Azores Day 2: Awkward Beach and Old Friends

Just like that, I've adjusted to the time change, Blog. All that sleep paid off and today I was able to take some time for personal reflection along with a nice jaunt down to the beach where I silently freaked out about which part of the swimming hole was best to explore. I was clearly the only American at this public access. While everyone else confidently navigated the concrete stairs that have been built into the rocky cliffs so as to access the Atlantic's chilly waters, I was awkwardly reading Kurt Vonnegut's Jailbird while watching the Portuguese dive into water that I eventually learned was not deep enough for even a belly flop (in my opinion anyway).

The cliffs distract you from the fact that all water in this photo is no more than 4 feet deep.

I love Europe because rules are a moot point here. There was a kid who was no more than four years old running around on the concrete, peering over edges that dropped an easy 15 feet down into frigid water that was well over his head. He was walking along rocks with waves splashing around him. He was pushing off the edge of the stairs to try out his puppy-like doggy paddle with no adult within reach. Sure there were lifeguards present, but they were occupied with trying to capture what I assumed was a jellyfish in another part of the swimming area.

After overthinking it to a maddening point, I finally just manned up and made my way down some stairs where there were a couple ladies around my age cooling off in the water. As I approached them I realized I had forgotten (or, fine, maybe I didn't know) the Portuguese word for hello, which is sad because it's ola. I awkwardly smiled as they blatantly judged and then decided to escape the entire situation by submerging myself in the cold and salty water.

Swim swim swim. Yes. This water was definitely only up to my rib cage. Why are full grown men diving into this head first from 15 feet above? Oh that's right. Europe doesn't have rules or a sense of preventative action. Anything goes! I'll bite if it means I can drink wine in the passenger's seat of Carly's island bomb car, which I can. No one is forcing me to dive into this ridiculously shallow water or flirt with poisonous jelly fish. No rules it is.

But the real highlight of my day was seeing this lady:

All I got was an action shot of nipple warfare in the car.

Megan Ramage White is on this island and we had dinner and it was the best. Old memories resurfaced and we reminisced about the good old days (and holy hell that entry I linked to above is so old, I was still nursing my wounds from my break up with Rob. ROB.). It's been four years since we've seen one another; a time that has been easily marked by her daughter's existence, who before tonight I met only once when she was a baby. She's four now and we had a lengthy conversation about her cat, Chicken and how she had all sorts of animals at her birthday party. I'm sad I'm away from home for so long, but am so happy I'm here for the next three weeks so I can be with these awesome people in this awesome place for an adequate amount of time.

Tomorrow we go to Biscoitos for more beach. This time I won't be alone so I'm hopeful my ability to exist in European society will be realized and executed.

Until then, I'm totally going to bed when I'm supposed to. Success!

Anyone Want To Be My Lesbian Friend?

Blog, I've been watching a lot of The L Word on this tour. How is it that TV series make you want to live within them? I got obsessed with Frasier a while ago because I'm really into snobby intellectual humor (and David Hyde Pierce is the best thing to grace a TV screen ever in this world ever) and all I wanted to do with my life during that time was sit and drink sherry and get ready to go to the opera. These are things that I don't really take interest in, Blog, but Frasier made me want to go there.

Back before Downton Abbey broke my heart into ten million pieces, all I wanted to do was live in the 1920s and wear either dresses with elaborate beading or an apron (it didn't matter) and speak with a cool English accent while trying to figure out what the fuck a telephone was. But when we're realistic about living in England in the 1910's and beyond, it means we're wearing uncomfortable wool stockings and using outhouses. Plus there's no internet to which I can turn on a lonely Saturday night after finishing three glasses of wine. Then again, there'd be no TV series for me to bitch and moan about on said internet because it would be 1920 and all there would be to do is to drink more wine and probably darn a sock or something.

So last week when I found that The L Word is now on Netflix, I couldn't help myself. I was introduced to the series a few years ago when I was visiting Ariel in the Pacific Northwest. We holed up in her quaint studio cabin in the woods and watched the first season on DVD. But that's all she had. I promptly forgot about the oddly high population of extremely attractive lesbians LA seems to have and went on with my life. That is until last week when I noticed that all six seasons are available on Netflix. Things have gotten out of control since then.

I'm not a lesbian, Blog. I like men. Lots. I've known this for quite some time. And while The L Word has not challenged me on my sexuality, it has caused me to want a super sweet group of lesbian friends with whom I can catch up on all the latest lesbian gossip. I want to meet up with the ladies at our usual coffee shop haunt and figure out who has been sleeping with who. I want to become annoyed with how they interact with each other and say "oh, you're being such a lesbian". I want to go to the lesbian clubs with them and survey all the hookups that take place so I can be even more in on the lesbian gossip that happens at the coffee shop the next day. I WANT TO MEET THEIR CATS.

TV series make you want to do things you never thought you'd want to do. Right now I'm really wanting to hang out with gay women and live in LA. Thanks Showtime.

Spring Fake-Out Week Seems to Have Struck Again

Blog, I'm going to write a short post about the weather because I like to rant about tedious things.

First things first, I'm in South Carolina and it's 50 degrees outside. I'm winning right now.

However, Facebook has made me aware that this past weekend was what I like to call "spring fake-out week" in Minnesota. It was melty and wonderful out. People probably ditched their parkas for short shorts and roller-blades as they made their through melted slush in a burst of cabin-fever-related insanity. It happens every year. I'm doubt my absence has caused any change in this.

But remember Blog, it's "spring fake-out week". This means that winter has made you think that it's ok to wear short shorts and roller blades, BUT DON'T LET IT MAKE A FOOL OF YOU.

While this weekend's Facebook posts consisted of excitement and joy pertaining to the reminder that summer is a thing, this Monday's posts have turned to school cancellations (in North Dakota anyway) and the usual curmudgeony grumbling about an endless winter. It's still March, Blog. Blizzards are a thing. For me, they're a thing until April.

As I mentioned, I'm in South Carolina. It's 50 degrees outside. I'm one lucky S.O.B. right about now. However, I return to the land of lakes on Saturday evening. I'm beyond excited to be home and see my friends and know my way around again. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed and see the Minneapolis skyline. But Minneapolis is in Minnesota and it's March. This is my spring fake-out week. Hell, it's been spring fake-out months. It all seems nice and easy and warm and wonderful now; like this is how life ought to be. But in a mere five days, I'll be reminded that winter is still a thing and I won't be in the clear for another two months (by my standards). A blizzard is happening at home as I speak. Who cares if it was just 40 degrees and amazing up there? IT MEANS NOTHING.

Time to make the most of the warm air and clear roads while I still can. It won't always be this way, Blog. Also, I need to eat some BBQ before The South and I part ways, but that's another tedious entry for another day.

The Places We Live

Every two years or so, I tend to pack up all my belongings and leave a place I've grown to love. It's a place where the secrets to opening cabinets and locking doors have all been told to me, but their tricks still leave me stumped from time to time. It's a place that has gathered a myriad of memories but still could hold many more. Every time I move, I feel like I'm doing so prematurely. Like there is something still waiting to happen within these walls and now I've only got 48 hours left to figure out what that something is. I have to remind myself that that something will happen to me, and not to the apartment I'm once again moving from.

The longest I've lived in any one place since I was 18 was my first apartment in Minneapolis and it was for a full two years. I documented the day I got keys to the place. I'm glad I did. I imagined what was then unknown to me happening there over the next year. I don't know what I thought would happen, but I'm certain whatever it was didn't actually come to fruition. It never does.

Maybe that's why I move so much. I'm a fan of new beginnings and seem to seek them out once every few years. Moving so much has kept my earthly belongings to a minimum. I for some reason need to shed my skin every once in awhile and make a fresh start. I wish I wasn't this way. There is a part of me that is jealous of settled friends who know what to expect and are satisfied with where they are. I wish I could just relax and resist the urge to pack up and try something new. Mainly because this packing up thing breaks my heart every time. The places we live are alive with us and leaving them is like leaving a comfortable and satisfying relationship for someone you're not quite sure you'll be happy with, but who you have to go for because otherwise you'll never know.

You'll just never know.

So that's why I keep moving. Because I'll never know what it's like if I don't. I'll only know where I am. Granted, the last time I moved was completely out of necessity and nowhere near my personal desire to do so. But now that I think of it, it usually is anyway. I love this apartment more than most of the places I've lived. It's got character, it's a great location, a decent price, and my landlord is wonderful. It helped me get over one of the most difficult break ups I've ever gone through and then served as an abode where I foolishly yet necessarily pined after an Englishman. The solitude here has helped me, has hurt me, and has let me grow. And while I feel like I could stay for another few years, I know I can't. It's time to go try something new. It's time to go after what I really want for once and since I was cursed with the desire for a completely un-lucrative career, I have to downsize in the residence department. I'm going to have roommates who I'm not dating for the first time in 7 years. I'm going to have to learn how to share a bathroom and a kitchen. I'm going to have to figure out how to split bills and what food is mine. Change is scary, but change is good.

I just have to remember that one day it will be ok to settle. Because even when you settle, you still can't accurately imagine what is going to happen to you in the next year. It could be anything. And even if it is the scariest thing in the world, there is another side to come out on.

I remember when I graduated high school, I had a thought that I've managed to keep with me since: "A year from now, who knows the people I'll know". I couldn't even fathom the thought of what turned out to be the most familiar faces in my life; one who is my soon-to-be roommate. It was petrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

A year ago I was leaving a long-running overseas relationship for someone I wasn't quite sure I'd be happy with, but who I went for because otherwise I would have never known. Well now I know. He wasn't for me. But a year ago, I also wasn't in this band. I also wasn't going on tour. I also wasn't going to take a leap of faith and leave this apartment I love so very much as a sacrifice so I could pursue something I've loved my entire life.

Change is good.

My Yearly Fringe Post

Blog, here are some thoughts I have on the Minnesota Fringe Festival.

1. The Fringe Festival takes over my Facebook newsfeed something fierce every August. It is easy to see the emergence of  the successes and pitfalls that come with everyone's shows. The pitfalls are less noticeable because people tend to not post about bad reviews and sucky shows on Facebook. This allows for the highlighted and confident shows to easily shine to the masses (me). Soon, these successful shows become the Fringe's mainstream and comfort. I don't know what to choose! I shall therefore go to a show I've heard a lot about so I feel safe, even though I know there is a chance that it may not live up to its hype.

2. The Fringe Festival serves as an arena where every theater person in Minneapolis (and beyond) can feel in control of their artistic destiny. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity to act on that brilliant idea that has been cooking in the back of their minds since that breakup/lay-off/mid-life crisis/end of college. The masses must know the brilliance that lies within your civilians, Minneapolis! The masses must keep incredibly tight schedules to experience it! The masses must be subject to the potential confusion that abounds with copious amounts of inside theater jokes brought to the stage in an attempt to entertain said masses!

3. The Fringe Festival is a popularity contest where the winners are determined by Matthew Everett, the Fringe blogger I never really hear about during the other 55 weeks of the year. Who are you Matthew? I should know as I was on your public access TV show once, and yet I don't. You emerge with your critical eye every August and sink back into the arts oblivion just as the Perseids reach their peak. A mystery you are to me, Mr. Everett. I fear I may never solve you... or your mother.

4. The Fringe Festival reminds me of how wonderful and awful theater can be. It's like a drug and I am its addict. You can ride the emotional high from a performance well done for only so long until your conscious sinks back into a rut of self scrutiny. Even the most confident performers have second thoughts about how great their shows are. Maybe I'm making that up... no I'm not. I don't care if your last name starts with "Scrim" and ends with "shaw". There's no way in hell you can feel 100% awesome about your show at all times. Not when there are critics running rampant with a rating system and review venue at their fingertips. Not when they know they have the power to dash dreams if dreams deserved to be dashed.

5. The Fringe Festival is the one time a year when the theater community comes together in a way where everyone is special. Everyone gets to put on a play. Everyone gets to be a critic. Everyone can see a show, and everyone can get drunk and bitch about it afterwards. Everyone gets caught up in the hype. Everyone wants to impress and be impressed. Everyone wants to limit the amount they allow themselves to be impressed because everyone has been given the opportunity to show off their superior theater chops, whether it be on stage or in the audience. And everyone who is anyone knows that superior theater chops are reflected by being difficult to impress.

I love/hate the Minnesota Fringe Festival. It stirs emotions within my soul and as we have covered before, Blog, I know not how to deal with feelings. They make me uncomfortable and confused. Tragically, they also make me feel alive, and this is why I'm drawn to the ridiculousness year after year.

With that, my entry pertaining to the Fringe Festival is complete for 2012. Previous entries; good, bad, and ugly can be found here, here, and here. My first taste of it can be found here. Don't judge, Blog. I didn't know what I was talking about.

Time to go hate myself for loving this so much.

The Back Stairwell of Doom and Adventure

You know what I don't do enough, Blog? Tell you stories of the shit that happens to me. So here is one for you before I forget.

A couple weeks ago I got back from my trip to the Azores and Boston and, like always, had a bunch of dirty clothes. Laundry is a tricky thing to do when traveling after all. I came back to Minneapolis with a renewed sense of purpose that lasted about five hours. But during those five hours I made a point to revamp my day to day living with a run around the lake, a trip to the grocery store that ended with vegetables, and the purchase of two, count 'em, two pairs of sunglasses since I'm totally one of those people who goes through about 15 pairs a summer due to my carelessness towards protective eye-wear. It's bad.

Because of my new found motivation and productivity, I was in and out of my apartment building by use of the back stairwell that leads right out into the alleyway; half a block from Hennepin Avenue where everything that is good and holy in Minneapolis lies. This is also the stairwell I use to access the laundry room that is in the basement of my building. After the exercise and the shopping and the general life clean-up that I had so dutifully taken joy in doing over the course of the afternoon and evening, I piled my clothes into a basket and headed down to the laundry room to do even more awesomeness that is known as keeping my shit together.

Things were going great as I made my way down the first flight of stairs. I had a sense of productivity. I was happy to be home. I had just eaten some vegetables. Life was great! I hit the landing and turned to make my way down towards the firsts floor, eager to keep this momentum going. That's when I saw something fall out of the corner of my eye. It was obvious enough to make me stop for a moment and assess the situation. It could have just been part of the building. It's an old building after all. Things fall in old buildings right? But there was something in my gut that was telling me it wasn't inanimate; that it was alive. I didn't have to wait long for the proof because just as I was about to take another productive step forward, it silently flew out at me. A bat! It was a bat Blog! It was a bat that for some reason fell from its little vampire hangy place next to the door on the first floor and freaked its shit out at me.

I'm not going to lie. I screamed. I screamed like I was being murdered because, oh my God, there was a bat flying around at me and I was on stairs and holding a heavy basket of clothes. I was completely defenseless! It clipped my hair flying up the stairs (CLIPPED MY HAIR) only to turn around and swoop back down at me on its way towards the basement. I don't know if you realize how cramped stairwells are Blog, but they are. And when you combine a bat, a basket of laundry, and me in the confines of one, things get crazy fast. All I could think of between my screams was the Jungle's artistic director Bain and how he met a vampire once (the story involved an encounter with a bat, naturally). He had a stick to defend himself, I had... clothes? It was fight or flight, but I had no way to fight, so I dropped my clothes on the landing and ran up to my floor, slamming the door behind me.

Silence. I stood at the door immediately regretting my uninhibited response to my potentially rabid neighbor. I had to go back in there. My laundry and a whopping three dollars in quarters was sitting on the landing. I cracked the door to eye the distance between me and my belongings and listened with my now heightened senses. I waited to hear both the bat and neighbors emerging from their apartments to wonder what the F all that screaming was about. Nothing. Nothing, but the soft echo of its wings hitting its body and the walls that surrounded it.

I finally worked up the courage to swing the door open and run down the stairs to grab my laundry. Who knew something so simple as scrambling down a few steps to retrieve a basket of clothes would be such a horrifying experience. Though when I arrived at the second floor unscathed, I managed to enjoy the adrenaline high that had just shot through my body. I had done it. I had just been attacked by a flying rodent had made it out with my dirty wardrobe and life intact. I was spent. It had been a day full of traveling halfway across the country, exercise, and healthy eating; not to mention the winged and potentially rabid wild animal that made its presence known, mainly in my hair. Sure it would make sense to call my landlord after such a thing, but I took a shower instead. Then I called my mom and left her a message because it was Mother's Day. Then I went to bed because, if you re-read this paragraph, you'll see it was a busy day.

There are a few things that unnerve me about this whole scenario. Obviously attack by bat is at the top of the list. But there is also the whole me-screaming-as-if-I-was-being-murdered thing. I wasn't allowing the air to escape my vocal chords in a pleasant feminine breath. I was top-of-my-lungs screaming. And it wasn't just one scream. It was a series of horrified and pitchy sounds that not only were loud, but also echoed throughout the entire stairway. And when I was waiting for the courage to take me back into the stairwell to retrieve my clothes I was also waiting for someone to come out of their apartment and say "what the hell is going on?". No one did.

Fine. No one wanted to investigate the screams coming from the stairwell. But I surely couldn't have been the only person who had been attacked by bat. I was going in and out of this stairwell all day long. Others must have been doing the same thing long before I had returned from my trip. Maybe my landlord already knew?

The next day at work, after it had finally sunk in that post-vacation productivity is extremely short-lived, I emailed my landlord with a subject line of "Bat" letting him know about the incident that had occurred not even 24 hours before. He responded with a phone call right away saying he'd have animal control over there within the hour to take care of it. I can't help but imagine that I was the only one who reported bat. Bat had gone undetected and potentially ignored for who knows how long and it took me being viciously attacked and almost losing my life to rabies to bring the whole thing to light. No pun intended, bat (bats hate puns).

F you puns!

Anyway, I will chalk this whole thing up to more experience with rodents. This was a short-lived one that I think I would take over the whole mice in my car debacle that happened a couple summers ago. Sure I almost had a heart attack, but it was only one and I wasn't barreling down the highway at 60 mph when it happened.

RIP bat. I know you are dead now because that's how animal control rolls. Unless you've turned into a vampire who I will inevitably fall in love with. I'd be down as long as I get a good entry for Blog going. Bring it on.

Welcome to the Jungle... Again

I wanted to make a point to post today, Blog, for the sheer sake of having something that is time stamped with today's date. There's really not much to say outside of the fact that I really need to crack down on my line memorizing if I'm going to be kicking ass and taking names tomorrow night at Huge Theater. I'm in a pretty good spot, don't get me wrong, but I want to lock it in. Polish it up. Make the most of it. "It" being the half a script I am currently memorizing only for the other half of it to be improvised by someone I haven't met yet.

Anyway, there's that, and then there's the time traveling I did last night when I stepped into the Jungle and back into 2006. Five years ago, I started working there. Two years ago I stopped. Last night, I came back. While some things have changed, it for the most part is the same old Jungle that welcomed me to my life in Minneapolis. The lights were dim, the coffee was brewed, the patrons were old, and everything had tassles attached one way or another. There was a point where I found myself literally hugging the concession stand, because that's how I communicate my elation to inanimate locations. I cleaned the cappuccino machine, I counted the money. I poured wine, I described cookies. I rang the intermission bell, I peeked into the theater to see the end of the show right before the lights went down for the evening...

There are so many memories I have there.

Also, I am obsessed. It doesn't always happen where I like a song enough to listen to it on repeat. This is one of those songs:

I fear if I don't get this under control soon, I'm going to end up hating it.

Printing the Last 4 Years

Blog, no offense, but I'm freaking out about my livejournal. I've had my livejournal since I was a mere 22 years old, fresh out of college. That thing has the last 4 years of my life documented on an almost weekly basis save the three months I took a blogger sabbatical to form you blog. Now I kind of maintain you, but I still go to my Livejournal to really get out the thoughts that be swimmin' in my brain yo! Though I don't update as often as I used to, I still actively write in the thing, so when I encounter things like the website not loading and me unable to even view my very own journal, it makes me nervous. It makes me want to put the last 4 years into a word document and find a Kinko's and print it out so at least I have a hard copy saved somewhere.

I was planning on writing an entry on how I'm frustrated summer after summer when my calendar books itself right up before my eyes, but now I can't even concentrate on that. Even though it now appears Livejournal has loaded... finally.

I will blame Russia since it seems that some Russian dude purchased Livejournal in 2009 according to Wikipedia. Does this mean this Russian man owns my thoughts and words I have spent so much time writing down? I hope not. I need to print out my Livejournal. Stat. End of story.

Oh and One More Thing

I've given up on trying to import my Livejournal to you Blog... for now. I'll just write in you both separately and hope for the best. Surely it can't be as bad as the shape my car is in right now. Brakes and all...

I just wrote an entry in my old blog (aka Livejournal)

You can click on the link I have in the statement I've made on the right hand side of this page to read it. Also, if you read the statement on the right hand side of the page, it will explain to you why I wrote in my Livejournal and not my new blog. Do I make sense? Probably not. But that's how I roll when I write.

Here's a picture of my dog. It's not really my dog. It's my boyfriend's dog. And it's not an it. It's actually a him/he. But animals in general don't need gender specification as much as people do. Call him what you like, but his real name is Santiago Falk.