Cage Match!

Thanks to DPomerico and the good people at Suvudu (Del Rey Spectra SF/F) for the chance to contribute to the most awesome 2011 Cage Match.  Readable here.I have to admit: I’m kind of with some of the commentators there thinking that Takeshi Kovacs would probably take out Lord Snow in a fair fight.  But this is not a fair fight. Kovacs is weakened by his new sleeve and new surroundings and you know what? Sometimes life is hard. The envoy will download again.  I kind of wish Suvudu repeated Cage Match participants so I could show Mr. Kovacs in all his glory.

Still, Jon Snow’s a cool kid.  And Dance with Dragons is coming out soon.  So deal.

Review: The Ask

The AskThe Ask by Sam LipsyteMy rating: 4 of 5 stars

The Ask evoked bouts of uncontrolled laughter and wincing during my daily commutes from my apartment in Astoria to my fundraising job in Manhattan. Why all the wincing? Because Milo, Lipsyte’s lovably unlikeable protagonist, is a mediocre development officer who lives in Astoria and works in Manhattan. This book is a caricature of class, professional and neighborhood relations that skewers the conceits of every demographic it presents.

It is clear that Lipsyte admires the rare person who works hard, has clear expectations, puts forth their best. But he does not fill his book with such people. Instead we have the nebbishes, the whiners, Gen-Xers coming of age in midlife, struggling to find affordable daycare and still maintain their edge. Coddled Milennials spout profanity and expect approval, taking their ambition and paperwork home with them to chicken wire cages in old Bushwick warehouses. The unconscionable privilege of the privileged, the righteous, tragic anger of the non-privileged, and the comical failure of those who squander their privilege.

There are a lot of ideas in The Ask, and you can pick and choose from them. For the most part, Lipsyte’s rapid, wit-infused dialog makes up for in fun what it lacks in believability. Those of us steeped in Joss Wheedon-speak should have no problem with this. Milo is stomach-turning at times, I did get tired of hearing his sexual inclinations to each and every woman he encountered, but it’s forgivable. We’re rooting for him by the end. For all its wild parody this book is spot on in its characterizations, and extremely enjoyable.

View all my reviews

Book Review: Tales of Woe by John Reed

The feeling that has just manifested in your digestive tract upon hearing something irredeemably awful — that bad-to-worse sinking sensation and the inexplicable need to repeat it — pervades John Reed’s Tales of Woe, just out from MTV Press. The author describes it as the sin-suffering-redemption model of storytelling, minus any cumbersome sin and redemption.
Twenty-five true stories of senseless human suffering accompanied by full color artwork appeal not only to those of us still toting our post-goth adolescent morbidity, but to rubberneckers of all ages. The collection tugs at our fears of the freak disaster (a PVC bouncy castle that first crushes, then poisons) to the dregs of inhumanity (sex trafficking, infanticide, and yes, bestiality). The MO is uncut and unapologetic despair in the human experience — not horror, but horribleness.Tales of Woeaims directly for the viscera, but can’t be written off as a simple sideshow. Reed is a well-practiced satirist, having, in his own words, “mangled Orwell, Shakespeare, Carroll and more,” and now presents what he claims is an older kind of catharsis than “Hollywood catharsis,” where the hero overcomes adversity and we all feel better about ourselves. Nope, this is pure suffering, he says; we read it and feel better about our own, relatively painless lives. I don’t know if I feel better about anything after reading this, but I sure feel different.

It’s hard not to question, however, elbow-deep in the shiny black paper and slick artwork, one’s role as a reader. Sure there is something deeply human about the sharing of suffering, but where does the line between observer and participant fall? At what point do we stop being horrified and start being titillated? Thankfully, Reed’s prose is spare; journalistic enough to secure our status as mortified witnesses, rather than rabid consumers, of agony. If we’re meant to be unsettled on many levels, this is a triumph. Woe is a 25 car pile-up of literary grotesques, enough to keep the Debbie Downer in all of us turning pages, and with no redemption or tidy lessons learned to let us walk away.

 

Tales of Woe, MTV Press August 2010
johnreed.tv

What not to put in the program bio for your first play

A little side-effect of working in theater education.  Most everything here is cribbed from or imitates actual bios.
Hope EE, New York, NY, was born and lovingly reared by her father and  spinster aunts in the tiny hamlet of Ashford in the unfashionable end of New York State. She discovered an irrepressible passion for acting at a very young age, when at the tender age of five she took on the role of Elizabeth Proctor in the St. Aloysius school production of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. The nuns were positively blown away by her tears as the 7-year-old girl playing her husband was hanged for witchcraft. From there she was hooked like a big mouth bass on the Field and Stream network, and spent the next two decades pursuing any role she could get her hands on including performing at county fairs, dog and pony shows, 4H conventions, Nascar rallies and the American Globe Theatre in Manhattan. She currently co-stars as the voice of Ring Toe on the wildly popular webseries Emma’s Feet. Hope would like to thank her family, step-family, friends, coworkers, tattoo artist, Chihuahua, goldfish, stuffed bunny collective and Russian shoe-repairman for all their boundless true love and support. She also owes it all to Jesus. Love ya, Baby Jee.

Review: Happy in the Poorhouse

There is an inherent danger in plays written by actors, that the soliloquy will take precedence over dramatic subtlety, that the playwright will abuse the audience with too much conflict instead of allowing us to draw our own conclusions. Derek Ahonen’s latest offering from The Amoralists, Happy in the Poorhouse, comes as close as they have come thus far to overcoming this.

The Amoralists, founded in 2006 by a trio of conservatory classmates, claims to be “A theatre company that produces work of no moral judgment…Dedicated to an honest expression of the American condition.” From these ambiguous claims, this “actor driven ensemble” has garnered considerable critical attention in its past few seasons with original works such as Amerissiah, The Pied Pipers of the Lower East Side, and Happy in the Poorhouse, now playing an extended Off-Broadway run at Theatre 80 St. Mark’s. This extremely promising young company benefits from Ahonen’s witty, original writing and the tight chemistry of talented performers, but suffers from, among other things, over-ambition and terrible poster art. Seriously, the poster tells you nothing except that they are in Coney Island and that someone’s girlfriend is a graphic designer. Marketing issues aside, Happy in the Poorhouse is a showcase of the troupe’s best qualities and an exciting addition to the Off-Broadway world.

Set in a high-volume Coney Island household, this two-hour-and-change comedy follows ageing amateur fighter Paulie “The Pug” and his family through a single evening, during which dreams are re-examined, marriages are tested and lives hang in the balance. We open on a scene of expectation: Paulie’s childhood friend Petie is returning from Afghanistan, a banner hangs over the stage reading “Welcome Back From Over There.” Paulie’s sister is due back from chasing her dream of Country music stardom in Nashville, bringing a surprise visitor. But there are many more homecomings and surprises in store.

James Kautz, a founding Amoralists member who has brought his cute manic energy to myriad Ahonen creations, holds his own as Paulie. He limps around the set, sporadically dressed, alternately punching holes in walls and patching them up. His “I love you”s barked to his frantic wife throughout the first scene give us a taste of the kind of affection we will be bludgeoned with for the coming 120 minutes. For those who have partaken of the company’s earlier pieces, one gets a sense of déjà vu right off the bat, as Ahonen seems to have an affinity for putting a half-naked, heavily bandaged men ranting on sofas in the middle of the stage for large swathes of the action and for women tottering around their apartments in ridiculous shoes.

Sarah Lemp gives a skillful performance as Paulie’s sex-starved wife Mary, a character that could easily be played with the shrew-factor cranked to eleven. Lemp’s Mary is nuanced and sympathetic despite the teensy polka dot tube dress and unlikely red stilettos that – I’m sorry Derek – no woman, no matter how proud, would wear around her own kitchen. Matthew Pilieci is hilarious as Paulie’s brother-in-law, a lothario mailman with questionable ethics, as is William Apps as the long-awaited Petie, subtly sociopathic and unsettlingly sexy.

It is very tempting—but ultimately difficult—to hate Happy in the Poorhouse. The shouting is incessant and the Eye-talian schtick is laid on so thick at times that it seems a goombah version of a blackface show. As characters pile in and subplots tangle, you begin to worry if the set will collapse and take the plot with it. But what holds this possibly migraine-inducing festival of nasal yelling together is the author’s careful suffusion of love and the players’ obvious enthusiasm for the work. The affection between characters brings redemption in the unlikeliest places and reels the audience, somewhat unwillingly, deep into this circle of this family’s drama. We root for them because they are rooting for each other. Unlike Amerissiah and to a lesser degree The Pied Pipers, the energy does not wane, culminating in a fantastically choreographed and executed fight scene. Is this pristine composition? Hardly. Is it, as the Amoralists’ website claims, “Rollicking, rebellious, and raw” and thoroughly fun to watch? Absolutely.

Happy in the Poorhouse, Theatre 80 St. Mark’s, 80 St. Mark’s Place at 1st Avenue, http://www.theatre80.org. Extended to April 26.

The Great Sizzle

Our apartment’s one hour of direct sunlight creeps in, starting at 7 a.m. when my alarm goes off for the first time. Through successive snoozes,  the heat coming through the blinds prickles on my skin; heat building up where the sheet is tangled around my pajama’d torso. Miyagi rolls away from me, sits up, paws at my face. He needs to be let down from the too-high bed to drink from his water dish. He has stretched his legs out as far from his spindly little body as possible to create maximum surface area, and begins panting in my ear. The noise forces me up, I deposit him on the floor and re-sprawl at the foot of the bed in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the burning sunlight. But it has been advancing fast during my fits of sleep, and it is too late to escape. The heat has arrived.After June and July of relentless precipitation, summer has descended on the city. I’d almost forgotten about it. Sweltering walks on the pavement, punctuated by arctic blasts of air conditioning coming from store vestibules. The students at work, experiencing their first urban summer, are shocked and abashed. They cannot believe this is normal and not some apocalyptic heat wave. I feel them quietly praying under their breath. But how were they to know, when they signed on to move here? No episode of Friends ever featured Monica and Rachel dealing with the climatic extremes the city throws at you. Carrie, Samantha and the gang were never pictured as wilted and defeated as everyone in Manhattan looks today. When you replace all your green space with pavement, you got to be able to deal with the haze. And you thought you were living “up North.”

Just 6 months ago I was waking up in this same bed, same apartment, clothed for sleep in long johns, fleece pants, a thermal top and a hoodie, swaddled in 6 blankets and sleeping bag. Now we flee the house as soon as the sun comes up, cursing our building’s ancient wiring for not being able to support an AC unit without some creative and complicated extension cord work. And summer movies are all crap,* but you sit through them anyway because it’s cheaper than anything else you can do in this town for 2 and a half hours. Sunday afternoon we contemplate taking a book and riding the subway all day.

Being the secret masochist I am, I kinda love it.

*Except  District 9.

So You’ve Decided to Join AmeriCorps…

At a family function last month, I discovered that 3 of my newly college-graduated cousins are going into the AmeriCorps program this fall, as these seem to be the only jobs available to them. I’ve been noticing lately that things I’ve been doing for years — e.g., being a huge cheapskate — are cropping up as novel and chic tips in fashion magazines and morning shows like crazy this year. I knew, knew, knew, deep down, that I was a trend-setter; living in poverty loooong before living in poverty was cool!

So it comes as no surprise that something I did 5 years ago – accept a $10K per year stipend to be a glorified admin-assistant at a Manhattan non-profit in exchange for flexible work requirements and government health insurance – is suddenly becoming fashionable.I’ve gotten flack in the past for perhaps being a touch jaded about all this National Community Service stuff. But I’m not necessarily alone in my criticism here, check out what the Chronicle of Philanthropy** has to say:

“While some AmeriCorps programs, like Teach for America, can demonstrate real results, others are less effective because they operate through thousands of different nonprofit groups that each set their own requirements and do little evaluation.”

Heck. Effing. Yes. The reporting I did for my AmeriCorps job was generally based in fact, sort of. But not really. And not enough to bring any of us volunteers any sense that we were accomplishing our “program goals.” Boo.

BUT, not to be a total wet blanket, I will support my underemployed kin in their impending vocations. I’ve even compiled a short list of tips and tricks to help you through your year of “service.”*

1. Don’t move out.
I know the whole reason you went to college and subsequently looked for employment was so that you could fly from your parents’ house at top speed. I know nothing would have enticed me to move back in with them when I was 21. But honestly, I’ve never been all that smart about these practical things.

The most happy/successful VISTAs I knew were the ones that lived with their parents or spouses. Unless your program is offering you housing, or you live in a place where rent is cheaper than food, you really, really need to think about sticking the year out at Mom & Dad’s place. For example: a 2-3 bedroom apartment share in a public-transport-accessible area of NYC goes for a monthly rent of typically no less than $600 per person. Probably more like $700 or $800 if you want a closet or full-sized bed. I’ve been told the “living allowance” is now up to $900 a month. If this doesn’t give you pause to renting, read on.

2. Remember hidden costs
As of this month, an unlimited monthly metrocard will cost $89. Your cell phone, I’m betting, will be between $40 and $80, if you’re not using a Smartphone, which I hear lots of the kids are doing nowadays. Also, unless you are really eager to take full advantage of of their unlimited mental health coverage, I would suggest you get Internet access. Asking a Millennial to live without Internet is like asking a pot-head to live without Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robins. It ain’t pretty. Let’s be generous and think that this could be around $30 a month. What’s the tally up to? 200 bucks. If your apartment is 700 that’s your entire paycheck, and you haven’t bought any food yet.

3. I’ve said it before: Never take your credit card to a bar. Try this instead.

4. Food Stamps. Even though your shouldn’t need to, for gods’ sake.
I know they tell you at orientation that you can apply for them, but REALLY? Isn’t that kind of taking funds from the populations you are attempting to serve? But yeah, off-setting your food costs will help a lot.***

5. Clothing Swaps, thrift stores, duh. It’s still New York. You still want to look good. Luckily that ain’t hard to do if you put a little thought into it.

6. Use that AmeriCorps ID as a student ID wherever you go and don’t let anyone tell you it ain’t valid! One of the hardest things about “serving” in a city like this is that you are surrounded by people with money, taunted by the amazing things you could be doing if you could afford it. So go see art films, go to shows, look at paintings in museums. Milk that sort-of-student identity as much as you can, because having mind-blowing cultural experiences will take your mind off how hungry you are.

7. Use those medical benefits, use ’em like you are going to contract something horrible tomorrow. The pace Congress is going, you may not have any for a while after you finish your year.

There is so much more, and so many other diatribes about how to live on the cheap. But I guess my best advice (besides not moving out, seriously) is to remember it is only temporary. And don’t be afraid to ask your cousins to feed you from time to time. We know how it is.

*And by service, I mean “hopefully not disillusionment and angst, but probably both of these things.”
**Yeah I read the trades. I’m a professional, bitches!
***I, unfortunately, used up my “I’m was at the foodstamps office” excuse one day to be 3 hours late to work after a night of furious, depression-fueled drinking (for free, mind you). So I guess don’t do that.

Life is Ambiguous, Sometimes

Since I moved in with my very dear and close friend last year, our friendship has become even dearer and closer than ever before. We share the mundane details of our work life, our family and romantic foibles, and our foodstuffs. We came through the anxiety and joy of the 2008 election and a nasty bout of mono that affected both of us and our respective boyfriends at the time,* and have both developed an unhealthy obsession with the kids at Degrassi High.Soo it happens… all the things that come with spending a lot of time with another person. You end up together in a lot of shared photos on social networking sites, you have a constant stream of inside jokes,** and you can often tell what the other person is thinking before she says it.So naturally, the people from my high school who I’ve befriended on Facebook think we are a couple. At least 3 random people have assumed as much on separate occasions. Including one hair styling apprentice who met us both on the street and recruited me to come in as a hair model for a style he needed to practice, whom I didn’t have the heart (or guts) on the day of the appointment to tell he was mistaken. I spent the entire 2 hour appointment spinning yarns about our fab Lesbian life, which was not that different from our fab non-Lesbian life, as it turns out: We both work at non-profit orgs, we met in college and have been living together for two years. I just conveniently left out the part that we both also on occasion have sex with men and not with each other. (I did feel terrible about lying. But got a damn good haircut and gave him a terrific review on Yelp.)

R. is endlessly amused by this, and having given it a lot of thought, I am quite pleased by it. Because it is very heartening to see we can create a functioning adult household as roommates; that our civilization’s fixation on strictly nuclear-family units can be happily subverted and got around. The fact that we are NOT a couple (in the romantic sense, at least) ensures our household chores are shared more equally than any married couple I’ve ever met. So go ahead, world, assume what you will, I will continue to take it as a compliment.

*Though R. did bear the brunt of it while we only had mild cases.
**For instance, R, her boyfriend and myself marauding around as the tricycle of fury.

The Difference Between Drama School and Any Other School, Anywhere

We are in the thick of graduation season here, hence the long absence. I assure you, blogicide is not about to occur.

Conversation overheard today between two students getting out of the elevator, after the casting for end-of-year plays was posted:

Drama Girl 1: *sniff. sniffle.* (wipes raccoon eyes)
Drama Girl 2: Listen. You should absolutely be upset. Go talk to [the Academic Director]. It is totally acceptable for you to be crying right now!

I think I’ll ask my friends in pursuit of their MBAs if crying is as encouraged at their schools.