us premiere

Had a long walk Sunday evening, by the yellow flowers that line the highway. DM, my friend from high school theatre in Missouri, came to the matinee. We were in Crimes of the Heart together. It was the last show I'd see of the run. Feels bizarre. There will be so many more performances I'm going to miss. I'd do a lot to be (at least) at closing, to see where the gals end up--but not so much as booking another plane ticket and hotel. Felt right to have DM there though. Because the play is set in St. Louis, and written by me, there are so many little Easter eggs that he and only he would get. What fun. When the bows ended I turned to him to see tears running down his face.

During the talkback a librarian cried. The theatre's marketing manager cried. A woman told a story about her friend dying young and laughed. A doctor wrung his hands, confessed he is not prepared for a mass shooting at his hospital--though he knows one could, and probably will, happen.

It was such an amazing week. Got in late Monday, bought beverages from the hotel lobby, danced around to Taylor Swift at 1 am. Tuesday I wrote at the French bakery, answered some production emails for New York, went to the thrift store on a whim to find three excellent options for opening. A pink long thing, a pink fluffy thing, a pink shorts thing, and a very cool jean jacket for $25--which I proceeded to wear every single day like I'm the James Dean of theatre.

Showed up to rehearsal at 5, got to see all the amazing femmes leading the charge. Just the coolest crew you can imagine--sound designer, costumer, lights, assistant stage manager, set designer, stage managers, props. Literally they were all so hip and nice and interesting. The understudies were tiny and goofy and the cast was overwhelmed with line notes. We ate a bunch of Pop-Tarts and then I broke to have a solo dinner at the Ethiopian spot. Potatoes and green beans and lentils without my phone.

The run made me gasp. I took six notes. I told everyone how wonderful they were. In the morning I was on the internet a long time. Something about the hotel bed I guess. I walked down the busy street for groceries. Tried to get just enough for five days. Now, on the other side of packing, I overbought--but only by a few eggs, two veggie sausages, M & Ms, a protein shake give or take.

Blasted through emails and wrote sipping a marshmallow latte at the weird cafe. Pip called at 2 to talk about my deals and the new project. He encouraged me/us to send it to some companies I'm wary of (in a helpful way) and sternly told me I was going to have to meet with people I don't want to.

Invited dress was cute. Some little muffins came and snapped a lot. I blasted Sabrina Carpenter and read my Jung book as I've been doing. Thursday blursday. I know I sat with our dramaturg in the corner noting that sticky part of scene four, laughing about taking things literally, was up to my neck in producing emails. There was a small, older crowd. A group of four 70somethings watched intensely, never laughing the entire time, but afterward one just said WOW and they all talked in the lobby about how much they related for quite a while. I stayed late to see all the details come together. The sound of the cup and the flicker of the purple light and the papaya rug getting stuck to the floor. I wore a peach dress with gold buttons.

Friday I was determined to do some personal writing, had a repeat of the marshmallow latte. Now I am emotionally attached to marshmallow lattes and telling the barista I get the artist discount. The executive director happened by and told me about her volleyball match and her late sister Andrea. Had an all-call on my comic. Every artist, every lawyer, my manager. It was a lot of nothing, which is annoying. And the producers dropped that I'd be getting paid six months later than they last told me, twelve months later than they first told me. I was very angry. I wrote a blunt email. One of them responded on Instagram DM and told me I hurt his feelings, as a friend. I told him he's hurting my livelihood, and I don't want our friendship weaponized against my labor rights. (Yesterday I got an email from my lawyer's office scheduling a call. I pinged Pip, what's this. He said I put the fear of god into the guys. "GOOD" he added.)

Skull ribbed top and shorts to meet the high school teacher for dinner. She showed up pretty professional, and I kept trying to get her to live a little. She told me about her life as an actor, thinks her students don't want to be sick in front of her.  I get my period and she says she's past that. Said she went out with a bang, never remembering to bring pads around as long as she lived.

At the show I see my summer camp co-counselor from 2008! She took the train down from NYC at 4 am. Iconically, we were very close that year. I had no idea about the culture of Maine and she had no idea about being an adult. She taught me where the socials were and I taught her how to do laundry. She says she wants a guy but none are good enough now that she's a boss at a big architecture firm. She sighs, "still I rise!" I remember every morning we would shower one girl with praise, in the counselor huddle, by the still lake, wood chips under us. Everyone gave such NICE compliments and then when it was my turn for my girl I said, "I would take a bullet for you." And no one laughed, because I spoke so clearly. I probably meant it.

My high school bestie AM was there! She flew from Chicago even. I feel so honored and also worried. I sit in the corner and spend a lot of the show watching the teens in the front row. One grabs his dad and one blinks and one keeps leaning in, just a little then a little more then a little more.

After I meet this guy from Michigan who worked on the hill for an anti-gun activist. We talk about his life doing drills, the overwhelming feeling of being aware politically. He says he flips off the NRA building when he drives by it. His boyfriend nods, their friend is in a bright shirt. He doesn't say much then follows me on Instagram.

The way AM talks is pretty meandering. I try to get on her level. I ask, wait, so when did you get divorced? And then we kind of snake into her life in the sorority and the time we went to a museum as teens and a bit about her child and a bit about how she is on a group chat with a lot of older lesbians in the neighborhood and she gets me a collection of stickers plus cheddar bunnies, which I eat right then. We have a coffee and compare parents--who I thought they were from my adolescent eyes and who they are now, vice versa. I do an impression of her first husband the last time we hung out.

Approve a bunch of marketing materials for the opening. It's tedious but I asked for it. Lay down twenty minutes before K Ho calls, she is here. She arrives hyped up on a double espresso, she says she drinks one every afternoon. Her head is mostly shaved and she's been playing a new sport. "In my element," she clarifies. We enter into recapping the past through the funny route of examining a different annoying girl we both knew.

I'm so happy to hear she's happy in all the things--parenthood, childhood, wifehood, sport hood, and even--a mid-life crisis (her words). She says the old me is coming back. I took offense, like you don't really know, but she's not really wrong. Sat outside by the pool going over college, and she mostly apologized. I got glammed for the show, and we went to the tiki bar. She said something I'd never thought about before (ignorant) and we laughed a lot and hated on the haters and when we were leaving a girl asked us a question then apologized for interrupting out first date. She said, "What's the opposite of that?"

The show was EXCELLENT. That official buzz was zooming through the space. The crowd leapt up at the end. Old biddies and young goons cackling. There was a cake with the poster on it and the mayor wanted to sit on the set bed with me and talk about his hopes and dreams for his beloved city. People like to tell me how great they are. I wonder what it is about me, besides the fact that I really don't mind. I mean, I rarely mind, when people tell me how great they are. What's wrong with being great?

Leads are real best friends, understudies drunk. One just broke up with her boyfriend. The director's husband suggests the tiki bar and everyone chants about how fun he is. K Ho takes a million photos of me, understanding the assignment. She takes a hit from her vape on our way out, I ask if she would have believed in twenty years she'd be getting high in my hotel room after coming to my play's premiere.

I buy Thai shots for everyone, distribute them saying it's ironic, for this group specifically, to do shots. They all laugh evil little laughs. The stage manager is dear to me. I am reading her graduate thesis about girlhood in theatre now. She is quiet and wears a choker that reads "BAD BITCH." K Ho and I talk until 3 am, I stop talking when "The Archer" comes on. I get annoyed by how much she talks about cars.

Can't sleep in Sunday, get up, crack a canned coffee, and go insane on producing work. Finish in the nick of time for dramaturg coffee. Hot rosemary scone. We express mutual adoration for each other. We work so well together. I tell them, I'd die to do it again and also we have little control over that. They don't bat it away, a true theatremaker who knows. "Or maybe in 15 years," they say. "Maybe in 15 years," I agree.

Figured I'd be emotional after but knew I'd have dinner or something with DM, to soften the blow. But he revealed he only had half an hour. He drank a cold brew and we went nuclear on catch-ups. Who knew what about old pals and the time I visited him at college and how he's a boring musician but a cool lawyer. And then it was all over. It was 4:30 and what was I supposed to do. Hence the long walk. No matter how special an artistic community is, when the art is gone, there you suddenly are alone.

I knew a boy just like you / he's a snake just like you / such a fake just like you / but I can see the truth

is this how everyone else is doing it?

My new manager prepped me, way back in May, September should be when we should "go out" with our first project. In some ways I was a very lucky sign for him. Usually when writers are looking for new reps it's because they've got goose egg and they need someone to make an omelet of it. I was different. My arms were full and I was getting worried I was going to drop something.

At first he was even a little confused. Like, what's the catch here? You don't expect me to get you a job, you seem to wince at meetings (which most folks are begging for now). I said the catch is I have a lot of enemies at the moment and I can't read social situations to save my life.

The more we worked together the more he came to respect me and see how impressive my slate was. I'd told him I'm not good at dabbing myself up and this was all proof. I told Puhg recently how awful it feels to be back in LA after the Fringe on a deep subconscious level. Because at Fringe every artist is valued. Like, truly valued. No one is there for the money, can be there for the money. You can't look cool carrying your props to and from the broom closet every day, while also by the way, in full hair and makeup. We are a band of clowns and messy makers. Meanwhile the point of Hollywood is to devalue artists.

It's really that evil and simple. Every person you talk to has a job, and that job is to devalue you. Even your mentors, even your friends, even your team. I write a script I love and give it to an exec. The exec loves it but it's their JOB to convince me it's worth as little money as possible. I agree. They send it to a director, play the same game with them, and then the director's JOB is to convince me they are more valuable than the script, that it will be garbage without them. Then we do the same game with actors and crew. I talk to my reps who have my back but also don't, because if they were to really fight for my worth, they'd have to stand up to corporate lawyers, and they have their JOBS because they're good at convincing artists they are worth less than they are. Additionally, one's reps can't make an artist think they are TOO valuable, because then they'll want to switch agents, to a bigger, better buzzier company. So there's a push and pull of your manager hyping you up then cutting you down. It's not personal. It's incredibly personal.

Anyway, I keep this new guy at a distance. I didn't want to work with a man, but in some ways it's easier. We can be friendly but not friends. I tell him, to his face, I'm watching him carefully and when he made the one mistake he's made since we've been together I told him, very clearly, "I'm glad this happened because now it will never happen again, is that clear?" It is clear. This isn't mean. This is business. It's not call "Show Friends," I say a lot now.

So anyway, what's cute about Pip is he is so excited to become a Team. (Yeah, just decided I'm going to call my manager Pip from now on here.) He was supportive and interested before, but when he came to my play in May, that's when things turned. He cried, his girlfriend cried, he saw me do my thing at the talkback. He was happy to assist before, but after that he wanted to Work Together. To be able not just to sidebar with my lawyer about the stuff I already had going, but to call companies and say, "Hey Alice and I are developing this TOGETHER." And I'm in for it. This is a very lonely career.

Anyway, the thing I told him I had to write next was a short story, which was basically a movie pitch. But instead of writing a whole script just so it could ping around town for a year then only maybe get bought, I decided I'd write the thing as prose--so it was DONE--so I could at least hold it in my hands (and maybe to a live reading).

I am a very intentional writer (NO DUH the sky screams). Knowing I had this Sept 8th deadline meant I had to have a first draft done by early July, allow a few weeks for Trusted Readers to respond, spend two more weeks of August revising, send to another few readers, revise again, then send to my copy editor no later than Sept 1st. This is how I work. Slow and steady. But that's just not what could happen this summer.

Fringe took up about 10 x if not 50 x the effort I thought it would. As a producer there was just...always something. Details or big choices or wrangling schedules or wrangling actors or rewrites or drama or the hot water turning off in the flat. July sailed by with me barely hanging on...and I got about five pages written of the 20-page thing. No worries, no worries, I told myself (very worried). I'll just write the other fifteen by August 10th, do one round of notes and revisions...that's fine.

Well it wasn't fine. It wasn't fine at all. Halfway through August I'd had about two hours to write total. I liked the pages I'd added, but there were not enough of them is the problem. The end of Fringe and my inbox exploded. I couldn't kid myself. Alright, I can write the entire thing on the plane to Iceland, maybe get one reader to look, revise....yes this won't be ideal but it will work.

Reader, I didn't write anything on the dang plane to Iceland. I was exhausted turns out. I was crying into my diary turns out. And the eight-hour flight back to America wasn't much better. I made notes in my journal, sure. But I mostly coughed and sneezed and closed my eyes listening to rap albums and Olivia Rodrigo. That's okay, we land on Sunday and I have to send the manuscript Tuesday. I have a WHOLE DAY to get it all together.

Reader! I slept and hacked on that Monday! I walked around the neighborhood slowly and sadly. I ate Thai food and listened to YouTube lectures about Carl Jung! I am not a procrastinator. This feeling was so foreign I may as well have been abducted by aliens. YES, this story is a departure from everything I've ever written and I worried it was going to be terrible and it's been much too much pressure from Pip, but wow. What a sensation.

I wrote Pip Sept 8. I said the story was nearly ready. (A stretch for being on page 6 of 20.) I said I wanted to get my copy editor on it and needed to give her a week. How about I deliver Sept 14? He said that was great! I forget, writers stereotypically turn in drafts months late.

I got the copy editor to agree to the job, to corner myself into a deadline with money attached. I might disappoint myself, but I never waste money. She said, yes, Thursday to Sunday would be just fine. Flat rate.

I wrote a few pages Tuesday. I wrote a few pages Wednesday, hoping to finish and send to editor in the morning. NOPE, I emailed her begging for one more day. Also said, haha lol it's looking like 30, not 20, pages. She agreed like an angel. Thursday I went to one of my haunts for the entire day. 9 - 3 when they closed. AND I DIDN'T FINISH THE STORY! I found myself opening Instagram a lot, looking at photos from vacation, nibbling my tart like a rat.

Friday I attacked the thing, it was truly now or never. I wrote in the morning. I lost faith. I decided to pause and read the piece top to bottom. I realized...I liked it!

I struggle to like my own work. Hence I need all the feedback and readers. I need to know. I don't know myself. But this? I liked this? Maybe no one else would. That's okay. Pip will have to get a grip if this isn't our project. I'll take time off and come back with another idea. I'll, I'll...I'll I don't know what I'll do.

I wrote in the afternoon. I booked massages for me and Puhg, at 8. I had to be done. At 7 pm, I attached the file to an email for the editor. I said I was humiliated to send it, but here it is. I Venmo'd her $300. I closed my computer. Puhg and I walked to the shop. After, I took a hot shower, ate chips for dinner, and fell asleep with the lights on.

Saturday copy editor (a true gem) had finished the gig. She wrote, "I LOVED this," and she could lie. It's not her job to give me opinions. I weeded through her changes that night, before the improv show in the garden with all the cuties and the night out with the neighborhood pals.

Sunday I pencil-proofed. I had to fly out to the east coast yesterday, but prioritized sitting at the cafe for half an hour underlining certain words. I took my notes with me, from the gate made final tweaks, saved it as a PDF (scary), sent it to Pip.

I wrote, "It gives me absolutely no joy to send this, but nevertheless it is attached." I got on the plane. He emailed, before takeoff, "Reading this right NOW!" When I landed I turned on my phone and got his texts. "Alice!!! That short is incredible...." I tell him he has to say that. He says lol he does not. "Alice. It's phenomenal"

He's making a list of who to send it to. Maybe he's right. It's hard to believe, because I just trusted my own voice, my own preferences. It feels like a slapped it together, but I guess my brain shaped it on her own for a year, huh? Is this how everyone else is doing it?

goodbye scotland

I've started about a dozen blog posts over the past month. All starting with me saying I was desperate to capture all the magic of my August World Premiere, but it was slipping away like a bottle of wine. Finally, I'd at least log that day. And, of course, I'd barely get through a paragraph before an actor needed something in the flat or a producer emailed or I had to run to a show.

I am going to process everything and get at least something down soon, but for today, I just want to say--Fringe 2026 was one of the most incredible experiences of my entire life. Puhg and I fly to Iceland today, and I felt it would be bad luck not to at least say thank you, in writing, to the theatre gods who have smiled on me so generously this past month.

I've been crying on and off for days because I am so happy and nothing lasts forever. That is the medium I have chosen, the one that gets built up and ripped apart in a matter of weeks. It's good to remember that's everything, that's life. Death is strike.

Wasn't going to go to the final rager on Sunday night, figured I'd be exhausted from the last show. And I was. But WN encouraged me Thursday, when I was already misty eyed in the artists' bar--he said just poke your head in.

I wore a white skirt and tank top and felt like the belle of the ball. Or like I was in the last act of a movie. As I walked in that big deal NYC producer was gabbing with a stand-up and screamed, holy shit meet Alice she wrote a phenomenal play! The stand-up had just been featured in the most buzzy show of the festival. I'd seen him the night before. Mutual starstruck, something so sacred. Pushing through the crowds with my berry cider, randos would reach out and say they saw me in our improvised musical. (I cannot believe I was part of two of the best shows at Fringe?! How!? Who am I!?)

Puhg even made it in, bless him. He lasted until 1:30 when the bar line nearly destroyed his tender sensibilities. But it was so nice to have his big shoulders behind me on the floor, as the little girlies swung by and I yapped at them about labor rights in art even though Shania Twain was blaring. (I'm fun.)

Too much to write, and I still don't have time, but at 4 am I was crying hysterically, announcing I'd never see any of my ensemble again--specifically the UK muffin. I got angry even, wishing maybe I shouldn't have done this because it just hurts so bad at the end.

Luckily AR and AD were dance goblins and took me to the roof for their cigarettes and gossip and I laughed and laughed and the bouncers pushed us out at 5. I wanted to go home, but RD was thinking about climbing the mountain, as is Fringe tradition. I said no, no don't. You're not dressed for it and the climb is muddy and everyone is drunk. I could have left her to make her own choices, but I had promised her mother just that morning, I'd always look after her. Cut to us at the top of the rock, horrified, dirty, cold, knowing that was very stupid, but the sun came up and all the artists from all over the world cheered. As we walked down I met a magician and his girlfriend. They told me they recommended everyone my play. They meant it. We had a meaningful conversation about gun violence the whole trot.

I finally went to bed at 7:30 after a hot shower, woke at 10 and ate a crumpet with eggs. The next days there was packing and logistics and I was/am a mess. Puhg and I took the train to a seaside town. The sun opened right as we walked the beach and looked into tide pools. Counted three snails. Had a fish and chips, best of my life no doubt.

Late dinner at the nice spot around the corner. First little pink coladas in the basement, then our table was ready around 8. And then, WN walked right by. Puhg called to him. The whole cast was at a table behind us. I covered my face in my hands because ohmygod I'd done so so many goodbyes.

I couldn't bear to go over there, so they all came to me. I turned bright red and gave out more hugs. Said the I Love Yous. We had the greatest spicy curry and cheese naan. Our waiter approached our table with a new energy, mentioned the whole restaurant being fans, apparently. I didn't realize you were famous, his eyes glinted. Twenty later, my beloveds walked out in a line, passing us. They all waved and made hearts with their hands and blew kisses, a parade just for me.

They laughed at me too. We all know I'm dramatic. But oh well, I am a playwright.

wondering

I'm in a terrible mood

if I go too long

without writing.

I wonder about you.

Like when you'd be at the dark wood desk

back to me,

in a storm cloud.

I'd wonder if you were angry

because you were writing

or if you were angry because you hadn't

gotten to write

sooner.

I wonder if you feel connected to something bigger

like I do. I wonder if you feel you were put on earth for it

like I do.  I wonder if you know what will put you in a good mood

like I do. And I wonder if you remember when you knew,

like I might. I was at the gray box,

just like you.

I wonder about you--

like what you're working on now and why and inspired by what,

like what pieces are your all timers and which are your duds,

like what part of the process always annoys

like what part of the process always delights

and what would you approach differently

if you could rewrite anything,

or all of it. There's still time to revise.

some happy holidays

I remember as I was falling asleep, thinking, specifically, it was such a nice Valentines. Puhg got me a bouquet and we went to our cafe nice and early so we could don bright road vests for the annual neighborhood clean-up. We ungunked gutters and sorted trash and ended around noon at the burrito hut. I wrote a while then napped on the balcony, in a little spot of sun, before an evening showing of Wuthering Heights. We picked up a pizza for dinner.

Summer solstice was my favorite things! A true celebration of the day! I was up early writing and spent some hours lizarding at the pool and then the trio of gal pals gathered our partners for the first time. The six of us had such a bright pineapple night at the tiki patio. Good matches, good matches. Only downside was I was having so much fun I didn't notice the sunset. I looked up and suddenly, it was night. But even that is a little solstice magic.

Didn't do a good job prepping for 4th of July. Puhg masterminded tickets for Jaws at 10 am, the old timey theatre down the street. I suggested leave at 10:15, Puhg said 10:20 would be fine. I was at my desk a little too long, showered a little late. The two of us realized, wordlessly, we didn't do the math right. Puhg had to hike out on his own, but even if got there in 20 minutes flat (closer to a 25 minute walk, especially in the heat), that means too late for a really good spot and concessions, good luck!

I got very hot and laid down. Suddenly, I leapt from bed and knew--I could fix it. I called a Lyft, which would arrive in 5 minutes. I shoved my wallet and keys and comb and peanut m & ms in my purse, ran downstairs. Would be on fire if I had to hustle, but I barreled into the back of an ice cold Tesla and the guy floored it. I saw Puhg on the sidewalk, miserably hoofing. No time to stop. I called him, "I'm here, send me my ticket." I arrived at 10:35 and reserved four perfect seats in the third row.

Once Puhg made it in I was like a pig in mud, showing off my bounty. I got us each mini popcorns and sodas, happened to be in the lobby right when E & T got there. During the movie, there was a little rustle when the holiday was mentioned. A perfect film in that red, white, and blue theatre. The marquis. When the guy said, "You're gonna need a bigger boat," Puhg did the faintest, most humble golf clap. So I gave a loud, "WOO!" The crowd erupted in applause. Sometimes people are looking for a reason to applaud.

my first world premiere

Dizz clarified last night on our FaceTime, "Oh so a World Premiere isn't just a thing you say. It's an official title." Yes, I informed, a play must be produced 21 times, invite press, and be presented "professionally"--with memorized actors and sets and costumes etc--to be an official WP. This summer my play will finally World Premiere. I've been working toward this for 20 years. I feel almost relieved but not quite yet. I'll celebrate in 32 days.

I've been saying this thing a lot lately, when people ask me about my career: "It's a miracle to even get one." And I believe that. It's an honor to ever create a single work of art that holds significance to others. I know I've done that with this piece.

But if World Premiere weren't an official title, then what would my world premiere have been? I think my world premiere was in my childhood bedroom. My family called it the "triangle room" because it was inside the eve of the house. Steep angled walls with blimp wallpaper. A tiny red desk. Glow in the dark stars and a moon. I think I was about six or seven years old. The play didn't have an official title. Maybe, in hindsight, I might call it The Magic Muffin.

I set up my favorite toy set on the floor--a collection of cups and cutlery and muffins that all changed color with water. Like, if you poured cold water into the juice glass, it turned orange. If you dipped the knife into water, a smear of raspberry jam appeared on it. Then you could wipe the smear on a muffin half and voila, a smear of jam appeared there too.

The show had, I believe, four or five characters and was created for an audience of one. The main character was large bunny with a Southern accent. She had a little sidekick, a bear I think. There may have been one more stuffy, but I don't recall who. I played the fourth character, a waitress. Twist, the fifth character was the single audience member.

I wrote the script, then recorded the three animals' lines into a tape recorder. I left long pauses for the waitress (me) to deliver her lines in real time. If the play went according to plan, the fifth character would never actually speak. I cast my father to originate the role. He accepted and sat dutifully on the floor to attend.

There wasn't much plot. Basically, the big rabbit was a chatterbox who overtook the whole conversation, while the bear yes'd all her opinions. The other stuffy chimed in occasionally with comic observations. I would zip in, ask everyone for their orders, and interact with each critter. However, whenever I asked my dad a question, the large rabbit would interrupt and order for him or speak on his behalf.

I remember I was overjoyed when the whole ordeal went according to plan. I'd rehearsed several times of course, but you never know what will happen once you premiere. My dad beamed through the whole thing. I'd leave the room and peek in at him through a crack in the door. I remember thinking it was funny he would look at the stuffed animal who was supposed to be talking even though all the sound was actually coming from the black tape machine.

I think the play was a hit, but it opened and closed that very day. I remember thinking next time I might try to take a risk and add space for the audience member to improvise. But we never remounted. And that's show business.

13th of June, new wallpaper

Wrote at the cafe, even got a bagel for good measure. Did an interview and some light brainstorming.

I hopped home to change into purple shorts and a nectarine tank top. BM picked me up in her Subaru just before noon. We had a devil of a time but found a spot 15 minutes from the grass. Dreamy if it weren't for BM's cooler not having wheels. We tip-toed in the heat, stopping every couple minutes under witch tree shade, swapping who had the cooler and who had the chairs.

Took us a while to find the group because of everyone on the mondo chat, the only people there I'd never met. BM texted, "I'm in a joveralls and Alice is in lilac shorts if that helps PROBABLY DOESN'T" because it didn't. Luckily we got the important clue, blankets by the fruit cart. We got to know the few gals in there, my pink hand fan coming in clutch, eventually BB arrived and we laughed about how we used to do a weekly comedy show for years but barely know each other. Trotted around to bump into my barista and that director and an old costumer the prop-master from my last workshop that comedian who was in my play, by the port-a-potties.

Someone did poetry in the big white tent and a swarm of lesbians frolicked around the speed-dating meadow. Tira texted she couldn't find us, but my respond text couldn't go through. EP straight up messaged the group she had to wave as she drove by, giving up fully on parking. CS & JC arrived joyfully, right as we'd just about had our fill. Ate some pretzels to salt my blood before leaving. BM says she had fun when she drops me off, I don't know if she did. She'd brought juggling clubs but never took them out of her bag.

Showered the vat of sweat off, opted for my denim romper with a peach windbreaker and braid. Wrote and stickered a little card. Hopped in an Uber downtown for MS's going away party.

I really did cry a few times at MS's party. He's the godfather of our writers' group, a group that has meant so so much to me over the past seven years. We talked about it, me and DH, in the corner of the karaoke room. How it was such weird happenstance I joined the group. I sat near him at the guild, and he invited me to the next meeting. And then I never stopped going.

At dinner I sat at the end of the table, got a fancy lemonade and mini pizza. (It was $40 I hate capitalism.) Chatted with JC and the guy I'd actually somehow never met, DT. His husband too, MS's manager. We laugh it up, though I feel a little tentative around them. The next morning they've both followed me on Instagram, one after the other, like they mutually decided over coffee.

Karaoke was really fun and emotional. People changed lyrics to be about our king our friendships all and more. I did "Graduation" by Vitamin C obviously. The Gen X folks had never heard it can you believe! ML asked if Nine Inch Nails was too much. I looked deep into his eyes and said, "You have to be yourself." And he nodded, staunchly, like he'd never heard that before. He crushed Nine Inch Nails. Later, we did "Shallow."

SR almost didn't sing then did a gentle rendition of "House at Pooh Corner" which truly touched all our hearts. DH and I lined up the Golden Girls theme and Greenday to end it all. But someone kept adding "Somewhere That's Green" to the list. Two minutes before we were kicked out of the room, MS shuffled up and sang it. He's off to find a haven in the Pacific Northwest with his lover. It was so simple and beautiful. I will cherish the clip in my mind.

It occurred to me as we were pouring out of the dark, into the abandoned mall, how I'd associated that park and karaoke room with the same old friend. I guess new memories show up on top of old places. Like fresh wallpaper. MS says hopefully he'll get a job the moment he vanishes. We all nod wanting that to be true but knowing it's very unlikely. Not because MS isn't an amazing writer, but because there aren't jobs for anyone, even amazing writers.

G yelled out, "Did we ALL drive here?!" It offends his sensibilities how younger people bring so many cars places. I give him the good news, I'd be happy to mooch a ride. We have a gay old gab on the drive to our shires. I ask about his ideal roles, his life as an actor. I tell him he can drop me off at gas station, so he doesn't have to flip a U. He says he wasn't raised that way. I see him just a few days later, at the picnic benches by The Greek, when we're both there before Stars & Broken Social Scene. They say your whole body regenerates all its cells every seven years.

weds June 3 2026 -- five project day

At 5 am I was tossing and turning. I had to send the final casting email. We’ve been looking for the right actor for nearly two months. I wrote the decision email the night before, but needed to sleep on it. Strange as it seems, a young man’s voice floated into my head. In my half-dream state, the voice assured me, essentially, this is the right choice, if it isn’t, I will take care of it… I’ve only had a voice in my head like that a handful of times in life. Once while crossing the street as a child, once in my friend’s spare bedroom at 30, once on a beach in Moorea, and now I suppose right before I pressed SEND on an important email. Four different voices, I should note. I think I know whose voice this was, but, of course, I’ll never know for sure.

I managed to rest 6 to 7 before getting up to smash a dance workout then hop on my 8 am meeting with the high school theatre festival coordinator. We chatted about how I might attend a career fair or give some remarks to the students, tell them I did this exact same program 20 years ago and it drastically changed the trajectory of my life. Had to sidebar with the guy, what was the show that got him hooked? (He was in MacBeth as a freshman of course.)

By 9 I was really sad about the LA primary election results. It’s not over, but, to quote Puhg first looking at the polls for the reality star villain, “I don’t understand the world.” Yes, chef. Zipped to the cafe for an iced tea and necessary journaling session, to clear my little head. I ran into DR writing, chatted with the barista who is also pitching a comedy series, volleyed a few signifiant texts.

Showered, laid out various outfits for my big meeting. Puhg picked it in the end, as he does have a much better understanding of fashion than I do. I’d chosen a ratty concert crop top and pink skirt. He chose some smart black wide leg jeans and a classy pink linen tank. He also recommended I wear a bra. Wanted to reach my lawyer about the regional theatre deal, couldn’t, set a call with her assistant for later in the week.

Wrote the marketing team some notes about the announcement copy, wrote the director thoughts on the new option for understudy since our first choice passed. We did three rounds of callbacks to find the correct pair, but now we’re out of time. Director just happened to see this girl the day before at a different audition, gave me her name. I watched ten minutes of her YouTube videos and decided she’d do. This business is insanely unfair.

Ate an apple, peanut butter, cinnamon yogurt bowl while brushing my hair straight and listening to a new age YouTube video about embracing the next chapter. Drove to WeHo singing reputation and thinking about my path as a writer. I'm the one living it, but sometimes driving to meetings I have to think about me in third person. What's the story, for this storyteller...

M & B’s office was much bigger and fancier than I anticipated. I had to wait on a sofa for a little bit, read more of Cruel Optimism. One gal greeted me and told me about moving here from China. Then the other gal, more a honcho, led me into the conference room. I took a strawberry peach LaCroix from the mini fridge and they told me all about the program I’m being considered for. It’s incredibly cool and competitive. 500 applicants. And I…didn’t apply. I jumped the line because my dear friend SR put me up for it. All news to me.

They tell me what they’re looking for, and I simply don’t have it. They ask, well what are you working on? I tell them about my newest creation, the one that I’ve been breaking for the past year and a half. I'm positive it's not right. Honcho says, “I love it. This is exactly what we’ve been looking for.” As they walk me out I fish for my parking ticket. They ask if I need validation. I shake their hands and say, “Absolutely! I’ll take a compliment from each of you please!” They laugh and then I go to the front desk. The 20something there has a really cute tattoo, a bubble heart. He says it’s favorite “right now.” I repeat, “right now.”

I have to burn rubber to make my 3 pm meeting back home. I give my ticket to the valet and he pulls me into a disagreement with two other folks working in the garage. They want to know if a man or woman should cook. In about ten minutes I know all I need to know about this trio. I suddenly blurt, where is my car? A parade of porches and bmws and Teslas have rolled through. I point to my scratched grey beloved in the corner of the lot and someone fetches it.

I make it home just in time for my meeting with one of the most famous living comic artists. He’s very nice and sometimes I don’t think he’s listening, but then I realize it’s just that he’s signing covers while we talk. I’d been angry at this team last week because they dropped a bunch of balls. This week that much is all still true, but I have accepted it. I consider, as I do basically every day, how to stand up for myself in a way that doesn’t annoy people. Nearly impossible I keep finding, via trial and error.

Once we wrap, I see AB has texted me. Our production company has officially asked for script delivery! I double check formatting and send it off, finally. My manager emails: a prod co loves my play, they asked for a coffee but he thinks I’m too busy—can I zoom? We set.

Puhg lumbers in to see my tornado of a desk. I fill him in on everything, mostly positive but it’s all laced with thick anxiety. “Condolences on your good news,” he says gravely. Not unlike the other night when I was hunched at my desk. He walked in, gave me one look and diagnosed: “Living the miserable dream.”

Tons of emails about casting. How many shows will the understudy get, should they be paid equally or less than cast, will everyone flier if needed. Therapy at 5, so I close everything down at 4:50. I talk with J about disappointment, and how some people get uncomfortable when I express it. But if I don’t express it, then I’m uncomfortable. Also, if someone suddenly seems unsafe, is that good gut or bad wiring?

I close my computer. Sigh the biggest sigh ever only to see my manager calling. He wants to hear about the meeting. He chatted with the comic producer too, will link with my lawyer tomorrow. I admit I’m annoyed with __. I chuckle, “Ah the special moment in every creative partnership with someone I would have died to work with, where I kinda hate them.” Manager chuckles himself, “I can’t wait to get to that point for you.” I say, “And likewise.”

As soon as I sit down, SR calls. He inquires impishly, and I tell him it went very well! He says he knew it would! He encourages me, then, he has to go on a hike. I write down notes of what I need to do first thing in the morning. I feel myself crashing. Puhg suggests Burger King, and I agree. It’s Whopper Wednesday, which means $4 Impossible Whoppers on the app. I order very boring Whoppers. You can have it your way, and I do. No toppings except lettuce and barbecue sauce.

Puhg offers to scoop our paper bags, but I could use a little jaunt. We drive into the palm trees at dusk. Right as well pull up, the sign blinks on. They made a mistake and give me free fries. We eat our feast while watching an episode of Widow’s Bay.

I pick up my phone for the first time in an hour to see a billion missed emails and texts—details about cast offers. I stand silently volleying for a while then change into sweats. Tidy up my corner, sit outside genuinely doing nothing at all. Thinking at the trees, 9:30 - 10:30, when Puhg and I watch a Couple’s Therapy while eating churro-flavored Fat Boys.

a birthday

Henne just called to yap about summer and wish me a belated birthday. He apologized for missing it, but I actually didn't notice. "Birthday" felt more like a vague energy this year.

At 11:59 on May 18th I was at my aunt's rental. I'd driven over after a very long work day of explosive emails and callback zooms. We'd sat down and chatted and suddenly I realized the sun was almost gone and I never had dinner. I googled a liquor store around the corner, so we walked, quite casually, to the boardwalk. I selected two bags of salt & vinegar chips and a chocolate chipwich. The pink sky was starting to fade into navy ocean.

We spent hours laughing on the twinkle-lit patio, also appreciating a bizarre concert. A handful of 20somethings were doing karaoke a couple buildings over. "Shake It Off" made it to us, tamborine included, for example. I timed things so I was eating the ice cream novelty at midnight.

I woke up at 6 and couldn't remember if I had to move my car by 7 or 8. I decided to move it right away, in case. Got a primo dawn spot and a latte and an almond croissant and journaled and read Jung facing the water. Hugged my aunt and zoomed back across the city blasting Taylor Swift as is my right.

Puhg greeted me with a huge hug and a wonderful display! A vase of orange flowers, a sweet card, a jug of nice soap, and a box of aloe cleaner my mom sent. Necessary work plunking, a dance workout, a heavenly shower. Puhg offered to take me wherever whenever for lunch so I chose my favorite falafel shop by the movie theatre. I brought my own can of cherry Coke and we sat outside in the shade. Puhg asked me some questions about the year, like what I learned and what was hard and what was fun.

In the late afternoon I answered texts and did a some volunteering for the mayoral race and sat outside writing notes for a teeny speech. Around 6 I put on my new pink two-piece set and a little blush and headed on down to what has become my annual girls' fete.

Nine of my best gals all descended on the ivied corner table. Half of them got fries to share. I myself had gotten chips and dip to share. It was just so incredibly festive. Some gals munched cakes and others slurped martinis. Lo told me this is the only party she attends where she doesn't worry about who will be there. It's adorable that some of these people have become friends over the years! I love to get quiet and eavesdrop on all their chattering, but then I have to remember to chatter too.

After an hour I clink my glass to give a speech. It's two-parts and about ten minutes. First I talk about how this year was my year of Being Nuts. I give five examples of things I really wanted to do, knew I should do, but felt afraid to do. Yet I did them all. Usually with the help or support of someone right there! Then, related, I give everyone two compliments. Like how MS cheered me up in January and told me I was right, to ask about being cheered up. Or how KM lent me a swimsuit and dried my angry tears. Or how SW keeps me sane and so does ER in a different way. How I can count on SR to bop around the neighborhood and JC to host reality TV nights. Tira I can text, "They're annoying me." And she'll say, "I hate them," without knowing who "they" even is. We all cheersed and they sang happy birthday while we were shuffling the hundreds of fries around to-go boxes.

About half the cabal stayed an extra hour. I can barely remember what we all couldn't shut up about. At 9:30 it was time to call it. Everyone says I am a great gatherer. Well, if everyone says so! My Arizona playwright friend and Chicago improv friend, who have never hung out, drove east together. I had my strawberry cheesecake on the couch with Puhg, before falling asleep on his chest.

it's like I got this music in my mind

second play weekend

There had been Friday meetings set, but they were cancelled last minute. I suddenly felt determined to go to Six Flags. So I did. Got there just after open. Rode my favorite loop first, then the big dusty coaster (front row), the pirate ship, the revolution, answered emails, did some drafting at a picnic table over a free Diet Coke, even rolled calls about the festival poster near Bugs Bunnyland. Took a spin on the carousel before heading home around 2. A lot can happen with free parking and four hours. I texted Puhg while I was there, what was with the urgency. He suggested, could be some kind of anxiety purge. “The body keeps the score,” he added. Perhaps my guts have been so metaphorically rattled lately they long to be physically rattled.

I was an email freak the rest of the afternoon. Drove over to the west side around 6:45 to catch the play. The gals did just great. I didn’t stick around long after, had to process in the night. Puhg woke up when I walked in, confused but smiling.

Saw the show twice Saturday. The matinee talkback elicited tears but two prominent artists snubbed me in the evening. TM was inexplicably also in the audience and no one knew why, though he did laugh at my most brutal joke. I decided to take pride in how I handled these strangenesses instead of worrying too much. Had a bad expensive salad grr, walked aimlessly near the beach.

Sunday there was a very long discussion about how to organize the day which ended quickly when my aunt agreed to lunch. Had to dab up my face and fit but soon we were on the sunny patio with free garlic bread. I’d walked past the night before, at sunset, thinking, “now this is a place I’d like to go one day.” The cheesy Italian flag and angled roof. Our server advised me to read more Nietzsche. Tax Ant said that would never happen in the north woods. I’d gotten a headache on the way over, and I swear the spicy tomato ravioli cured it.

We took it nice and easy to the theatre, sniffing flowers each block. It was a packed house, which always feels so good for goodbye. I couldn’t help but peep from my back corner—did so and so laugh at that? Ah so and so set her head against so and so’s shoulder there. Oh good so and so’s dad chuckled. Puhg accuses me of loving to lean back and observe what I’ve sown. (And fine it's true!)

The cast did even better than their best. The talkback was incredibly special. Friends were there—ER for fun, AZ for research, BM as a fellow playwright, my manager, the original gaffer!, and more. I had a true giggle when we called JS in to be acknowledged for his amazing set, and he slurred he was already drinking in the lobby. He held up a little homemade frose for emphasis.

The lobby was such a scene. A girl bawled for a long time and a mom said thank you. A guy told me about gang violence in his high school, a couple about their church being targeted, two fellas joked, RB and my aunt hugged, photos, packing up for the party. Not based in science, but there was a release that happened—when I invoked my grandmother in front of the step-and-repeat.

Puhg and I went over to celebrate with the crew and even some cute parents and at the very end I showed the two muffins the photo of us I took a year and a half earlier. I’d said, “I have a feeling this is going to work out.” We re-created the image, looking about the same on the outside, though all three of us were much much different on the inside.

laughing til our ribs get tough / but that will never be enough

running thru my head running thru my head

Time for my annual tradition of reflecting on the music that meant something to me for the past year.

Vertigo, Griff -- how 2 b brave

Big Pink Bubble, Beach Bunny -- being a wreck and that's just how it is sometimes!

My Universe, Coldplay & BTS -- sung to Puhg in the flickering rainbow lights

All You Had to Do Was Stay, Taylor Swift -- an oldie that kept showing up

Diet Pepsi, Ben Platt -- a lesson in cringe coming back around

DNA, Knox -- pretty much, walking around with a broken heart

Before the World Was Big, Girlpool -- summer theatre indie production!

Pretty Face, Hoodie Allen -- twirling about Chicago

Walk of Life, Dire Straits -- sometimes you have to revert

Million Reasons, Lady Gaga -- rediscovering Gaga's sensitive side for some reason...watching her doc...

Just A Dream, Nellie -- finding the motivation over and over, this time, at the knoll

I Am...I Said, Neil Diamond -- wondering what's magic at the pool

House Tour, Sabrina Carpenter -- pure 100% girl joy, sang in SW's convertible, in the shower, rushing around, and LIVE!

My Baby (Got Nothing at All), Japanese Breakfast -- windy warm date night at The Greek

Acoustic #3, The Goo Goo Dolls -- one of my all timers from high school, never thought I'd hear it live, and then, alone in the side section, I did

How It's Done, HUNR/X -- working on the new animated series

The Fate of Ophelia, Taylor Swift -- my little obsessive research

Father Figure, Taylor Swift -- sung excessively in the car with Pook

Curious, Hayley Kiyoko -- working on my newest project

Parachute, Hayley Williams -- a new era and one for me too

So High School, Call It Off -- yeah let's have some fun while commuting

Bad Romance, Lady Gaga -- she's still got it

Let You W/In, Lily Allen -- the future is female, the present is female, the past is female

Big Deal, Lucy Dacus -- I pretend to be the writer and subject on other planets in my head

Vodka Cranberry, Conan Gray -- late nights with candles and journals

Mature, Hilary Duff -- millennial women waking up to their power! and dishing!

All The Things She Said, tAtU -- I too loved Heated Rivalry

Austin, Dasha -- a spicy channeling

You'll Aways Find Your Way Back Home, Hannah Montana -- probably, shower song

Well, Whatever It Was, Joyce Manor -- stomping through the neighborhood

American Cars, Noah Kahan -- reflecting on family on the balcony

Sports, Beach Bunny -- Venice theatre magic

Anything, Simple Plan -- yeah let's have some fun while commuting pt. II

friday for a little playwright

Answered emails from bed about the poster, wrote the nepo baby about her audition (her famous mom DM'd me). The nepo babies are descending. A "new show" is reading young talent. They add me on Instagram and I observe how their lives cost about 500% more than mine even though they are 21. But I have something they can't buy. I don't blame or judge them. It's just weird. Art is weird. Money is weird. Nepotism is weird.

I trot to the cafe to catch Puhg. He's seated next to a middle age man we've become neighborhood friends with. He's always reading cool books. Totally coincidentally he's going to the festival with his middle school daughter this summer! He says he wants to go to my play with her. I eek, "That is my dream! When producers ask me my ideal audience. I say teens and their parents!" I realize I'm going to be late to my nail appointment, get up and hustle out. I kiss Puhg outside then look over his shoulder to see our friend DM watching. "Oh!" I say. He tips his head like, howdy ma'am.

I get light pink nails with the gal who is openly hostile to customers. I don't mind this because she's allowed to express how she feels, and the claws look good either way. I don't need laborers to pretend to like labor. I don't have an outfit for opening, and I do have a little time, so I zip down to the row of thrift shops. As I approach the first, I see Tira at the French sidewalk spot yapping with a pal! We get to chirp for a bit.

I try on about six dresses and decide they're all A-. I don't buy anything that's not A plus anymore, consider I could just wear my sleeveless black bag once again. On my walk home I am enticed by scones in a window. Get a latte and treat for twenty American dollars. I outline an essay and slather on the clotted cream. Two playwrights I know knock on my table as they're leaving. They're perfectly nice, but we did once get in a fight at a writers' group because they were ragging on how my generation isn't 1000% dedicated to working on weekends and while traveling like they were, and it got awkward when I said, "Well I notice you both have really nice homes." Anyway, I get up and hug them to show I'm not a regular demon, I'm a cool demon. As I'm leaving I see an exec I know. I knock on her table. She's meeting with her intern. They both buy tickets to my play. I walk home listening to MUNA's new album, thinking about how I saw seven friends, just by virtue of bopping around!

At home I feel ultra compelled to work on an essay. I answer a couple emails from my manager, but the piece has to come first. I complete a draft, race to shower, race to makeup, shove carrots in my mouth, then zoom across the city blasting my pop punk playlist of 8th grade jams. "Anything" by Simple Plan to Start. I'm not sure why, but that's always what I listen to on my drives west.

I kind of dread going into the lobby opening night. I pull into a parking spot at the window. I see the director in an adorable dress, our producer with the red bob in heels. They're laughing the joy of people pulling something off. I sit in the car a while writing notes for the main four. I add heart stickers and Sharpie stars. I wobble in around 7:40.

I am overwhelmed immediately, as predicted. Everyone is so nice though. I see my new friend, leaned against the wall. Another producer gives me a sweet pin. I greet the school shooting survivor and her friend. I get a desperation peach seltzer. We funnel into the theatre. I see my friend JG in the front row. I'm pretty surprised. I haven't seen her in six years, not since I happened to be taking a meeting on the same patio she was celebrating her first Emmy nomination. She didn't tell me she was coming.

They hold curtain for fifteen and I am SWEATING. I cannot stop bothering this poor survivor. I tell her, "There are gunshots at the beginning." She says she knows. I nod. I lean over, "And, you know, if you want to leave, you can totally leave!" She tells me she knows. I tap my toes a while. I tell her, "Just get up and go. At any moment. No problem!" The lights go down.

The cast does an incredible job. The best the best the best they've ever been. The crowd is on board right away. They howl a few times. I'm really happy in the moment even though I can't enjoy it because I am tensed out of my gourd trying to notice what this girl is and isn't laughing at. In the penultimate scene I see her wiping tears. I relax a little.

The girls bow and the audience leaps to its feet. The cuties jump in joy on stage. "Really good," the girl says. "Way funnier than I thought." Yes. Red Bob created an amazing after party for us. It was ballooned with grad congrats. There was a bowl of Pop-Tarts and vodka slushies, a corner to write, flowers, teen music blaring.

JG came up to me quickly, overwhelmed. "Thank you," she heaved. "Just...that really....I needed that." She wrote me an email that night too. I told her I'd keep it and I will. The 20something explained about his worries in movie theatres. The little costume designer, about her plans to cover the door. The teen there, 16 and never enters a room without scanning the exits. The photographer told me he cried like a baby.  This is all so meaningful. I really could listen to people talk about shootings all day.

Everyone gets silly. The couple couple. The AD tells me about her need to create. The school shooting survivor has two vodka slushies and does a handstand. Go off, queen! I have to do the "Oops I Did It Again" choreo or I wouldn't be doing my part as a millennial. QD brings her boyfriend in a turtleneck. The drunk one gets drunk. The nuts one gets nuts. She gives me a card. I cry reading it in the living room, still in my lilac blazer, at 1 AM. After I got home to Puhg on the couch, trying to wait up. He toddles to bed. I text my sister about a robin, waking her up in the middle of the country. Can't sleep until 5.

save the games for the girls on the tennis courts

cannot today

Thinking about Yatchface today. There are those things people say that become scripture somehow. The person who said the thing might not even recognize its gold like you do. It may be up to you to carry on the message. The person who said it, just a mouth, just the previous leg of the Olympic torch.

Yatchface was my roommate for our final term of school (with Grinz). One afternoon while working on her capstone paper, Yatchface closed her computer and announced, "I simply cannot!" I thought it was so hilarious. Because, like, yes she could certainly finish her revisions. She was wrapped in her messy bed with her messy hair and had nothing else to do. But also, she simply should not. How could anyone disagree?

I've often empathized with "simply cannot" but I don't know if I've ever actually lived the motto full send. I worked for Conglomerate for five years and never missed a deadline or even asked for an extension. Grill workers got one freebie "no show" before being written up. I knew this and held tight to mine all four years of college, cashed it in with a month of school left, when I was in bed crying. I'd cried in bed before my 8 AM shift many times, but I'd never gotten to prioritize my own emotions over slicing tomatoes before. The only time I ever showed up not 100% prepared for a speech tournament I bungled my first round and begged my coach to let me drop from the whole thing. She made me stay in the running, reminding me it's okay, normal even, to compete and not win. Maybe I could experience being average for once. I agreed, but that night I ran my piece over and over and over and in the morning I got perfect marks, squeaked into semis, then finals, then won. My coach got on the bus to see me holding my trophy. "You were supposed to learn a lesson!" she said, only kind of kidding.

So this, today, is a different level of simply cannot. I really, lately, simply cannot. On a puff of smoke level on a what are we all doing it's all made up level on a I don't know if I'm supposed to keep cleaning out my closet to stay nimble or hoard these sweaters for the colder winters level. Do I go to a place or never go to a place?

Projects keeps vanishing and the money goes with them. No one apologizes. Jobs are down, jobs are down, jobs are down, gas is up, gas is up, gas is up. This week the president said he'd be out of the White House in 8 or 9 years and no one interrupted him.

I've gotten nothing but brilliant signs from the universe I am on the right path with my plays. Doors keep opening and meaning keeps spilling out. The actor's brother died, and she insists, she's going on anyway in his honor. The new producer believes in the message so much he created a group chat for us. The activist writes me, "You're the best!"

But the work has never been tougher on me. My tasks this morning, for example, include organizing the casting tapes for one production and emailing the director my callback preferences for another. Making a promotional video, checking flights, script feedback. I've got to drive out to Venice tonight for a tech rehearsal. I should be eager to do all these tasks. But there's this force that won't let me do any of it. It's more than discomfort, it's certainly beyond laziness, it's Wrong. Something is Wrong. I felt this way the day before the fires, when I suddenly had the urge to go to the movies alone.

I struggle to pretend as much as I used to. But no one likes me when I'm not pretending. I used to be able to disappear for a few hours and come back ready to dazzle. Now it takes days, maybe weeks, to be remotely palatable. Friends don't reach out as much, and I did that. It wasn't my plan, but the person they're looking for doesn't live here anymore.

Anyway, that's why I'm writing this morning. It often feels like I can't count on anything in this world, but I can count on writing. No matter what happens I can write about it. Maybe I can write through it. Missing my hamster so much I could disintegrate.

mid pizza and Diet Cokes

Told K Ho, when she picked me up for lunch, I can't believe I said yes to this. Had essentially no idea what the process would entail or what the theatre would look like or even how I'd get around. I just trusted I'd figure it out. Although I don't often trust myself to figure things out, I am a good pilot for a weird little arts program. One could argue my whole life is but a collection of cobbled together weird little arts programs. I remember talking about it with a peer from grad school once. (Oh I'm sure I gave him a cute little blog nickname twelve years ago, but god help me if I can remember those anymore. I should have made a key. But I didn't. So now if I ever look back in my archives here I have to scratch my chin and whisper soto, "Interesting memory...but who is 'Frazzykins?'")

Anyway, I had reached out to this peer, AC, after I saw they were abroad teaching acting workshops. They were like, "Mostly did it for the grant money, but it's been really cool." And ain't that the way. I have all kinds of stupid things on my art/work resume because I've never not been grubbing for money. But almost all those stupid things ended up being incredible memories. And, yeah, I guess if I'd been in the position to do other things with my time, maybe those other things could have been incredible memories too. But, I kinda don't think so.

I've been cornered into non-self serving experiences, and that's been really special for me. And important to my voice. Maybe necessary to my voice. Maybe my voice refused to sing in places privilege would have sent me. I wouldn't have picked to teach a musical theatre camp for 5th graders when I was 28, but I was desperate, and I still think about funny things those girls did, realizations we all had together. I wonder if any of them thought about our Newsies history lesson while the writers' strike was national news.

Had to go to Maine to teach improv to seniors for a week right before moving to LA. Horrible timing, but the gig was for $800--money I'd need to sustain myself until I landed something in my new city. Was I irritated to be going? Yes. Do I still think fondly about doing comedy with elderly women, one who was blind?! YES!

I've done gigs for hospice patients and fried eggs and stuffed bears and worn a mascot costume and crafted banana splits and sliced ham and proctored exams for people who couldn't hold pencils and led comma seminars and coached speech club and fired guns and shot arrows and instructed drama games and counseled preteens through their relationship with god and taught teens on the South Side playwriting with the time I wanted so much for my own plays. I worked on a cruise ship. None of this is what I wanted, but I would never trade any of it now.

So doing a play workshop in Virginia for $300? Sign me right up. I took a redeye, got in at 6 AM. The director picked me up in pjs. The theatre was only 20 minutes away. An adorable little spot with a maroon awning in a strip mall. Right away, I liked it.

Director let me in the scene shop. There was a sketchy yellow couch and a sad rainbow afghan. I don't remember much else until I woke with a start at about 9. I wandered, shoeless into the lobby, where the whole staff was having a meeting. The executive director hopped up and pointed me toward the hotel.

I felt half-human and wobbled over, through a little dirt path between the trees. The desk guy told me my room wasn't ready, so I flopped in the lobby, greasy and ripe. A little before noon my shower dream died, so I changed my t-shirt and put on deodorant in the bathroom. My old high school bestie picked me up in this state. All par for the course. We got mid pizza and Diet Cokes. It was so easy to talk about the people we know and how things have been and especially, if there's a nuke, run into it. She said I seemed the same, and I said, ah that's nice but my soul's been broken, just a little.

I was able to clean up, in ten minutes flat, right before my first rehearsal. I rushed in right on time, to find my script in a binder at the table. At the spot labeled "playwright."

musicals on the spot pt II

Wanted to keep my word and finish the story I'd begun last month. I'm sure I've forgotten some details. My brain has been scrambled all April. Six planes, at least three work disasters, and a couple big surprises around my play productions--one good surprise, one bad surprise.

I'm supposed to be revising a draft right now, but my brain is too fried with all the Phone Things I had to do today. Promo posts on Instagram, a billion casting emails, personal texts that are important but may as well be sent from Pluto, disbelief it's almost May.

Sometimes reading a book and clacking on something completely different can get my mind back on track to actually write. When I woke up my goal was revising three scenes. But that was before the digital onslaught. Left for the cafe an hour late. Saw two girls from my building on my way. They were sipping coffee on the steps of the Scientology center. I told them my goal was revising two scenes. But there were a lot of DMs to answer and Zooms to set and texts about the show I dramaturged, up this Wednesday. So now my goal is one scene. But first, more about musicals on the spot.

Because I was slotted to do the improvised rap musical on Monday, I listened to Hamilton all week. Driving, in the shower, walking around town. To be honest it felt wrong. It's a genius show, and I still love it, but there's a significant cringeness to it now. The patriotism tastes rotten. The celebration of a money guy feels bizarre. And all the (brilliant) music time travels me to 2016. And 2016 makes me think of the orange clown.

But still! I needed the immersion. I walked to the theatre around 6, spitting out "Non-Stop." I arrived to find our beatboxer in the green room. We'd never worked together, so we shook hands. He introduced me to his cousin. Musicians are funny that way. It's kinda weird for a comedian to randomly bring a cousin or "a guy" backstage, but it's totally normal for the band.

The rest of the cast arrives. AW telling me she's been super busy with a play, JH ripping on AW, ZN is writing for a new tv show. I love the show runners and tell him so. RB admits quietly, he auditioned for them before. Close but didn't clinch it. I ask is he's a dweller or a forgetter. He says he thinks about the future more than the past. But he also laughs in a certain way.

Then I meet DD! He seems professional and nice. We've emailed about the opening choreography, the only preplanned bit in the show. We spend about two minutes small talking and exchanging Chicago names. And then! The last show (running very late) ends. On the heels of the applause we rush to the stage. We have five minutes before doors open for us. We forgo warm-ups for a single practice of the choreography, which I flub big time. I tell the group I'll get for showtime. I drink a lime La Croix, we cypher about the heat for ten or so, and then the stage manager knocks. I breathe backstage, trying to unclench my everything. This is the first time this group of people have ever been in the same room, and we're about to perform a fully improvised rap musical together. And one of us hasn't done that in six years.

The show is very good! The audience chooses our subject to be Pennywise from the book IT. Totally nuts. I play two side characters (Pennywise's mother and Finn Wolfhard) to ease back into free styling. But I hold my own. If I may brag, I crush a particular group song based on that weird part of the story where all the teens sleep together to impress a turtle god. (Not in the movie, wonder why.) I also do nail the opening choreo. I laugh a lot, sometimes you just can't help it.

We do a scant recap post-show because the next cast is creeping in. I change out of my khakis into shorts. I exit the side way to be met by a group of four 20somethings. They go quiet when I pass then one squeaks, "YOUWERESOGOOD." I turn around and say thank you, ask if they do improv. They do of course. I round the corner into the main crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. A few people reach out to nod, to say, "wow I loved you guys!"

Just as I think I'm out of the woods, I see the beatboxer and his cousin. They'd kept to themselves comparing new hip hop albums before the show. But now we've all made a thing together. The man, who I suddenly realize is quite large, wraps me in a giant hug. His cousin hops up and down, "You killed it!" I look up at the beatboxer, "No you!" I say.

I trot home thinking about how me ten years ago would never believe I would be booked on the sold out 7 PM show at the hottest comedy theatre in LA. Also pretty wild it was all based on a book I read in middle school in a cabin in Wisconsin. Life is strange.

no fooling

Yesterday was such a lovely day of my little life, it's 6:25 am now. I'm at the table looking out the balcony doors. The sun is rising, so every moment there's a new pink or baby blue bursting from the clouds over the palm trees. I've been up since 4:30 with the insomnia. Just got out of the shower. I hope to settle after this.

First thing was I had to go to the DMV. And of course, this was not lovely, but the entire ordeal took under three hours and I planned for five so. I had to get my license renewed in person, which really steamed my clams if we're being honest around here. I applied online, but a a pop-up appeared--I'd need to visit an office. I tried two more times, kind of in disbelief.

Last Thursday I took the morning off work and vroomed over there at open. I was 20th in line, then realized I had forgotten my wallet! Of all things to accidentally leave in a different person on all of the mornings. I drove back home, returned, got a new number: 20th. When I was 8th every computer in the system shut down. Twenty minutes later the staff announced it might be three hours to wait. I beat myself up for the wallet thing. I went home in a terrible mood. Later Puhg and I had burritos at the tin shack. "Mostly for your mental health," he said, practically running a handkerchief across his brow.

Anyway, yesterday's excursion was even more eventful. The ticketing system was broken. There was a long winding in-person line. I became emotionally tied to a very elderly Japanese man who couldn't stand for long. I finally got to see Deb, who wore zero percent of a smile and a face mask, around her chin.

Deb started doing "the usual" and then had to stop and be like, "Did you get any notifications about your renewal...?" She was dumbfounded. I was like, "An email to apply online, but online application kept getting rejected." She clacked away at her computer. I asked if something was wrong. She snapped, "Nothing's wrong. It's just... Why you gotta take a test?" She clacked longer. I stood silently for about ten minutes. Finally she seemed to give up and printed stuff and told me to get my photo taken, which I did not want to do. I actually like my license photo. She told me because I had opted to renew in person I had to take a new photo.

Even though there was no reason (I scoured the website) I should have needed to take a driving test because this kind of weird thing happens to me a lot, I actually studied for said test while I was waiting in line. I did all four of the practice tests and actually thank goodness I did because I would probably have failed otherwise. There's so many things we know but not if phrased a certain way. Like how many feet away should you lower your high beams if you see an approaching vehicle? I go into the little computer room and pass quickly. I hear the security guard guy tell a man, "I'm so proud of you." (You can fail the test twice, third time was the charm.")

I left by 10, spending a little time in the car to Marco Polo with Dizz and Lav. There's drama about a bachelorette party costs increasing for surprise hibachi dinners. My new photo is not as good, but it's not bad at all. I wonder if I'm on a list or something.

I chattered with Puhg. He'd brought me a coffee at 8:20, the angel. Made my journey all the sweeter. I laid down and watched the rest of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, which we'd started the night before. I'm proud of myself for growth in this area. I know what kind of activities are prone to overwhelm me, and I try to pack a buffer around them to decompress. In that wretched DMV lighting I could close my eyes and imagine the softness of my bed, a big cup of water beside me, Pee Wee's face huge on the wall.

I sent an email to the non-profit about the show. I made notes in my journal about my hopes and fears about this new possible manager. Because I'd already cleared through lunch, I realized I had enough time to sneak to the salon for a mani pedi. I pointed to the color I'd like. "Barbie pink," the gal said. I decided not to listen to music and just let the women's discussions I could not understand drown out my thoughts.

My nails looked perfect. I had a half hour before my meeting to hop to the store. I'd rushed past Amnesty International on my way to my appointment muttering, "Can't now." I'll tell you what they CAUGHT ME, STROLLING like practically skipping down the street. The girl asked, "...Do you have time now?' And so obviously I did. Anyway now I'm a member of Amnesty International.

I got to my patio five minutes early, scuttled into the bathroom to brush my hair. I went with grey sweatshorts, a crop tank, and my hoodie from my old comedy theatre. My favorite spot in LA, and they had my favorite cake. Maybe manager walks in and we small talk in line (torture). He gets pecan pie and orange juice. I get aforementioned cake and an Italian soda. The barista asks my name because he sees me there a lot. We do a cute formal greeting.

My favorite table is free! I almost don't take it (why) then do. I tell mm that I watched one of his favorite movies last night as an investment in him, since I know he is prepared to invest in me. We talk about how the film is so camp and fun though confusing now. I admire its ability to express joy around class and race, while being an inherently queer story too.

I read through my list of concerns and my list of What I'm Looking For. He responds and volleys to each. I feel at ease with this person even though he's a guy. We talk about that too, how Sarah McLaughlin had male managers on Lilith Fair. Everything feels just about right. I tell him just tell me if I'm acting strange. I simply have no idea. Just tell me. That's the thesis to working with me: just tell me. At one point I open my palm to make a point and a leaf falls right into it.

We shake hands, and once it's done he's asking how things are moving with my animated movie. I mumble around how we pitched something and are sending materials soon and he sort of nods and then offers he has clients who can do character design. I say we have an artist, and apparently he's cool but I don't know about comics. mm practically falls off his bench, "he created !!!!" he says, "bury the lead!" I'd been yapping about how excited I am for this movie's environmental messaging. But this is what I've been saying, I stress, I am good at the show and not at the business. He hugs me and says, "This is exactly how I wanted this to go."

I tell Puhg when I come home: I signed with a new manager at a top company while wearing my comfy clothes and eating Heath Bar cake! I DID IT!

Okay so now it's 6:05 pm. I'm at a Mexican restaurant on the west side. I just had four street tacos for $10 while wrapping up emails for the day. First rehearsal for the indie production of my play is tonight, had to drive her very early to beat traffic.

So more about yesterday though. I journaled for a bit then trucked home to write a political letter about the mergers and how they are destroying free speech, it's really that simple. I tidied up the dang place before watching my sister's church service. She has become a reader, which is very significant!

Emailed a lot about the poster. Texted the chuckleheads on slack about the movie pitch deck. Ate some goat cheese and crackers and then took a producing call about the budget and communications. My collaborator said, "You handle conflict so well, and I really learn a lot from watching." I am quite proud to hear this. Handling conflict has become one of my great loves.

Finally I had to be done. The moon rose as I sat on the balcony decompressing. It became so bright and shiny. Had the rest of my huge Heath cake slice while watching Pluribus. Fell asleep on Puhg, woke up around 4, you know the rest...

musicals on the spot

I was booked to play the improvised rap musical Friday. Hadn't played that one in six years. Almost exactly, actually. I remember my last show--well, even. The audience gave us HH Holmes, the Chicago murder house guy. It was International Women's Day, which Jia and I found very funny. Our opening number chorus was, "Welcome in, welcome in, welcome Holmes" and we formed a spooky house with our bodies. Dumpling, who played the lead, leaned out the middle, beckoning inside...

I remember leaving that set in such a good mood that I decided to trot the hour home. I didn't do that often because Ubers were still $6 back then. I took a photo with a string of green traffic lights behind me. "Something is coming," I remember thinking, knowing. And it was! Four days later I went into lockdown and there I stayed for a year and change.

I have a particular relationship with improv. One of my old teammates on the hot Saturday slot at i_ once explained to me, "I've ruined improv for myself. I don't regret. I had to ruin it." He meant, basically, he became obsessed with the art form as a teenager, and chased that obsession to Chicago, and chased that obsession throughout the city, and now it's his full-time job (podcaster). But, he'll be the first to say, I hate improv shows. Comedians are so weird. Some really do despise what we do. Not me.

I don't hate comedy. I love comedy. I also don't hate improv, though I know I am supposed to think it's cringe. I mean, it is cringe but it's also essential. Now me myself doing improv? Harder to say...

I actually don't think I've ever loved improv. I've loved journeying through improv. My college family-friendly group and my grad crew and my indie girls and that weird Missouri "theatre" and all the spots in the windy city and my one class at the boxed wig school and my shows in Scotland and my nights at U__ the first and U__ the second.

There is a ton of unfairness in the artist life, but I'll tell you one major win from the universe on my scorecard is getting to perform at U__. That's the prime comedy theatre in LA. Usually comedy folk move to new cities and have an incredibly frustrating time breaking in. It's a tale as old as time, really. You spend years building up your style and your skill and your reputation--! And then you have to buzz around getting hundreds of people on board all over again. Meanwhile the comedians who have been in the pool immediately kinda hate you for being a maybe threat. The gatekeepers are sometimes overjoyed, like, look, this fully cooked casserole has appeared at our potluck! I remember a moment like this when I moved to Arizona, after I'd been honing my chops for five years (a lot of years for 23). I showed up at auditions as a total unknown and crushed. I saw one of the directors' audit forms when it was all over. He had written, "Number XX is from god."

Other times gatekeepers hate new comedian guts too! I'd actually say, sadly, most of the time. Just as talent doesn't want to be overshadowed, tastemakers don't like their taste to be overshadowed either. They're like, Who is this new voice the people enjoy? I didn't tell them they could enjoy that! It's actually embarrassing. How overly sensitive gatekeepers are. And then they accuse artists of being sensitive?! Babe. Get real.

Anyway! What's so blessed about my crash-landing into LA is my main show I did in Chicago had a slot out here. It was that simple and lucky. Well, and I am very reliable and persistent. As soon as I arrived I was on the producers. "I'm available I'm available I'm available." And one week there was a drop, and wouldn't you know it I was at the theatre, hair and makeup ready, in record time. I know other people who were part of the ensemble for years and never transitioned into the west coast cast. I'm not more talented than them (though not worse). But I have something they don't: an ability to weather about nine million buckets of rejection just to maybe get what I think I want. Overall, though, I'd still only give myself half credit for achieving this particular dream. Honestly, I think that's all anyone ever deserves. There's no business like show business.

So I used to perform at the second U__, which was much nicer but allegedly not as cool. It closed during the plague, so now I get to perform at the original. It is better, which everyone always said. The space is smaller and more intimate and the sound is really well designed. Whispers carry and laughs boom but don't envelop. My first few shows I felt kind of off-balance because when they sell out, they put about 40 people on stage. It took me a minute to get used to belting inches from a person's face, jazz stepping around folding chairs. I am used to the smoosh, welcome it, these days.

Although regular improv no longer interests me, music improv still really really does. I guess because it's more like writing than acting to me. It's such a rush to be mentally writing a musical in your head, as four other people try to write the same musical in their heads, and none of you can talk about it. You just have to leap off the cliff with parachutes all together and hope you land in the same field and maybe that you do a few neat spins while you're falling. My friend SR randomly came to one of my mash-up shows in 2022. It was genuinely fine, but he was floored! Floored! You made all those songs up right on the spot! He came to some other crummy show a month later. He remarked, "Okay so I've seen some of these people before even though it was a totally different theatre..." Yes, I explained. There's like 50 of us in LA, in earnest. And then probably another 100-200 blooming in classes etc. SR asked how we rehearse, I told him we don't. He nodded, you're like flight attendants. What a quirky way to say it, and not wrong!

This post is getting a little long, so I'll do something atypical and write the rest later.