I was two hours late to my friend Krista's Oscar party. But, thankfully, I arrived during a montage and then a commercial, so they let me fill out my ballot. I had managed to see every movie for every major award except The Quiet American for Michael Cain's nomination. I felt prepared, ready, and confident in my picks.

Now, traditionally, I have never won an Oscar Pick because I always go for the lovely artsy movies that never win. Last year, for example, I was absulutely positive the Acadamy would see the beauty of Robert Altman's gorgeous film, Gosford Park. I was mistaken. This year, I went in with a devout love of The Pianist and Adrien Brody's performance, so that was who I wanted to win everything. Everyone doubted me. And, yes, it didn't win Best Picture, but it certainly won a good number.. which, when combined with my fabulous picking talants on such categories as Best Score, Best Supporting Actor and Actress, and all the technological awards, I stormed through that ballot with more correct picks than anyone else at the party.

It was a very proud moment.

Comments?

The show enters its second weekend tonight. Another review comes out today in the underground paper. The first review was fabulous. All praise, made me look perfectly shiny.

I auditioned for and was accepted into an improv troupe. Scared Scriptless performs every second Saturday. I attend my first rehearsal on Sunday. I was so excited that I was accepted that I completely spaced that this Sunday is the Oscars. I love and worship the Oscars. I will have to tape them I guess.

My friends Matt, Janet and Becky also auditioned. Out of 30 people the troupe was only accepting four. All four of us made it to the call backs. But then, that night, Matt was hanging out in my room, I got a call to say, "congratulations." He didn't get a call. I dreamt that night that he wasn't going to get into the troupe. I woke up feeling sad and weird. Almost unable to enjoy my own entry into this fabulous group.
All day I was just anxious. More anxious than if I hadn't heard about me getting in or not. At rehearsal, he still didn't know. We all found out at the same time. Matt wasn't in.

Damn.
Damn.
Damn.

He's going to be given a chance to take a workshop, then maybe brought in at a later date. He gets to watch the Oscars though. So, I guess that's a bonus. Janet and Becky both got in. And a fella named Frank. Frank was hilarious. It'll be fun to get aquainted with someone new, but man oh man... I'm gonna miss Matt at this Sunday's rehearsal.

What a week of rehearsals... Holy cow, what a gas.

We have ALL the costumes and most of the props thanks to Sarah. Not only is she giving Nurse Ratched a heart inside this shell of a bitch, she's the get-things-for-free queen.

Sarah's also the one who has started my gears turning in a much more serious bent. For a few summers she's been going up to Fairbanks to do the Shakespeare gig. Camping in the woods, being one with ole Shakes and nature at the same time. Well, she told me that this year their brining some director, Graham something, from the Royal Shakespeare Company to direct. She playfully told me I needed to come up and do it. But, that would require quitting my day job.

Am I good enough to quit my day job?

I was listening to Utah Phillips, and he had one story that mentioned something about giving your brain away to companies for eight hours a day. How do you know you'll get it back undamaged? You don't. And with my job, I can see my perspectives changing daily, and not in a direction I'm favoring.

So, what if I just quit and started doing what I love full time?

This thought has created a nervous excitement that's been roiling around in my belly for the past three days. I don't have to wait for an internship to find my way into a theater career. I can just do it.

But, now I have to figure out what to pack in a two small bags to live with while I take up my new nomadic wanderings. What would Troubedores do?

A few years back (I'm thinking about four) when I was living in Fairbanks and having a jolly old time I went to a Chris Smither concert. This woulda been my third Chris Smither concert. The first two I had staffed, this one, I was just an audience member. He sang this awesome song that featured a farmer calling out his produce. That song wasn't on an album yet, and it was in my head for weeks.

Over the years, I've had that song in my head every time I see Chris Smither's name. Whether it be in connection to another songwriter, in an article, or an upcoming concert, that song (or at least the bits of it that I vaguely remembered) would resurface in my brain and I'd hum the incomplete remnants for days.

I saw he was gonna be in town. Friday, on my lunch break, I bought a ticket. Saturday, after rehearsal, I went to the concert. Before the concert started I went up to the CD table and bought the CD with the song that has been stuck in my head for four years. I figured it was an older song, so he probably wouldn't see it, and I couldn't wait until the concert was over and I could hop out to my little blue car and fill this desire for a song I'd only heard once before.

Then, Chris started beating his foot on the floor, and I was gone. Washed away in an unstoppable rhythm. He'd open his voice and sing straight into my lizard brain. Primitive, sexual, and pure instinct. I was lost in his rough, mumbly voice and crystal clear guitar. But that stomping foot is what kept me chained to my seat. He has a mic on the floor. The first time I saw him, he had a board on the floor so his foot would stomp better. It just goes, and drags him along behind it. His stomping foot is a whole percussion section and I am under its spell.

He sang a few songs and then struck the opening chords of a song I hadn't heard in four years. Remember, I'd only heard it once. My mouth opened and this little squeaky squeal erupted from my belly. This was it. Then he stopped. He asked us if we wanted to hear the story first. My lone little voice peeped "YES!" He laughed, other people laughed. But he told the story. He became this old black man singing the gospel of his produce cart.

I got beans! Red Beans, black beans
all kinda beans! I got sweet corn! I got okra!

It was beautiful. Then he played the song and I heard the story of first heartbreak behind the produce man and now its a song I can never forget. I sang bits of it at rehearsal all day today. I've even got a couple actors who could sing the opening lines of the chorus line perfect, and they've never heard the song. I spent all evening reading the lyrics. And I'm in love. Not with the writer, but with the muse behind this song.

It's called No Love Today.

I don't know much, when I knew less,
And I was heartbroke for the first time,
I was drowning in my tears,
I went looking for a lifeline,
Trying to find some comfort,
A simple tender touch,
Searching for some little cure
That would not cost too much,
And I could hear that produce wagon on the street,
I could hear that farmer singing,
As I cried myself to sleep.

CHORUS:
I got ba-na-na, watermelon, peaches by the pound,
Sweet corn, mirleton, mo' better than in town,
I got okra, enough to choke ya,
Beans of every kind,
If hungry is what's eatin' you
I'll sell you peace of mind,
But this ain't what you came to hear me say,
And I hate to disappoint you,
but I got no love today,
I got no love today,
I got no love today,
No love Today.

I could not love to save myself
From lonesome desperation.
Everything I thought was love
Was worthelss imitation,
My concept of commitment
Was to take all you could give,
I thought the cheapest thrills I loved
Were teachin' me to live,
But nothin seemed to last or see me through
Nothin' but that little song
That I still sing for you

(Repeat CHORUS)

No love today, none tomorrow
Not now, not forever
You can't see what comes for free,
I think you much too clever,
For your own good I will tell you
What's right before your eyes,
Intelligence is no defense
Against what this implies,
In the end no one will sell you what you need,
You can't buy it off the shelf,
You got to grow it from the seed

(Repeat CHORUS)

I dreamed I had a little gun that could make it snow. Not a lot. But a little umbrella-sized circle of snow. I hid it in my pocket, and a bunch of gun fanatics became my followers.

Listening to the radio this morning I heard a song called, "God Said No" by Dan Bern. I want to find more stuff by this guy.

I've got rehearsal in an hour. I should go and scout the space. We're not in the warehouse rehearsing today. They have to build and paint the set. So we're in some building I've never explored. I need to find some masking tape and get there early to mark the space out.

I saw a Tony Robbins Infomercial the other night while I was avoiding my bedtime.

I never really liked this guy in the past, but because of his role (as himself, yes, I grant that) in Shallow Hal I watched the infomercial instead of moving on to some other brain numbing late night programming. Some program called "Get The Edge."

I decided that I wanted to listen to a bit of the program before buying it. Yay for the internet! So far, I've downloaded almost 40 different Tony Robbins tracks off of a file trading program. He's very peppy. I'll give him that... I've listened to a few of the tracks, and I've let his subliminal Self-Esteem stuff play on repeat at night. As of yet, I don't feel more confident. Maybe it takes a while to kick in.

I spent money today. And I walked.

I walked from Cyrano's down to the statue of Captain Cook. A fair ways to go. And it was so pleasant. I love imagining the way I look to other people when I'm walking. Especially when I'm having a good hair day. Wisps flying around my face in perfect ringlet form. Granted, this is probably not how it REALLY looks. But I like to think that's what it looks like.

The whole area around the statue was really neat looking. Patterned board formation, grates with light shooting out of them and an ocean view. It's just begging for a movie to be filmed there. I'll keep it in mind.

I saw Pedro Almodovar's Talk to Her this afternoon. Absolutely beautiful film. Go see it.