AA to JA

I'm working on this new production with a few PHTS women called The First Ladies Project. It's going to be a historical-comedy about the role of the First Lady in United States history, fan fiction-esque with dabbles of reality. You know, once we finish writing it.

I'm currently reading this dusty old book that I found on my dad's bookshelf a couple weeks ago: The Book of Abigail and John, which is a compilation of selected letters from their courtship to their marriage to their political partnership. It's funny, they write as if they're characters in Shakespeare plays. Their ways of going about saying things are so extended, I actually burst into laughter at one point because John Adams closed a letter with "All right! I'm going to Bed!" True, Bed was capitalized, but it was so similar to contemporary speech it made me laugh.

I'm loving this one portion of a letter from Abigail to John:

Braintree october 16 1774

I dare not express to you at 300 hundred miles distance how ardently I long for your return. I have some very miserly Wishes; and cannot consent to your spending one hour in Town till at least I have had you 12. The Idea plays about my Heart, unnerves my hand whilst I write, awakens all the tender sentiments that years have encreased and matured, and which when with me were every day dispensing to you.


I imagine Abigail alone in a big house, her bedroom adorned with dozens of candles at night, so that she may feel lit up, visible in the dark. She sleeps in the middle of the bed so that she may feel bigger. The curtains she leaves wide open; she wants to be awakened by the sun at the earliest possible moment. I like that she capitalizes “Wishes,” “Idea,” and “Heart,” as if they are real beings who live, breathe and make things happen.

This post has no end, except that you should follow The First Ladies Project on Twitter. We try to make it fun for you. www.twitter.com/firstladiesnyc

If Osama Bin Laden was trapped in a mountain with a hip-hop dance crew.

Check out the new music video from my comedy cabaret, Political Subversities!

How does she do her hair like that? Is it a braid? Is it a braid-bun? Or a simple chignon? I need to know. LOVE the hair height.

I can't get over Adele's live version of "Someone Like You," which---excuse me for sounding like Adele's mom---is available for FREE on Amazon.com. So go to that. And click, and open in iTunes, and cry at the sound of her voice.

I also just went ahead and said, "Fuck it" (figuratively, I didn't actually, because I am home alone and I don't talk to myself) and bought her album on iTunes. I hadn't bought it yet because I had a feeling Amazon MP3, my bestie, would put it up for, like, $3.99 one of these days. For those who don't know, Amazon MP3 is an angel doing work for the people. Not to sound like Amazon MP3's mom, but they have Daily Deals on top-selling albums for $3.99 or $4.99. It's amazing. iTunes can suck it.

Anyway, go download that Adele song. I made fun of it for being titled "Someone Like You (Performed Live In Her Home)"---because doesn't it sound like Adele was lounging naked fast-forwarding through Will & Grace or something---but it's not to made fun of. It's to be worshipped as a religion.

Flying Delta for the cookies

I’m sitting on a Delta flight as I write this. Shaina Taub’s The Daughters rings in my ears and my fingers are sticky from munching on dried plums, a treat I picked up from Publix before I left. Publix, the big grocery store of the southeast, sells this giant bag of dried plums that is somehow incomparable to any other dried fruit I’ve ever had. They’re not even from Florida, they’re from California, yet somehow they are the perfect texture, contain the perfect amount of sweetness and moisture...whenever I travel to Florida, I always make sure to bring a bag home to New York.

I’m also enjoying another staple snack of my trip: Delta’s complimentary biscotti. These crunchy, ginger snap-like, brown sugar-encrusted cookies are some of the most delicious treats I’ve ever been fortunate enough to stuff in my mouth. (Insert dirty joke or “That’s what she said” here.) Their presentation isn’t saliva-inducing: red wrapper, I could do without you. They taste so homemade, I’d rather see them lined on a baking tray. The flight attendant could walk down the aisle wearing oven mitts and holding the tray out to anyone who was interested. “Biscotti? Biscotti? Biscotti? Don’t take more than two!”

I must find out this Delta family recipe, so that I may bake these delicious goodies at my own home. Or, I could just fly a Delta flight whenever I get the craving. Ah, anything for the $400 dollar (complimentary) biscotti!

Hotties that are dead :(

Today I spent some quality father-daughter time with my dad. He likes to introduce me to old movies that he thinks should be integrated into my artistic mind (previously, we have screened 12 Angry Men, Rope, Dog Day Afternoon and Five Easy Pieces, to name a few), so today we watched The Ox-Bow Incident on his fantastic fifty-two inch television. The 1943 movie is about a group of townsmen, who, upon learning that their beloved horse-ridin', cattle-raisin', plaid-shirt-wearin' fellow rancher has been murdered, set out to find his killer. They stumble upon three men in the mountains who they believe to be the murderers; cowboy hats ensue.

But mostly the film is about how goddamn sexy Henry Fonda was:

Wow. The movie is black and white, but you can tell that Henry Fonda has THE MOST SHIMMERY BLUE EYES. Oh my wow. And what is he wearing around his neck? It's like an ascot, but yankable. The most important incident in The Ox-Bow Incident is at the beginning of the movie, when Harry Morgan tosses a bucket of water on Henry Fonda and his shirt sticks to his flawless body. If only Henry Fonda didn't die five years before I was born, because I'd be all up on that.

Anyway, you should see The Ox-Bow Incident. It's an American classic, as is this picture of Henry Fonda toying with the zipper on his pants.

Chivalry is dead at USF

"Hey, I think I saw you in a movie! Weren't you the gremlin?"

Please read the above quotation with your eyes and ask yourself, "What are the circumstances in which a man would dare say that to a woman?" Now, I'm not the first to say that chivalry is dead. In all honesty, I support chivalry. Gentlemen who open the door for me: thank you. Gentlemen who allow me to enter the subway before they do: thank you. Gentlemen on the subway who don't offer me their seats: I kind of wish you would.

To answer the question that I asked you to ask yourself, the circumstances in which a man would dare call a woman a gremlin are that of a USF women's basketball game. USF and Georgetown are neck and neck, and a petite black girl from the Georgetown team with a stick straight ponytail and biceps for days is about to shoot a free throw. Five guys in USF T-shirts heckle her from the third row. "Hey! Weren't you the gremlin?"

Everyone hears it, and I'm sure the player does too. "Hey!" The guys call out again. "Aren't you the Brain from Pinky and the Brain?" The Georgetown girl on the court lifts the ball and aims.

I wonder what would happen if I stood up and yelled from across the court at the top of my lungs, "Hey, assholes, she's in better shape than you, so put down that sausage and shut up!" Would the guys actually shut up? Would they laugh? Would the crowd applaud? Or would the crowd ignore me? That'd be awkward. Then I'd have to live for the rest of the game knowing that I was the girl who tried to tell some guys off and no one cared.

But I don't have to do any of that because the tiny Georgetown player sends the ball clean through the air, where it curves gorgeously into the net. The guys shut up. "Chivalry" lives!

Gentleman on the train

I get home very late on most nights, from rehearsal or waiting tables or seeing a show. Tonight, on my way home from a writer's meeting for The First Ladies Project, I noticed a familiar-looking man board the train two stops from where I get off.

I'd seen him at least three times before, on the same car, at the same time of night. Tonight, he carried a briefcase and wore a long wool coat. A dotted silk tie peeked out from between the lapels, and his pinstriped pants were cuffed to reveal navy blue socks printed with anchors. A newsboy cap sat on his head. I watched him as he interlaced his fingers together, closed his eyes and catnapped against the subway window. His moustache and beard, expertly and cleanly shaped, were a dark gray.

His stop is the same as mine, I remembered. He seemed to have discovered the same secret I did: if you sit in the very first car, the subway will roll up so that you're right next to the exit, allowing you to arrive at your apartment thirty or so seconds earlier than if you had been sitting toward the middle or end of the train. Hey, in this fast-paced New York City life we live in, thirty seconds here and there can amount to a lot. And that's a lot of time I could be spending in my toasty apartment, instead of speedwalking along the chilly sidewalks.

Slowly he opened his eyes, only to see me gazing at him. Oops. I tried to pass it off as though I were looking at everyone on the train. I wonder what he saw. Twenty-something girl with smudgy makeup in Timberlands? Why does she carry around a busted-up North Face backpack when she should be touting a leather Louis Vuitton tote like the other girls her age? Her coat looks like a sack. Is that a rip in her leggings? Who wears leggings in public? Disgusting. He closed his eyes again.

The train slid into our station, and I roused myself from my seat, inching toward the subway door. Hoisting my backpack onto both shoulders, I stuffed my hands, rough from the cold, into the pockets of my mother's old leather jacket. My eyes were sore. The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is take out this stupid contacts.

The gentleman was at my side, ready to disembark. The train skidded to a halt and the doors flung open. Immediately, the gentleman and I threw ourselves onto the platform and raced up the stairs. While my heavy backpack pushed me forward, his body remained upright, his spry legs carrying him up the steps two at a time. He raised his briefcase in front of him, as if he were a knight and the briefcase was his templar sword. His springy trot surprised me: firstly, how old is he? Damn, he's quick. Secondly, wasn't he just asleep five seconds ago?

He beat me to the top of the stairs and pushed through the turnstile, disappearing into the street. Some paces behind him, I seemed to follow his tracks on the way back to my apartment. As my feet hit the pavement, I spotted him a block ahead of me, walking briskly home. Does the newsboy cap keep his ears warm? I wondered when I'd see him next. And what kind of socks he'd have on.