November 23, 2003

Blogging's like working out.

For a while you're doing it every day and feeling like a badass. It's just a habit, you don't even think about it. You feel mad productive. The props are rolling in from the ladies. You are having sex with seven, eight attractive people a day, easy, where as before it was more like two.

Then for whatever reason, usually something along the lines of "I just got too busy," it drops out of your routine. Its absence makes you guilty and you make the occasional half-hearted attempt to get back in the swing, but you're out of breath, running at half-capacity. You're shit.

But you have to try. Because A) you really enjoyed it, and B) you have the completely mistaken notion that it makes people want to have sex with you.


I've done a lot of things in this city I've just completely neglected to mention.

I've seen an amazing volume of plays. More plays than movies since I've been here, by an effortless five to one ratio. One of the benefits of being in the Dramatic Writing department is the free and low-cost (five buck) tickets to productions on every end of the quality, prestige, and production value spectrum. Some have been pretentious and awful, (The Hot Month, a work in progress in which a gay man goes on a spirtual quest through the Southwest, egged on by the ghost-spirit-astral-projection-something-or-other of his comatose lover, who looked like the guy from Blue's Clues, falls madly in love with a denture-wearing shotgun-toting hippie lady, gets molested by a lonesome gas station attendant. Let's not forget the morbidly obese woman giving birth on stage. I know I can't) (Note to the author: You tried to hard to be quirky. You used too many unnecessary storytelling devices and forgot to have a story. This is why nobody goes to plays, dumbass.) some have been inspired (I Am My Own Wife, a one-man Broadway show about a real life eccentric transvestite who ran a museum in Berlin and endured the reign of both the Third Reich and the Communists, written by an alum of the department. Tickets are sixty to eighty bucks, we got to watch the final dress rehearsal for free.) but all of them have been worthwhile experiences I wouldn't get to have anywhere else in the world. That's one thing that I love about theatre, and could just as easily be an indictment of why it sucks: It happens in one place for a given number of nights and then it's done. If you missed it, you missed it. The text lives on, but that's only half the story. There may be other productions, but it will be nowhere near the same. It was a moment, and moments pass.

And yes, I'm sentimental and not a very good writer.

Saw Tony Kushner's musical this week for free. Saw Kevin Kline play Falstaff and Ethan Hawke a shouty too-literal Prince Hal in Henry IV at Lincoln Center, free. Life rocks.

Something else I've made no mention of is the way, in art school, you end up in everyone else's projects. Well, maybe this doesn't happen to everyone. Maybe it's just people like me, who not only make friends for life every time they leave their dorm room (five times since August, thanks) but are also hot-ass hotness with a side of fuckable and a tall cold class of Man. But since I've been here, I've been pleaded, bullied, harangued, coerced, and even ASKED to be in several random artsy-fartsy projects. I played a depressed depression victim in Roger's short film. I fell in love with an imaginary character named BoxHead. I smoked in Roger's bathtub, wrapped in a blanket, looking generally sour. We did everything in one take, then I walked home in the rain.

I was in Dent's project for Digital Frame and Sequence, where he has to tell a story using a series of still pictures. A slide show, if you will. In this case, a slideshow in which my character picks up schoolgirl whores from their educational institution, takes them to the park for a phallic hotdog which they consume much to my delight, adjourns to a seedy Chinatown hotel with the whooers for a good ol' fashioned single-bed lines-of-coke-off-my-bare-back-cut-with-an-NYU-ID-style romp, while all the while my wife is across town preparing a surprise dinner to commemorate our first anniversary. She finds out. The whores end up tied up as we eat. Doing this project only fufilled most of my fantasies.

I posed shirtless for Abby's photo project about masculinity. Apparently some people intepret masculinity as black-and-white pictures of exposed Aryan rib. Whatever. Once I can get my hands on a scanner we can all revel in my hotteration. I ended up making out with Abby. Abby, Emilie's best friend. Oh, the drama. The drama and the awkward and the mixed signals about who really likes who and who just wants to make out with cool fun pretty photography students. College is awesome. Regressing to middle school is not.

The other thing I did here that I've only scantly written about is briefly date and then just exhaustively hang out with a girl from my Craft of Visual and Dramatic Writing Class, who is funny and brilliant and caustic and well-spoken and beautiful and has the best eyes ever on a human being and invented kissing, but has a boyfriend, but regardless, says she loves me back.

I don't know why I didn't mention that.

Posted by DC at November 23, 2003 03:10 AM
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