Ranting Details

Picture of the Day: 1/30/09

 

Picture of the Day: 1/29/09

(Thirsty?)

25 Facts

I'm a sucker for these lists.  As if I don't share enough information on here.   What better way to get to know even  more about me than to read 25 embarrassing facts?!  Enjoy.  Thanks, Philip, for alerting me to this new Facebook plague. 

1.    The first CD I owned was “The Sign” by Ace of Base.  The first tape single I owned was “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. 

2.    When I was six, I had a secret club with my best friend where we went into the closet and drew pictures of naked women.  In hindsight they probably looked more like De Kooning’s renditions of women than anything resembling an actual person.  It’s the first time I remember being in the closet with regard to anything sexual. 

3.    I have an extreme love for chewing gum and ice at the same time. 

4.    My biggest fear is that I won’t ever be as good or successful at anything as I was at dancing.  My other biggest fear is that the upcoming Ace of Base reunion CD won’t be satisfactory. 

5.    I was a huge fan of action figure playsets when I was a kid.  Of all the ones I owned, the Ghostbuster’s firehouse was my favorite.  Three levels and a giant blue spiral elevator?!  Heaven.  (Close second: a vintage Ewok Village playset I got after I forced my parents to drive to a collectibles store two hours out of our way during vacation in LA.)

6.    I think it would be cathartic if adults were able to play with said playsets without being made to feel strange.

7.    My obsession with "Star Wars" bordered on unhealthy.  When I was about ten I found a giant piece of Styrofoam that had been used in packaging for a piece of basement furniture.  Instead of discarding it, I shaved it into the shape of Jabba the Hutt and used it as a set piece in my adaptation of “Return of the Jedi.”  It shed little white pieces everywhere.  It was like a giant’s dandruff explosion in the basement. 

8.    My favorite song of the moment is “That’s Not My Name” by The Ting Tings.  Yet, for the life of me, I cannot figure out why “Slumdog Millionaire” is using a snippet of this song in their new Oscar campaign ads. 

9.    I’ve never had a long-term boyfriend.  I think my mother is close to starting an E*Harmony profile for me.  I think we are both secretly hoping it somehow leads to me being with Anderson Cooper. 

10.    I appeared in a world premiere reading of a Marsha Norman (Tony Award-winning writer of “The Secret Garden” and “’Night Mother”) play.  At the time it was called “Trudy Blue” and Andie MacDowell played my mother.  I had two lines: “I want ice cream,” and “I want Pop Tarts.”  Fortunately I could draw from experience to deliver these lines with conviction.

11.    I have always had a desire to take singing lessons.

12.    Even though I don’t say it enough, I am endlessly thankful for all my parents have done to financially provide for my sister and me.  But more than that, I am thankful for the artistic freedom they exhibited in their own lives and encouraged in ours.  Not many people get to see their parents perform in shows, paint in rented studios, direct shows, choreograph dances, teach classes, make movies, and design kick-ass art installations for the house.

13.    When my father took up smoking cigarettes during my childhood, I boycotted playing the piano.  I also boycotted if I chipped a nail, or wanted to watch an episode of “Full House.” 

14.    My biggest memory of living in LA is a day during the Rodney King riots when my neighbors, Adam and Rebecca, and I marched back and forth between our houses in protest.  I was four. 

15.    I have written two musicals in my life, both with Michael Lowney when we were children.  The first was called “Time Capsule” and it was about…time travel.  You can imagine our disappointment when we realized a time capsule is not the same thing as a time machine; it fucked up all of our rhyming patterns.  The second was called “Myth” and it was basically “Into the Woods” but with Greek mythology.  It centered around Prometheus bringing fire to the people, but mixed in just about every story we could wedge into the plot.  I am still bitter about the fact that when I handed it in for an eighth grade project (complete with demo recordings, set designs, a dream cast Playbill, and a 50-page libretto) I got the same grade as people who made Mount Olympus out of popsicle sticks. 

16.    There is no worse feeling to me than being judged because I’m gay.  It’s a terrible sensation to go back to Montana and (especially when I leave Missoula) worry about what I’m wearing and how I’m interacting with friends.  Unfortunately, things like this have happened on the subway in NYC. 

17.    I have an embarrassing knowledge of pop culture.  Ask me the date of a historic event?  My mind is blank.  Ask me the date that “Titanic” opened in movie theaters?  December 19, 1997.  Don’t worry.  I’m not proud of it. 

18.    I want to have 19 children when I grow up, so I can start my own show on TLC called “19 Kids and Counting…Down Until the Moment We Die.”  I actually want two kids.  And I want one of them to be Aaden from “John and Kate Plus Eight.”

19.     The single most influential book I’ve read is Willem de Kooning’s biography, which taught me about an entire artistic movement, and what it means to create.  A close second is “Where the Red Fern Grows,” which taught me how to cry.  A close third is “The Witches,” which taught me books could be adapted into terrifying movies where Angelica Huston peels off her face. 

20.    I stood backstage at ABT one time beside Angelica Huston and Pierce Brosnan.  I wanted to ask her if she would peel off her face for old time’s sake.  But then I had to go on stage. 

21.    I once got my braces stuck to a tutu when I was rehearsing “The Nutcracker” at NCSA.  My mom had been telling me to stop dancing with my mouth open.  Point taken. 

22.    My favorite memory of my time at NCSA is when Melissa Hayden was measuring the stage by walking across it with her tiny, tennis-shoed feet.  Instead of counting normally, she proclaimed “One fat girl, two fat girls, three fat girls, four fat girls,” and so on, as the entire female corps stretched on the side of the stage. 

23.     My sister is possibly the coolest person I know.  I’m always envious of her sense of style, and the way her hair stays propped up with only a little bit of product.

24.    In middle school, I had a class where we broke into small groups and were responsible for building an entire bathroom.  We put up the dry wall, installed the plumbing, and then painted the whole thing.  I didn’t retain any of that knowledge.  Probably because I delegated all of the responsibility to Taylor, the class tomboy, while I planned my lessons for teaching the senior citizens how to type.  Yes, I was such a good typist that, instead of taking class, I got to take a bus to Grizzly Peak Retirement Home and teach seniors what a keyboard was.  Don’t be jealous. 

25.    I have now procrastinated an hour of work in order to come up with twenty-five facts about myself.  I am a master procrastinator. 

Dance, Dance Inauguration

Last Monday night I journeyed up to Spanish Harlem's most fantastic Moroccan restaurant, Kiosk, with a handful of friends to celebrate the last night of Bush.  Little did I know a handful of people would quickly grow into almost twenty of us sandwiched within the narrow confines of the establishment, where we all toasted the beginning of a new era in our lives and ate some delicious kebabs. 

I don't know what was in that chicken, but it energized me in a way I haven't felt in the past two years.  As soon as dinner was over we cleared all of the tables and chairs to the back of the restaurant, pumped up the music by my fabulous DJ friend Luis, and unleashed a barrage of dance moves inspired by everything from African dance to "Mamma Mia!" prat falls. 

Fortunately, my new friend Nick Gaswirth, photographer extraordinaire, was there to document it all.  When he removed his camera from his bag, I was awestruck by a giraffe-like light situated on top of the camera body; I had no idea what I was in for.  As a photographer newbie, I am just discovering all of the fun toys you can add on.  Basically you can turn a camera into something similar to when the Power Rangers all joined together to form that massive, monster-fighting megatron machine.  My jaw was on the floor. 

Not only did the attached flash ignite without the annoying test strobes the SLR built-ins use, but the color and exposure quality of the pictures left me speechless.  It was like that time I went to Target as a kid and saw the Spice Girls album "Spice World" sitting on the shelf; I wanted to geek out, but tried to contain my joy until I got home.  Fortunately, the desire to purchase a flash for my camera won't leave me with years of shame like my "Spice World" admiration did.  Thank you for opening my eyes, Mr. Gaswirth.  And subsequently lowering my bank account a few hundred dollars.  Be sure to check out Nick's photo site, a wonderful 365 day experiment with two of his fellow photographers/friends. 

(All photos in this post by Nick Gaswirth.)

(Lauren and Michael try to ignore my misletoe/jaws of life hand.)

(Sometimes you must throw your arms behind you and stick your chest out while shimmying.  Too many years of observing Ginger Spice.)

(Max loves Jessica.  Obviously.)

(Marc, Matt and Darren: LFO 2.0?)

Picture of the Day: 1/26/09

Lazy Post of the Day: OMGee, Gee, Gee, Gee!

I discovered this video last weekend and now I can't get the song or the choreography out of my head.  There  are there nine (NINE!) girls in this Korean pop group.  As if the sheer number of people wasn't infectious enough, they execute some ridiculous dance moves and burrow a pop hook into your head that will play on repeat for days... even if you can't understand a word they're saying.  I love every minute of it.  Need a diversion this Sunday?  Check out "Gee."

Big Business Tweens

 
Over the past year I’ve been reprimanded many times—by photo editors, copy editors, editor-in-chiefs, press agents and writers—for my unorthodox ways of procuring information for magazine articles.  I can’t help it.  Because of my past career as a dancer I happen to know a lot of people in the arts world; meaning most of the men and women I interview on a weekly basis for monthly publications are people I’ve made out with at least once.  No matter how many times I am told press departments are in place specifically to handle the demands of writers like myself for interviews, photos, and bulk orders of Pop Rocks, I know that calling the friend who’s in my cell phone contact list is much easier than repeatedly harassing an office worker by any means possible; sometimes I think the only way to get my point across is to hire a sky writer.  But, as I'm learning bit by bit: sometimes you just have to immerse yourself within the defined system.   

You’d think I could have learned this lesson when I published my first magazine with my best friend Michael at the entrepreneurial age of eleven.  After years of performing musicals in the basement, where the ceiling looked like a peeling sunburned body due to using duct tape as adhesive for our “flats,” we were growing too big for the space and too heavy for the tables that doubled as stairs and platforms; each time we stood on them they would let out of perfunctory groan that got louder with each inch we grew closer to the ceiling.  We needed a change of pace.  So we emerged from our den of sequined depravity and did what any self-respecting almost-teenager in the mid ‘90s did: sat in front of the computer and played around on Kid Pix, an art program where single pixels took up half the screen and making a successful smiley face was seen as an accomplishment worthy of the museum wall. 

We’d been there many times before.  Through productions of “Titanic,” “Side Show,” “The Wizard of Oz,” and “Evita” we had always been savvy marketers intent on alerting our audience (my sister and her array of high school boyfriends) to discount ticket prices and the latest showtimes.  But as we began to crack on the high notes of production numbers, to say nothing of the fact that I figured out my time in a wig was coming dangerously close to half of my time awake, we knew our reputations needed a boost.

Out of our collective thought womb came “The Beanie Bulletin.”  The idea was simple: there was nothing more popular than Beanie Babies, the five-dollar plush toys that sent women and children diving into cardboard boxes the moment a shipment arrived at the local Hallmark.  I myself was not only on the list to be called whenever said shipments arrived, but had managed to finagle my way into friendships with all of the Pam’s managing the stores around Montana. To our disbelief, there were no local magazines catering to this audience. 

We set to work on our hodge-podge publication, scouring the internet for photos and news worthy items to fill our first issue, which in our minds was only a few Kid Pix graphics away from becoming a rival to the Missoulian for most-read publication in town.  The next logical step would be a press tour.  A visit on The Rosie O’ Donnell Show; an origin story special on Dateline; just a few casual stops where we would chuckle while we sipped coffee out of mugs aligned on a table in front of us and reminisced about the days before we had become, at the age of fourteen, co-editor-in-chiefs at People Magazine.

The success was going to be the easy part.  Getting the first issue out on the newsstands was the chore.  We spent late nights working alone, Michael upstairs on my personal computer and me down in my father’s office where Chekov plays stared holes into my back while I blatantly plagiarized articles from every reputable Beanie Baby source known to man.  I’d set Michael up with tasks pertaining to the graphic design end of things since his meticulous nature made him an obvious choice for organizing the content and placing it beside the appropriate clip art.  We barely spoke.  I would charge up the white carpet staircase, pause momentarily, for reasons unbeknownst to me at the time, to “analyze” the twelve-foot tall portrait of a naked man on the first landing, and then complete my journey to monitor Michael’s progress while I leaned against the doorframe. 

After a few marathon nights like this we printed out each of the thirty pages and made our way to Denny’s Copy Stop, a local printer with an interior as green as the Emerald City and a staff about as happy to see two twelve year olds coming through the door as the inhabitants of Oz were to see the Wicked Witch’s plume of red smoke trailing across the sky. 

We crouched on the floor and sorted through the pages.  Organizing was key, as we needed to lay them out in a way so that when we copied two 8.5x11 pieces on one 11x17 sheet they would fold together and staple in perfect order.  This required a roll of Scotch tape and roughly three quarters of the copy shop’s floor space.  Each time the bells on the door shook to signal the entry of another patron we would glance up long enough to watch them hop-scotch over our masterpiece and drop off something at the register.  Then we were back to work. 

The sheets buzzed out of the printer and we piled them together along the perimeter of the wall.  There were ten copies of each page, some with articles on them, others with contests encouraging the creation of new Beanie Babies, and the occasional ad for local Beanie Baby dealers, including my neighbor, John Hendrickson, who ran a collector’s shop out of his basement.  Baseball cards used to be his specialty, but with the recent country-wide fascination in stuffed armadillos and bears honoring Princess Diana, he had diverted his attention to specifically fit the needs of our target audience.  In doing so, he lent our operation a certain credibility.

We folded one page into another, and released the jaws of a stapler as to aid our task of creating a solid spine for our debut issue.  When we were done with binding the black and white pages, which were still warm in our hands, we proceeded to the register to pay for the $35.00 printing costs and rushed out the door. 

As two children still on the cute side of awkwardness—the time before mustaches are left untamed simply because a razor is a scary grown-up toy—we knew a smile and an earnest sales pitch could go a long way.  We set forth on foot.  Other than occasionally roller-blading, this was how we got everywhere when we were by Michael’s house in the center of town.  It was that or stealing a car.  Feet could easily get us to the Ole’s convenience store to purchase candy cigarettes.  And feet could just as easily take us to the Gold & Silver Exchange where our legacy would begin. 

Situated on the corner of a busy intersection with two bars, a dollar store and a billboard for Casinos up ahead, the Gold & Silver Exchange was a collector’s paradise.  There were guns; there were baseball cards; there were Pogs; there were action figures; and there were Beanie Babies.  Only, the Beanie Babies lining the walls were in plastic cases meant to keep the toys dust free and out of the hands of those they were made for: children. 

I’d been there several times before with my parents after seeing the relentless commercials on TV.  But when I walked in this time, bouncing on the balls of my feet and rarely placing my heels on the ground, the entire space felt as dark as the boiler room in my basement.  The windows appeared to have been tinted like all those drug dealers I saw in movies. 

Our eyes adjusted to the light.  Situated behind the counter was the owner, polishing a coin while he wrinkled his nose, the act of which twisted his handlebar mustache into a tango with his lips.   The only business experience I had at this point was via the Lily Tomlin/Bette Midler buddy comedy “Big Business,” so I morphed my brain into the best Midler mindset I could conjure (Michael was obviously Tomlin) and formulated my attack.  If I only I hadn’t left my red curly wig at home, I thought to myself.  But it was no time to mope, so I grabbed an issue from beneath Michael’s arm and proceeded to the glass counter. 

After a brief rundown of the product, where Michael and I swapped lines as the owner looked down at us, coin still in hand, it was clear from his eyes that silence was our friend.  And if not, there were guns nearby to take care of our penchant for chatter.  He reached over and picked up the Xeroxed pages, and for a moment we reveled in the image of a grown man reading “The Beanie Bulletin,” the project we had spent days storyboarding and creating between episodes of “The X-Files.”  It was practically our life’s work. 

Before I could process the excitement of the whole situation, the magazine was closed and back on the counter. 

“Does John know about this,” he asked us. 

Not exactly the reaction we were looking for. 

“John.  Does John Hendrickson know you’re using his name?” he asked, referring to my neighbor, the one whose daughter, Katie, was my closest neighborhood friend. 

“Well, no,” I said.  It was all I could manage in the midst of confusion over this being his first question when there had been valuable scoops about future products buried within Michael’s engaging layout.  I hadn’t even though about getting permission.  After all, we were giving John free publicity in the nation’s fastest growing Beanie Baby source. 

The owner’s eyes suddenly turned angry.  The same type of angry I’d seen many times before in John Hendrickson’s eyes when any of the neighborhood kids did something to upset Katie.  He was one of those parents who would nurse deer back to health if they were hurt in a roadside accident, but was simultaneously capable of instilling the same type of fear in children as the bears that used to roam around our neighborhood. 

“I’m going to have to call him.  You’re not allowed to use him without his permission.  You have his home phone number in here.  You can’t put his home phone number in here.” 

I saw the bear creeping down the street to get me.  My eyes started to fill with tears. 

Our original purpose for being there had quickly been forgotten, so we gathered the issue off the counter and inched our way out the door.  I felt like my world was collapsing the moment we returned into the sunlight.  John is going to eat me, I thought.  As if intuiting my thoughts, Michael walked side-by-side with me and tried to comfort my sobs.

The walk back to Michael’s house was the longest ever, with the only other time even in contention being the day we arrived home three hours later than our curfew because we’d spent the entire afternoon befriending the lady working at “Dollar Deals.”  At least then we had made a new friend.  This time we had nothing but venom splattered on the cover of our first issue, and it was entirely my fault.  Bette Midler had never warned me about getting permission to use people’s names.  How could I have been so stupid? 

That same question has run through my mind numerous times throughout the past year.  Even though John didn’t devour me, he did request I ask his permission for future printings of the magazine (which got picked up by the local record store for several issues) and explained the logic behind such rules.  The same could be said of all the press departments whose numbers have appeared on my caller ID after I acted out of the system to talk with dancers or get a photograph.  I don’t know what it will take for me to finally learn.  Maybe the bear should have eaten me when I was twelve, after all. 

 



 

Balanchine's Birthday

Thanks to an email from the wealth of ballet knowledge known as Philip I found out that today is New York City Ballet founder George Balanchine's birthday.  I grew up dancing many of this legendary choreographer's works at North Carolina School of the Arts under the tutelage of Melissa Hayden, an originator of many famous roles in the NYCB repertoire.  Through rehearsals for Allegro Brilliante, Scotch Symphony, Stars and Stripes, and Symphony in C I was able to absorb many stories about Mr. B directly from Ms. Hayden, and my love of this neo-classical choreographer grew as I passed from student to professional. 

I assume it's no coincidence that Arlene Croce has written a piece for this week's New Yorker documenting the many quotes Balanchine was notorious for using and where those quotes originated from.  It's an interesting article, rich in historical information not only about Balanchine himself but also of those he "borrowed" from.  Here are a few of my favorite quotes. 

"I am not a man, but a cloud in trousers."

"When you have a garden full of pretty flowers, you don't demand of them, "What do you mean?  What is your significance?" Dancers are just flowers, and flowers grow without any literal meaning, they are just beautiful.  We're like flowers.  A flower doesn't tell you a story.  It's in itself a beautiful thing."

"Everything has been thought of before; the task is to think of it again."

Triptych: Pretty Pretty Princes

Lazy Post of the Day: Watching the Coverage

I'm sitting at home right now watching the inauguration coverage and I can only hope the following plans will make their way onto the telecast!  Truly hilarious!  HAPPY OBAMA DAY!!!!


Congress Debates Adding Elaborate Dance To Obama's Inauguration Ceremony