San Franstruggle Volume I

I just got back to Struggledelphia from San Franstruggle. It was my first trip to the Fog City, and, to be frank, I was not expecting to love it. After all, I have very negative feelings about the OTHER city in California (if you can call a place where a car is a non-negotiable a city...) and didn't expect to find a town built by robber barons and gold prospectors to be that interesting. However, I don't know what the hell I was thinking, because obviously anything built by robber barons and gold prospectors is BOUND to be awesome, number one, and number two, it was Padre Struggle's law school reunion, and number three, Strugglemano took a one-man six-hour road trip to meet us, and as a result, hilarity ensued. And while I will be happy to break down all the crazy in due time, for now, I'm just going to give you some images, and let you imagine the rest. The best story will get a large prize! And by prize, I mean bragging rights. Come one, don't give me that look, there is a recession on!

Struggle Cuts It Out

Liminal seasons as they are, fall and spring seem to be the times of year in which we most crave change. Call it spring cleaning (or fall dirtying? why doesn't fall get a thing?), but I always feel like doing something new when the weather changes, like changing my nail polish color or shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die or something. You know, something festive and fun. And normally I would be eagerly anticipating the change of seasons with joy, but this year, well, I can't really get into it. Why, do you ask? It's the silence.

You see, I've been applying for jobs for a few months now, and, things being what they are in the world, etc, I've found myself facing a flurry of rejection, a handful of awkward interviews, and a giant void of silence. The rejection I can deal with, I mean, I went to high school in the United States, so, I've got that down. The awkward interviews don't faze me, awkward is, frankly, my calling card, so I make it work, taking each one with a grain of salt, (and, later, a shot of tequila).  It's the silence that has begun to get to me, though, it's the silence that is bringing me down. You pour your heart and soul and the better part of an hour into a cover letter explaining in great but succinct detail how you would be the perfect development assistant/fry cook/baseball coach/mayor, and you check that everything is correct and that everyone possible has been thanked for their consideration, and then you carefully send it off by email/mail/carrier pigeon, and you wait. And wait. And wait. Godot himself walks by during your time spent waiting, he says hi, you two have some coffee, he moves on. And all you are left with is silence, nothingness, the sound of one hand clapping. No wonder they called it the Great Depression, because this is painful.

Look, I know that in this situation the companies and businesses and clown troupes have the power; there are ten million of me and only a few of them, I get it. And I'm certainly not expecting a hand written thank you note every time I send in an application. But really, is sheer silence the only option? Can't there be any kind of acknowledgement that I have, in fact, made an effort and you have received the fruits of my labor? Because as it is I can't help but imagine my job applications floating out there in the universe, blowing the wind, disturbing sleeping homeless people and amusing squirrels. I don't like squirrels, and I really don't appreciate the image of them getting acorn pieces all over my cover letters and mocking my special skills section on my resume. I'd like to see THEIR resumes, stupid squirrels...

In times like these when you find yourself confused, concerned, and contemplating squirrelicide, the best solution is to breathe, try to relax, and find yourself something else upon which to place your focus. And if you can't change your career path and the authorities wont let you hunt squirrels in public places, there is no better place to go then to your appearance. And so I cut off my hair. Well, I say I did, but really it was a nice man with expensive scissors and more product then that one character in Glee. After all, if change wont come to you, you might as well go out and find it.

So, I'm still applying for jobs, I'm still living in the huge hit of silence and suffering, and I still hate squirrels. But I look good. So, you know, net gain, I say. Happy October, people.

All the world's a struggle

Oh, man, I can't believe that the Live Arts/Philadelphia Fringe festival is over! It seems like only yesterday I was leafing through the Gutenberg Bible that is the guide, and now it's gone, with the wind, but without the southern accents, obviously. I saw punk rock musicals and telenovelas and children's stories and dance and music and all kinds of delights, and that was just in one weekend. And while there was just SO much good in this year's festival, there was also a large ratio of struggle.And I'm going to focus on that because, well, petty as it may seem, it makes me feel better to point out the short comings of others. Yes, I know, but at least I have the guts to express what we are all thinking, right? Happy Yom Kippur to ME.

And so, without further ado, I present my rules to you for how to avoid making bad theater. You know how they say only a very good actor can play a very bad actor? You will be interested to know that in my experience this is not always the case...

1. Don't offend the costumer. Seriously, don't do it. She/He/They will make you look so bad that small children will run, scared, screaming from the theater. And anyone who manages to stay and watch will be consumed the entire show with the question of what the hell you did to the costumer to PUT YOU IN THOSE SHOES. They will construct elaborate theories of how you ran over their puppy while holding their grandmother hostage and seducing their significant other and remaining at least ten pounds thinner then them at all times. And whatever else you are doing on stage will not at all matter because all they will be thinking about is that poor puppy. I promise you, this can all be avoided if you just buy the costumer a cup of coffee and compliment their shoes. Be cool, okay? Don't offend the costumer.

2. Don't write a play that is solely about your last failed relationship/job interview/search for the perfect pair of skinny jeans. No one finds it as interesting as you do, and the fact that you sit in the front row crying during each run is a dead give away. Living well is the best revenge. Setting your last personal tragedy to the music of the Beach Boys isn't.

3. Don't assume that just because it's a Fringe Festival no one will notice the lack of lights/sound/plot just because you've included nudity. They totally will notice. They may not CARE, but they will notice.

4. If you absolutely must do a pure improv show (and the jury's still out for me on this one, unless we are talking about my friend Ned, hi Ned! who is legitimately great at improv) please be legitimately great at improv. Otherwise it's like watching a young boy's bar mitzvah, it's awkward, everything is cracking, and even the after-party booze doesn't erase all the memories.

5. Don't do anything by David Mamet. Admittedly, this one might be a personal preference, rather then a real rule. Nevertheless, I'm allowing it.

So that's my advice to you. Stick to these five basic rules and you should be okay. Or, make a show that is entirely composed of these five elements and let the chips fall where they may. Who knows? It might be so deeply bad it's secretly awesome, like, say, the new 90210 or Vegemite . If that turns out to be the case, can you score me a ticket? Because I totally want to come.

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.