off the mic.
I have shared all of those flaws, and because I am me I have enacted each of those solutions – because I am ruthlessly eliminating anything anyone could dislike about me until the until reason left to dislike me is me myself.
But, I can’t afford to be so ruthless towards everybody else, or I’ll never have any one receptive in an audience to appreciate all my betterment, and to spread the words to their friends.
Or, via the Larry Sanders Show:
What have we learned here? When you’re vulnerable and humble, people like you. When you act like an asshole, people tend to think of you as an asshole.