I pray thee, good Struggle, wither goest thou?

If I were to be completely honest with myself, I would say that I am a person of supremely eclectic tastes. For example, I enjoy both Klezmer Music and the stylings of Jay-Z, I like a cool crisp glass of Sauvignon Blanc and well whiskey, I like quiet foreign films about relationships and I like Star Wars. Simply put, if my tastes were a vehicle, they would be the town bicycle, and almost everyone would get a ride. But if I can combine things, for example, listening to Klezmer, drinking wine and watching Star Wars, that's the optimal situation. So imagine my surprise and delight when Padre Struggle suggested that we spend our Labor Day NOT burning steaks on the grill or fighting through crowds of shwasted individuals of Italian American descent at the Shore, but rather attending the Pennsylvania Renaissance Fair. I, to be frank, kvelled. 

Let me explain something here. I love the Renaissance Faire. I have always loved and will always love the Renaissance Faire, and no amount of public ridicule or private humiliation will ever sway me from my vast abiding love of the Renaissance Faire. I should make Greensleeves my RINGTONE that's how much I love the Renaissance Faire. And as fairs go, Pennsylvania has a pretty amazing one. Not only is it 30 years old and ridiculously well attended, but it has it's own winery and includes at least 25 different theatrical and musical shows, including swordplay, jousting, and wenches galore. I mean, what isn't to love? They have enormous turkey legs and funny hats! They have mediocre Chardonnay and jesters! They have glassblowing and a human chess match and at least seven stalls selling WINGS! It's a strugglers paradise! I mean, good Lord, it's such a struggle that it passes through the struggle barrier (that's just before the sound barrier) and actually goes through to the other side and becomes not struggle but success! Do you know how rare that is? 

And so, as I enjoyed a hearty meal of Ye Olde Pannini and the Queens Greens, I found myself twisting my head with delight like a hysterical owl, desperately trying to take it all in. And my god, was there a lot to see. There are so many people who travel all the way to Lancaster, PA to watch people in Elizabethian outfits mangle UK accents, it's insane. And who I am to judge, really, since I'm clearly one of them. But considering that judging is like a form of breathing to me, may I just raise one point of censure, not to the Faire itself, but to the other guests of the event. As everyone knows, the Ren Faire (as those in the know call it) is an opportunity to dress up in period clothing and escape the realities of 2010 while still enjoying the amenities (period clothing, yes, period toliets, not so popular for some reason). But it's called the RENAISSANCE Faire, people, not the Elven Dr. Who Battlestar Galactica Belly Dancing Victorian Goth Slutty Vampire Disney Princess Faire! I mean, how could you even fit that name on a commemorative cup? Shape up, Pennsylvania residents, and when you come to the Faire, make damn sure you come prepared. That being said, thank you so much for the Hot Topic fashion show, that was fun. But maybe I should just relax, and take some advice from one of my favorite fictional characters, Howard Wolowitz:


Howard Wolowitz: Renaissance fairs aren't about historical accuracy. They're about taking chubby girls who work at Kinkos and lacing them up in corsets so tight their bosom jumps out and says "howdy". 
Sheldon Cooper: Bosoms would not have said "howdy" in the Fifteenth Century. If anything, they would have said "Huzzah!" 
Howard Wolowitz: I don't care what the bosoms say, Sheldon. I just want to be part of the conversation. 


Wise words, indeed, fine Sage, wise words indeed. 

Struggle Gets in Gear

There are a lot of things I don't understand about the world. For example, why does the media still want me to care about Lindsey Lohan? Jennifer Love Fricking Hewitt has made more recent films. Why does this blog get so much Chinese Spam? Is there something about how I write that attracts the Spam of China? What's up, China? Why do people use emoticons? What's that about? Does a sad face really comfort me in times of stress? What is a hedgefund? No, seriously, what the hell is a hedgefund? I googled it. It didn't help.

As you can see, I've got a lot of questions about the universe, and I don't know that I will be able to answer them any time soon. Especially not right now, because right now I'm getting myself mentally, physicaly, emotionally and metaphysically prepared for my favorite time of the year. Is is Christmas? No, silly strugglesome readers, that's my LEAST favorite time of the year (damn tinsel getting all over everything....) That's right, it's the Philadelphia Live Arts and Fringe Festival!  And I couldn't be more excited. Or, for that matter, more terrified.

You see, the thing about the festival is, it always reminds me of that expression, a kid in a candy store. And while for children this might be a very appealing vision, the practical side of me recognizes that children in confectionary shops do not, in fact, have a delightful time, but do, in reality, stuff themselves with suger, rot their teeth, scream, vomit, and, if they are lucky, meet creepy older gentleman and their small orange friends. While not as caloric, in every other respect the Live Arts/Fringe Festival sounds a lot like that. There are 200 shows in total in the festival, and that includes music, improv, dance, dance theater, clown shows, happenings, maybe even a straight play or two if people really want to get crazy, and, frankly, I kind of want to see it all. And this year? I think I'm finally going to be able to do it. Just as soon as I hook this caffine IV up and learn how to give up eating, sleeping, and my entire bank account balance.

At any rate, while seeing everything may be an impossible dream, seeing nothing is completely unacceptable, so I'm going to have to find some kind of happy medium there.  Of course, given that my sense of balance in life is akin to my sense of balance in yoga class (that is, I have absolutely none...) I'm sure I will fall more on the side of struggle then sucess, putting aside things like a social life or proper hydration in the name of the THEATAH. Whatever, man, it's worth it, this is the FRINGE we are talking about! I just gotta hack it. Just. Gotta. Hack. It.

Apart from dancing around to the Final Countdown in an effor to get myself ready, I will also be blogging reviews of shows AND stage managing a show (cue the shameless self promotion). If you want to see what I think about the many artistic expressions I manage to squeeze into my busy schedule you can see my reviews here. To buy tickets to MY show, go here. To save me from myself,  find me a good therapist. Or buy me a cup of coffee. Both work just fine.

Struggle Gets Busy

Oh, my dear darling readers, where does the time go?And why doesn't it take me with it? As August moves on at a pace a race car driver would envy, I find myself considering the nature of time. Time flies, time waits for no man, time is on my side, thyme is excellent in a marinade... it's all getting a bit convoluted for me. Maybe that's because I haven't been getting much sleep.

The trouble is that I've been a touch, well, busy. I've been very busy. I've been out of control busy and I don't know what to do about it. I can't even imagine what to do about it because I don't have the time to do so! It's such a quandry....And I can't possible think about stopping because then I will lose all focus....

People say you can sleep when you are dead. To be fair, such people are morbid and a touch crazy (and therefore have free reign to just come sit by me) But it's always been something I've taken to heart, and though it conflicts with my deep seated love of sleep. The truth is that I just can't imagine not be horrifically busy, although lately it seems to be catching up with me. Between my job, restraining myself from hitting people in the face, applying for other jobs, being rejected by other jobs (it's almost like there is a recession on or something!), restraining myself from laughing at people right in front of them, shaving my legs (sometimes I hate summer), stage managing a Fringe Festival show, and restraining myself from screaming in public, I just don't seem to have time to sit back, relax, enjoy my netflix cue and unwind. And because I don't fancy the concept of falling down and passing out in public (so hard to find a good fainting couch these days), I let my father convince me to take a day off and drive over to New Jersey for a day at the beach.

Okay, confession time. I've never (gasp) seen a single episode of the Jersey Shore. Not one. Not even once. In my defense, I was traveling during it's premiere season and so I missed all of the screen-printing and social vomiting delights I've heard ran rampant in favor of art, culture, and the joys of fried desserts (thank you, England!). And furthermore, I live in Struggle-fricking-delphia. I don't need to watch a television show about New Jersey. I can just GO to New Jersey and LIVE the madness of strange tattooed men with great abs and a wardrobe by Ed Hardy saying stupid things. And I can bring my father along with me.Those of you out there who live in other states? It's okay to be jealous.

So, woefully ignorant of bump its and spray tans, Padre Struggle and I packed our car, waved goodbye to our cats, and drove two hours to Island Beach State Park, which is, frankly, the nicest beach New Jersey has to offer. I don't care what you say or how much you love Sea Isle or Ventor or Cape May, this beach is nicer. It's clean. You can, on certain occasions, actually see the bottom of the ocean. Frankly, that's a Jersey Shore miracle! Moreover, it's generally free of trashiness and trash, and therefore is actually a pleasant place to spend the day, rather then a debilitating attack on your nerves and body (that's right, Atlantic City, I'm aiming that at you). The day was fair, the winds breezy, the water bracing, and our picnic lunch was sandy but satisfying. All in all, it was a delightful interval.

That is, until I returned home and had 25 messages and innumerable emails and a long rehearsal and more things to do then hours in the day. Oh well, I thought, I'd better buckle down and focus all over again...

Holy hell, I just met someone with those Japanese Anime character contact lenses. Wow. That just happened. And all of a sudden none of it matters. No matter how busy I am, that's something worth taking a break about.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Lets Go Tropicana

If you are anything like me (and I'm just solipsistic enough to assume most people are), then you love the summer with all the abandonment of a small child, dashing through the sprinkler, gorging yourself on ice cream bars (I love that they are called novelties, I mean, how cute is that) and collapsing into a happy heat stroke at the end of the day (what's summer without a trip to the emergency room?).

But there is something about the heat that seems to make other people a little nutty. The other day while browsing a favorite vintage store down on Fabric Row (nothing like spending a day among cheap bridal fabrics and bric-a-brac to make your social life seem more exciting then it otherwise might appear), I heard a radio announcer declare that in this heat you should be sure to check on your older friends and relatives, just to make sure they are still breathing. How very encouraging of them. Motown hits and "make sure grandma's not dead" reminders. If that's not a Struggledelphia radio station, I don't know what is.

So, in an effort to assuage those people out their who are more into cold showers then humid afternoons, I thought I would provide a nice little tropical side dish recipe the ought to help with the heat. You can bring it to all of your elderly friends and relatives, it's a good excuse for dropping by.


Grilled Yucca with Pineapple Salsa:


Pineapple Salsa:
1 large ripe pineapple, diced
1/4 cup chopped Thai basil
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 cup finely chopped red onion
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded, diced
Salt
Pepper
Cilantro (this is optional. While some people worship at the alter of the god Cilantronus, others find it tastes like soap. This is actually a genetic predisposition, rather then a preference, so stop making fun of your friends when they crave or disdain fresh coriander!)

 Combine all of the above ingredients and let sit for at least an hour. Because I first made this in Puerto Rico, I added a splash of rum, which works wonders. Of course, how could it not...


Grilled Yucca-
1 large yucca (most of them come large. I've actually never seen a small one) peeled and sliced into rounds. Soak rounds for at least an hour in a bowl of water. Coat yucca with cooking spray and pre-bake yucca in the oven for 30 minutes on a lowish heat, between 250 and 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Coat with another round of cooking spray or oil and grill until the outside is crispy and the inside is flaky and tender. Smother with pineapple salsa and enjoy, assuming you haven't fainted from the heat. If so, do let me know, I'll eat the leftovers.

Struggle y su avion

The worst thing about a vacation is having to come home. I recognize that this isn't a particularly original thought, but most essential truths turn out to not be original, for example, Love Hurts, No shoes, no shirt, no service, gravity is a rule, not a guideline. All true, all cliche, all painful if you find yourself on the wrong side of them (especially that gravity one, trust me on this as someone who falls down a lot).So I don't know why the hell I was so cheerful and optimistic when I stepped on the plane departing from San Juan heading back towards Struggledelphia. After all this time, you'd really think I would have learned that struggle dogs my every move, wouldn't you? Alas, my friends, just like the possibility of me tripping over a loud Puerto Rican family's luggage, the eventual epic failure was inevitable.

The trick with an epic failure is the build up. You can't fall from grace until you actually all up on top of grace, you know what I mean? In order for the fall, you have to have the pride goething, or it's not hubris, it's just ho hum. So as I was gently tucked into my soft, plush, fully reclinable first class seat (thank you, US Airways upgrades, you truly are amazing!), and plied with wine and warmed cookies and moist hot towels (I don't know why they do this, but I LOVE it. I want this service as part of my every day life. Note to self, marry rich...), I hummed gently with pleasure and curled up with Gogol's Dead Souls to enjoy myself. In the three and a half hours that it takes a plane to leave the Luis Munoz Memorial Airport and arrive in Philadelphia I had covered two hundred or so pages of the book, enjoyed two enormous glasses of cheap white wine, and stolen the majority of my mother's cookie. In short, I was really enjoying myself. And that's when tragedy struck.

Just as we were circling the landing strip, our valiant captain informed us that there was a storm directly over the airport. He also mentioned that the storm had come unannounced, which surprised me, as most storms send me a short email at least an hour before their arrival, but I went with it. He then mentioned that the plane didn't have enough fuel to continue circling the airport. This, frankly, terrified me. What the hell, enough fuel? What would he have done if we had been delayed in the air on the way? How was there no contingency plan? Come on, people, it's a giant metal object hurtling through the air, it's not going to propel itself! But instead of a fiery death in a heap of wreckage, instead we got the next worse thing. That's right, they decided to land us in Atlantic City.

I can't tell you anything meaningful about the Atlantic City airport because I wasn't permitted to enter it. Instead we sat on the plane for 2 hours (with nary an offer of more wine in sight) waiting for weather conditions to improve. Well, most of us did. A full 11 people actually opted to leave their baggage behind and get out in Atlantic City. I honestly didn't know you could really do that, treat a plane like a local bus line, but, hey, what do I know?

When we finally landed in Philadelphia, having been delayed for a full 3 and a half hours (for those of you playing along at home that is the exact amount of time it takes to get from Puerto Rico to Philadelphia, so it was double or nothing that night, apparently), my poor little family and I found ourselves waiting patiently at the baggage claim, dodging other passengers in their gladiator like attempts to wrestle with their luggage. Out came piece after piece after piece, but no bags marked Familia Struggle did we see. An hour later, my mother finally gave up and went to the US Airways  baggage center, where they told us that our luggage was patiently waiting for us at a completely different terminal. Sure. Of course. That makes perfect sense that our bags would be seperated from those for the rest of our flight and we would need to hike through a universe of car rental stops and concrete Escher-wannabes to find it.. And there they were, waiting patiently for us to find them, and finally, FINALLY, go home.

Upside to all this? I couldn't even remember my vacation to be nostalgic and sad about it. It all felt so far away...

Palm Trees and Strugglesome Parrots

I'm going to be 100% honest with you here (when am I ever anything but), I really love the beach. I always have. As a wee little struggle I could be found spending my summers padding about in the water, filling my hair with sand and, this being Atlantic City where I spent the summers of my misbegotten youth, avoiding beer cans and hypodermic needles as I trotted along the shore. My father, Padre Struggle, has always shared this affinity for sun, sand and surf with me, and to this day as our paler family members shroud themselves in cover-ups and sunscreen and hide in the shade of a nearby cabana, we two wander the beaches of the world bronzing in the sun and scaring fish. So when we decided to take a weekend trip down to San Juan, Puerto Rico, finding the steamy Struggledelphia summer just a touch too cool for us, it was only natural that we would find ourselves oceanside.

Now, the beaches of Puerto Rico are famous not without reason. Apart from the fact that the waters of the Carribean are so insanely clear that you can see far more of your fellow bathers then you might actually want to (plus, you know, animals, and whatever), they provide a welcome respite from the more, shall we say, colorful aspects of my fellow Islanders. In a culture with more hand gestures then an interpretive dance group and more deep-fried objects then a McDonald's test kitchen it can be nice to get away from el tapon (while a literal translation of this might give you plug, the denizens of Boriquen know it best as traffic jam) and spend some time relaxing with the sound of the ocean trilling in your ears. Of course, as it happens, in the months between May and September, you might not be the only person with that idea in mind. 

For example, when we strolled up to our favorite beach, El Escambron, a scant twenty minute walk from Viejo San Juan, ready to spend a little time getting to know skin cancer intimately, we realized somethings very quickly. Number one, every single other person who lives in the general area of San Juan had arrived there before us. And number two? They had brought the entire contents of their homes.

It must be said that my family and I do indeed bring quite a few things on any excursions we take ourselves. I personally am capable of packing a small suitcase for a less then 24-hour trip. And that's when I'm restraining myself. So I understand that when you take a beach trip you need sunscreen, towels, your sarong, your sunglasses, a book, another book if you think you might get bored with the first book, a notebook, a camera, a snack, a second snack because you burn so many calories burning in the sun, and a chair. At the very least. But compared to almost everyone I observed on Saturday afternoon, I'm like one of those Tibetan monks with 5 possessions.

Walking around, I noticed the following, none of which would have ever occurred to me to bring with me, well, anywhere: Multiple charcoal grills, a gas grill, several shopping carts filled with food, at least five full-scale infant play pens, tents, family sized coolers, three kitchen tables, and last, but in no way least, a sofa. Yes, that's write, a real living room sofa. Right there. On the beach. Because beach chairs? Just don't cut it any more, I suppose.

Now look, I'm all for comfort and convenience. I mean, as I currently type this I'm debating whether it's worth it to climb a total of two flights of stairs go get food (glorious food!) or to stay in this comfortable spot, and I can honestly say I have no idea which impulse will win. But bringing your living room and kitchen with you for a trip to the ocean? That's just crazy.

They did look comfortable, though. Maybe if I got a pick up truck? With some reggeton blasting and some bumperstickers on the back, I might fit right in!

Struggle Crosses Over Volume I

And, finally, after much back and forth and several tearful ice-cream eating sessions with my cats, I can present you call with a conversation between myself, struggle extraordinaire, and my friend Ben, of E. Plurbus Moron, gentleman, statesman, lover, documentor of our insanely strugglesome nation.   I can only hope that you enjoy our little cross-blog pollination attempt as much as we did. Who am I kidding, of course you will, because YOU, like both of us, continue to embrace the struggle!

Ben: Well Leah it is hot as Satan’s taint in D.C. now and we all know what that means: The Real Housewives of New Jersey are back! What’s fun is that most of the women in that show are filing bankruptcy. Now Leah, pretend for a second you’re a normal 22 year old and watch something other than 1980s British crime dramas on PBS, and tell us your thoughts on the Real Housewives. Do they deserve to be punished for their capitalist ways? Power to the reality TV proliteriate!

Leah: First of all, Benjamin, D.C. doesn’t corner the market on hot humid summers, Philly is the mid-Atlantic  too, remember? As I write this my shirt is sticking to my skin so deeply that I’m concerned the two might fuse into some kind of shirt-skin hybrid, and isn’t THAT just the crappiest superpower ever? Second of all, I’ll have you know that I also watch the Disney channel, ABC Family, AND Law and Order reruns on USA, so how is that for hip? (Hep? How are the kids saying it these days?). But about this “Real” housewives business, honestly, can’t these ladies just defy convention and get a job? I just want to go hit them in the face with the Feminist Mystique. Of course, knowing them, they might think that was a feminine hygiene product….

Ben: Haha do you mean the “Feminine Mystique” or “Feminist Mystique”, Countess Luann De Lesseps line of erotic body jewelry?

Leah: What makes body jewelry erotic? Oh, god, please don’t answer that.

Ben: Speaking of famous ghouls with really bad debt problems, this past weekend was the first anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. Where were you when this news broke, Leah?

Leah: Jesus, I don’t even remember, I think I blocked that out in a shame spiral of whiskey and one-woman reenactment’s of Bad. But then, who didn’t?

Ben: Certainly not me! But now that we have a little perspective on his death I have to say that the whole idea that his death was shocking is kind of ridiculous, no? I mean when Elvis died it was the first time people realized that a Rock music icons were mortal enough to die on the toilet and not in just in a freak accident/overdose. But Michael Jackson? People were weeping over the death of a man who weighed like 40 pounds and didn’t have a face. Was it sad? Yes. Was it the most shocking thing MJ’s every done? God no.

Leah: I know! What about the baby on the balcony? The Surgeries? The marriage to a (wait for it) POSSIBLE female! Honestly, in this case death is probably one of the most vanilla things he could have done.
Ben: That’s not to say Michael Jackson didn’t change lives. Leah his music taught you how to dance and be yourself. And he taught me a little game he ~sob~ used to like to call ~sob~ “Naked tickle fun time” ~sobs hysterically as Leah slowly finishes her coffee ignoring Ben’s weeping~

Leah: Yeaaaahhhhh, can we not wander down the memory lane that was your time at Neverland Ranch? It gets awkward for everyone else when you talk about the toys and the outfits and the totally consensual non-sexual acts that totally didn’t happen not even one time.
But seriously, think about this for a second, Michael Jackson is dead, Madonnna may secretly be the Incredible Hulk if her arms are any indication, everyone else is reduced to making fun of themselves on VH1, what happened to that generation of music? And they wonder why we like this indie-rock business so much, unwashed and pretentious it might be, but at least the artists don’t seem quite so mentally unstable. I say that, of course, but then you have GaGa….

Ben: Leah…please….you’re overloading me on pop culture references. I’m not strong enough. Can we please discuss politics?!?

Leah: FINE.

Ben: I guess I was wondering if you had heard that Jan Brewer, the governor of Arizona who totally isn’t a racist who hates Hispanics, said that “Most immigrants from Mexico come over as drug mules.” As a Mexican, how do you feel about this Leah?

Leah: Wow, Ben, I’m just going to breeze straight past your racist ignorance of geography and just remind you that Puerto Rico is actually not a part of Mexico. ANYway, I couldn’t agree with her more! It’s just like how most Chinese immigrants strolled in all “please, for the love of god, let us build your railroads and, eventually, populate your universities!”

Ben: Right. It’s like saying that Jewish immigrants came to this country to run our banks/media and add vigor to our meat sandwich culture.

Leah: Wait, isn’t that true, though? I mean, my ancestors, the non-drug mule ones, obviously, escaped a pogrom and crawled into Ellis Island with a copy of Adam Smith in one hand and an entire pastrami in the other. Didn’t yours?

Ben: This country was founded on the idea of freedom from drug mules and fatty beef sandwiches! And I will be damned ~sob~ if these Socialists ~sob~ try to stop Jan Brewer from ~sob~ keeping America White, er, constitutionally grounded. Wow if I’m turning into Glenn Beck I think it might be time to shut this conversation down.

Leah: Yes, I’m feeling a little dirty right now just from listening to you. Well, there you have it folks, reality television, 80′s pop stars, blatant racism, Ben crying twice. Happy 4th of July. This is just how the founding fathers must have spent it!