Struggle Gets Train Rage

Lately it has been of a chilly nature here in my fine city of Struggledelphia, and despite the odd warmer day, I've been taking the El fairly frequently. What, say you, is this "El" of which you speak? Well, it's our sorry excuse for a subway. It has a plethora of lines! (It has two lines.) It can take you anywhere you want to go! (If you want to go somewhere around those two lines.) It's an easy way to get around! (If getting around means living, working, eating or hanging out around those two lines.) In a word, it's miserable.

The subway in Philadelphia is not like the subway in other cities. In New York, for example, all kinds of people take the subway, hipsters off home to Brooklyn, yokals desperate to catch that showing of Legally Blonde: The Musical, hungry interns and annoying Columbia students, all together in harmony. That's because it's an efficient system of transportation. And I've been to many cities like this. When I lived in Moscow I saw people literally take the subway back home to Kiev. KIEV. That's not even IN Russia anymore! (Note, this may or may not be a slight exaggeration). This is not the case here in my hometown. I take the subway, because I happen to live right by it. Other people who take the subway include the homeless, illegal immigrants, Temple University students and the gently insane. That's about it.

For example, my subway rides, if they had titles, could include ones such as "neck tattoos have I known" and "smoking inside, a how-to-guide" and "subway tracks: the untold garbage cans of our time" and "how many rats can you see at once?" and "singing to strangers, do or don't?" and "bling my burka!" (which, by the way, is an AMAZING reality television show idea, so someone make that, please. Thanks. Oh, yeah. It's a thrill a minute on the Philadelphia subway.

And clearly advertisers are beginning to pick up on the more charming aspects of my morning commute by offering us signs like this:

and this gemstone, sparkling in the morning dew:

Let me give you a close up, because that's fun:

But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can top this little number:

Let me break it down for you, shall I? Number 1, those are two pieces of sperm. That's what that's supposed to be. Sperm. Anthropomorphic Sperm. Chatting. Have a bit of a tete-a-tete, if you will. And the one sperm, that knows about sperm banks (don't worry about the logic of a sperm wanting to be contributed to a sperm bank, there's no time for such a thing now) is obviously richer, better educated and more cultured then the other sperm, as evidenced by his briefcase. And suit. And the other sperm is just some punk, with a sweatband, like all the kids are wearing these days, and a sports costume of some sort. So if you do donate sperm and get that sweet sweet 150 dollars, you should go out and blow it on a suit and a (presumably) empty briefcase, and then go tell your friends/strangers you meet on the subway, about it. That's what I'm getting out of this.

Just because context is important, I thought you might like to know that this ad is sandwiched between an ad for a different kind of bank and an ad for the Henry Ossawa Tanner show at the Academy of Fine Arts. 

So that's my morning commute. You stay classy, struggledelphia! 

Aud Land Struggle

This is a taxidermy coyote in a rain slicker. Like you do. 

So, for some reason blogger wouldn't let me post this last week, because it's seen the title of this blog and decided to contribute to my continuing pain and sorrow. Like blogging platforms do. But enough about that, happy 2012, people! Assuming the Mayan calender is wrong (I mean, can we really trust people who could figure out about chocolate but NOT about adding sugar? That's like inventing paper and then being like, this will be perfect for clothing!) I think this is going to be a great (strugglesome) year and that the world will not (possibly) be ending. Why, you ask? Well, honestly, at lot of that has to do with the fact that I've gotten really into some new TV shows and looking forward to them is pretty much the only thing that keeps me going. I kid. Do I? Yes (no).

But most of it has to do with my new mantra, which I straight up stole from my friend Kate (thanks Kate!). It's, "Let things go, or you will be dragged". It's simple, it's effective, and I have pretty much a 1% chance of keeping it. I am just not a person who can let things go. For example, last year around this time I was having a  conversation with someone and I brought up Fredrick Jackson Turner's Frontier Thesis from the 1893 Chicago Worlds Fair (like you do, over drinks, you know) and he (the person, not Turner) was like, yeah, but that was over 200 years ago. And I was like, I feel strongly that that is incorrect, but I didn't say anything, I just internally cringed. AND I'M STILL CRINGING. Somewhere that knowledge lives inside of me, and if I might be perfectly candid, from that point on I've always thought less of that person (again, the guy, not Turner). These things LIVE inside of me, somewhere, grating against my nerves like a spoon playing a washboard in a hillbillie band. I am, on many levels, the Vendetta Kid.

And obviously this is not a particularly healthy way to live your life. In theory I truly believe that if you just breathe and give in to the universe, good things will happen. I've just never actually be able to do that. Instead I write bible-length emails about the 1893 Worlds Fair which, and this is very VERY important, NEVER GET SENT. It is the only way I've managed to avoid being tarred and feathered by angry villagers. So when I have a strugglesome vendetta I just spew all of that out into a notebook or an email or a handy google document and then there we go. Oh, don't mistake me, I still have black-out moments of mindless rage and fury over an insult I received a good 10 years ago, but it's lessened, somehow, by the knowledge that somewhere out there is a 14 year old's notebook with a well crafted scathing response to "Dude, your sister has more underarm hair then I do" (I was 14! And I wasn't aloud to shave yet! God, what a JERK!).

Still. Someday, when future generations find said notebooks and google docs, no doubt they will publish them like the brilliant pieces of personal petty grievances they are. In which case, Cosi salad guy who put blue cheese on my Greek salad instead of feta because you want to make me CRY, you will finally get what's coming to you.

Yeah. I'm totally going to get dragged, aren't I. 2012. Already a great year.

Fall Into Struggle

You know how life can get away with you? My life has totally gotten away from me. I thought I was cool and keeping things together and then I realized that I haven't posted on this blog since August. AUGUST. Holy hell. August. I don't even remember August. I can barely remember August Osage County and I saw that, like, two weeks ago. What the hell happened to me?

Well, I'll tell you. I went on Birthright (that's a trip to Israel, for all my goyim in the audience). Then I came back, moved out of my parents house into my own apartment, started a new job and started directing a play. All within one week. And since then it's pretty much been "go-go-go" that gets briefly interrupted by breaks for sleeping and drinking water (i.e. booze).So the struggle, oh, it continues, does it ever continue. A highlight reel? You got it. With photos that have nothing to do with anything but are still hilarious? But of course!

Struggles have I known, Autumn Edition:

1. I almost got arrested by airport security in Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, upon departure back to the mess that is JFK because I had organic date honey in my bag and apparently there is a thin line between condiments you were bullied into buying on a kibbutz (Pushy Israelis? No! Say it ain't so!) and bombs. I politely explained to the nice (horrible) woman at airport security that if I was a terrorist, wouldn't it make more sense for me to be bringing things INTO Israel rather then sneaking them out? She was not amused.

2. I moved into my new apartment and had an incident with my smoke alarm, and by this I mean that it just went off one day and would not stop beeping. Literally WOULD NOT STOP. At 10pm. On a Sunday. So then when I tried to fix the central alarm box in the common hallway, I locked myself OUT of my still-beeping apartment, in my Pajamas. I couldn't go to my parents house to get my spare key because not only was it raining, but I wasn't wearing shoes. Or appropriate undergarments. So I had to call my father to come and help me out. That's right. I called my daddy. Struggle.

3. The day before my Fringe Show opened,  my sound designer quit. And despite the vodoo dolls and fist waves at the sky, I still had to actually figure out a solution and run the damn sound myself. Just another name to add to my death-list book.

4. I went to the theater and a complete stranger told me to punch my new boss in the dick. That one was pretty funny, actually.

5. My hair still doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up.

So, sorry for the delay, anyone who might be reading this, but I promise, I'm back, and struggling more then ever. But hey, you probably called that, right?

A Struggle Is Worth a Thousand Words: San Juan 2011 Edition

I don't even know what to say about Puerto Rico anymore, I really don't. You've heard about all the crazy there is to hear, right? Hahaa, oh, silly reader, of course you haven't, such a thing is foolish. There is ALWAYS more crazy in the Caribbean. If they can't find it locally, they import it.

A few years ago when we visited San Juan we were informed, upon arrival, that all of the water was off. As in, the water company, in what is apparently a rotine move, will periodically shut off water in various parts of the city to repair/maintain the pipes. So if you happen to visit during such times, don't worry, relax, have some rum, but don't expect to be able to shower, use the bathroom, or get some water. That's fine, though, really, I mean, who needs it?

I thought that was the worst trip ever. And really, it was. But this time when we went to Puerto Rico for your favorite Struggle's birthday, the electric company had surged our home and left us with no power. Okay, yes, we got it back eventually, but not before a week of anxiety, many broken bulbs, a fridge full of spoiled food and a broken microwave and dryer. Oh, and HOURS on the phone being passed between people who don't know what they are talking about. And if you think that's bad in English, you might want to try it in Spanish. Just saying. Sigh. I still had fun, though. It was probably the rum. And of course, I saw some strugglesome things. And I like to think that the universe works hard to make my birthday a complete struggle every year just because it can. I appreciate it, even, I think it's nice. At least is something special, right?

For your viewing pleasure, struggle in San Juan 2011, a photo display:

There's a lot to think about here. Plantain soup in a bag. Hedgehogs as spokespeople for soda. Pulpo. Prado. Struggle. I'll leave you to it.

Struggle Waits It Out

I am not great at being patient. It is not one of my many virtues. Don't get me wrong, I'm a super virtuous person, I got em all, charity, simplicity, big hair, sturdy extremities....but patience, no, that's not really my bag, baby. Which is really a problem when you have broken a part of your body and you are waiting for it to heal. Because you kind of need patience while the bone cells regenerate and knit themselves back together. And yelling at your foot to "Heal faster, you jag!" doesn't actually work as well as one might think it would. So I present to you for your reading pleasure and deep edification my tips and tricks for fast foot healing. At the very least, they can save you. It may be too late for me, honestly, I'm thinking about just scrapping the thing and putting a wheel there. 

1. Double up on your calcium. Hell, triple up on your calcium! Shotgun milk, slurp down yogurt, or do what I do, and chew on Calcium supplements the size of horse tranquilizers. It has the added benefit of being extremely attractive to members of the opposite sex. 

2. Use your crutches as weapons, indicators, cat prods, make things fun for yourself! The nice people at the hospital gave a physically unbalanced person long pointy metal sticks. Clearly they want you to USE them. 

3. Febreze your walking boot. I don't care what time of year it is or if you think you among all the people on earth are immune to sweating. People in your life will thank you. 

4. Do not say "my boot is so smelly!" and then force friends and loved ones to smell it. Trust me, they will not appreciate being a part of your healing process in this way. 

5. Do indulge in as much Law and Order as possible. This is just a general life/sick/bored/snow day/heat wave day rule. Nothing makes you feel as good as watching Ice T fight crime. 

6. Do offer to help around the house, and then pathetically be unable to do so. This provides a constant reminder to others that you are in pain and special and need their constant devotion and care. Try whimpering gently as you fold laundry or attempt to wash a dish. People love a good whimper. 

7. Do make up interesting stories about your injury. I put my foot on the ground and it broke? So what, it's boring. I heroically rescued a baby tiger from poachers, only to have it turn on me? I'm a rock star. Other alternatives include knife fight, hooking, and falling meteor. And no, you can't use those. They are mine. 

8. Do not drink and hop. 

9.When you drink and hop, make sure no one is around to see how foolish you look. 

10.  When you finally get off of the crutches and out of the boot, don't be an idiot and break your foot again. 

Just to be clear, that last one was mostly a warning from me to me. Come on, little foot, keep it together, don't fall apart on me again! 

Struggle Goes Down For The Count

It seems that I am destined to hurt myself in really mundane and uninteresting ways. When I was 16 I broke my right foot literally tripping over a shoe. I've burned myself many times grazing up against too hot stoves and too scalding pans. On time, in Arizona, I walked right into a Saguaro cactus, and my mother spent the evening with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight picking spikes out of my head. Aren't family trips the best? But what I did yesterday might be the least intelligent way I've ever damaged my body. In my defense, however, do you really expect to fracture your foot by placing the thing on the ground? No? Well, apparently you need to START, folks, because yesterday I placed my poor left foot on the ground and broke it. Like you do. When you are a huge struggle.

Picture a stoplight, and a girl on a bike, wind in her hair, stains on her shirt, just trying to get to her offices to show some apartments. The girl, in accordance with the laws of Philadelphia and, you know, gravity, stops at the light, placing her mid-sized elegantly shod left foot on the street below. And it promptly crumples, pulling her body down with it. The girl feels a gentle snap. That's interesting, she thinks, and continues biking. She then shows several apartments to an older gentleman who comments that she may more may not be limping. Limping is for losers, the girl explains, and continues on her way. However, her foot seems to be swelling at an exponential rate, which doesn't seem all that normal, and when she shows it to mother, Mama Struggs says that thing is broken. Strugglemano says her foot looks FAT, which is a very Los Angeles statement and therefore can be ignored. Padre Struggle just laughs, which is way the girl asks her MOTHER, the only supportive person in the WORLD, to take her to the emergency room.

Once at the emergency room the girl is asked all sorts of questions like Does She Feel Safe At Home (yes), Does She Have An Eating Disorder (no), Is She Pregnant (given her complete lack of a love life, the girl just laughs at this one. The nurse is not amused) . X-rays are taken, a nice comforting lead blanket covering her reproductive organs to ensure that if she ever gets herself a love life she might actually be able to GET pregnant, and the break is, indeed, revealed. The girl is whisked to the orthopedist where after a brisk two hour wait she is fitted with a neat little black bootie, and told she has had a perfect break. What joy! thinks the girl, a pefect break! One does so love to achieve in all directions. She is then sent home with her black bootie, a pair of crutches, and assurances that this recovery will take about four weeks until she's back on the bike that first brought her to the hospital. In the mean time she can keep her appendage elevated, "listen to her foot" for when to start putting weight upon it, and be the fascinating spectical hopping around and sliding up and down the stairs that her family and cats will marvel upon. Oh, yes, and watch her foot turn interesting colors. If you think about it, it's really a gift!

Or a huge struggle. Any guesses as to how I'm thinking about it? And so, there you have the epic saga of how I totally broke my foot by putting on the ground. Watch out for that ground, people, it's a sly minx. When those jetpacks finally happen, I'm buying twelve. Of course, knowing me, I will probably be the first person to set themselves on fire with my jetpack. Wish me luck with my foot, Strugglenation, and with daytime television. I feel like I'm going to need it, on both counts.

Struggle is the Cruelest Month

Struggledelphia is by all accounts a fantastic city. This is a fact, and anyone who wants to dispute it can come over here and FIGHT me. No, they can't, actually, please don't, I bruise like a peach, but the point is, I love this crazy strugglesome city, I think it's tops. I think it's amazing. It only has one tragic flaw, one horrible element, one bad apple spoiling the bunch. Is it our widespread obesity? No, of course not, that's crazy talk. Is it our complete lack of real public transportation? No,no, that's charming. No, it's the Wharton School of Business. And it's bringing us all down.

Let me explain something to you about business school students. They are, perhaps, the worst people with whom you may ever come into contact. Look, I don't know your life, you may be hanging out this dictators and child molesters and clowns all the time, and in that case, maybe it's time to make some better choices, but do what you must, I suppose. However, for the majority of us who actually like decent human beings, Wharton students may be as bad as it gets. Because there is no one as entitled, as argumentative, as straight up horrible as a Wharton student. And in April, they descend. They fall upon Philadelphia like Locusts, searching for apartments, evaluating West Philadelphia, generally acting like the worst possible versions of ourselves.Picture people who are more entitled then Prince William (Royal Wedding!), more aggressive then Margaret Thatcher (I'm on a roll with this British thing) and more unpleasant then, um, English cuisine. Then multiply them. Then picture them running all over the city, ruining our bars and restaurants with their stupid whining selves. It's enough to make you sick.

Look, I recognize that sometimes people need to go to business school. Maybe you aren't attractive, maybe you can't whittle worth a damn, maybe you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you incapable of doing any other profession, again, I don't know. I just don't know. But what I do know is that if you by some chance find yourself being introduced to a Wharton student, you slap them, and you run in the other direction. To be fair, of course, my own father was at one time a Wharton student, as was my grandfather, but these nice gentleman are exceptions. The majority of them? Are just the worst.

Or at least that's what I thought until I went to a street fair on Saturday and was confronted with a collection of horrible human beings pushing, shoving, and leading their wretched little children about while screaming about the crowds. What is it about street fairs that makes otherwise normal people start acting like vicious hose beasts? I'm just trying to walk down the street here, people, you really don't need to make my life the most painful thing ever just because you prefer to stop and stare. Are you Wharton students by any chance? Yes, you are? How shocking. But at least I got to see this:

Wharton Students aside, totally worth it. Obviously.

Please, Sir, I Want Some Struggle

What do you do when your are home alone? Do you run around naked? Do you dance around to loud music? Do you throw wild parties? Do you re-paint? Or do you, in fact, cook large meals for yourself and a good friend? Can you guess into which category I fall? 

Yeah. I make large meals with my friend Ben. Obviously. Ben and I got together this past Saturday night and prepared ourselves a simple meal of spice rubbed duck breast (Ben) brocolini blanched and sauted with garlic(myself) and curried saffron rice (more of myself). 

And wine. And cheese. And gossip. And maybe I'm crazy, okay, I'm definitely crazy, but it was a really lovely evening! No clubs, cabs or critical hook up moments, no embarrassing statements or stranger danger, just a nice evening with a friend. Because here's the thing, most people I know? Are struggling. At least, most young people I know are struggling. I mean, obviously, I'm struggling, it's right there in the name, but I mean in terms of the nightlife. Between the job situation and the social stuff and the constant fear that you are missing something on TV, things can get a little rough out there. So while my peers may feel the need to fill every evening with a constant stream of activities and location changes (BEN), I really enjoy nights that have one, maybe two main attractions. Honestly, much more then that gives me sensory overload and the extreme need for a snack. I know we have the fountain of youth pouring through our veins and whatever Romantic era metaphor you prefer, but doesn't anyone want to save some of that up for middle age? Every night isn't New Years, guys, you can take an evening off and wear sweatpants. No one will know but me, I promise, and I wont tell. (Yes, I will. Do it anyway.)  I mean, good lord, people, don't you get tired? It's all well and good to say you will sleep when you are dead but....I REALLY like sleeping. 

See? Don't I look happy? All well rested and happy? And with a nice glass of wine instead of a horrible but calorically conscious vodka and soda water? Ben brought, in addition to duck breast, his usual heavy snark, which pairs excellently with my own generous helping of sarcasm, and together we gorged ourselves on olives and political commentary (read, pop culture references) until Ben had to bail to go out for the evening. And me? I nestled my way into my pajamas, curled up with some USA network shows (as one does) and enjoyed my evening off of being 23 years old. 

This is how is all looks before my expert plating. The brocolini is the easiest thing in the world, blanch it, saute it with chopped garlic, sprinkle some red pepper flakes and salt and pepper over that sucker and you are DONE. Ben used a combo of spices and brown sugar with the duck breast, which we pan seared and then finished in the oven. The brown sugar gives it that deliciously crispy crust of caramelized goodness, so whatever combination of things you rub on the duck, make sure it includes brown sugar. In this case, it's like foodie crack, I swear. 

The Struggle Hill Mall

Thought it pains me to admit it, sometimes I can't get everything I need in one place. I wish I never had to leave the warm comforting arms of Struggledelphia for any reason at all. I wish I could have unlimited wealth and access to a never ending store of cupcakes as well.But given that I work in the arts and I don't want to end up on one of those horrible weight loss shows, neither of those things look like they are going to happen any time soon. And neither can I stay in Struggledelphia forever. Sometimes the winds of fate and sands of destiny (why....would destiny want sand? It gets in everything. Just saying.) compel me to to seek my fortune elsewhere, and so I must venture forth and explore the wilds of civilization beyond the reach of our fair city. And so it was, with a heavy heart and a warm coat, that I ventured, last weekend, to the Cherry Hill Mall.

The Cherry Hill mall is located, surprisingly enough, in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, the sight of many white collar crimes, 50's style diners, and single level shopping centers. Plus they also have a Wegmans not too far away. Basically, it's everything you could ever want without anything you actually need. As an urbanite, I'm fascinated with malls, and I always have been. Plants! Mall walkers! Hot Topic! (Have you ever seen a Hot Topic outside of a mall? Think it through.) Malls seem to have a plethora of stores and businesses that do not exist outside of their air conditioned climate controlled food courted halls. I certainly have never thought about the Mall as a social activity. I thought people only "hung out" in malls in movies, Fast Times at Ridgemont High springs to mind. Oh, gentle readers, I could not have been more wrong....

This is a mall modeling talent search. It looks like they got some winners. 

This is not good parenting. 

This does not seem like a great deal. 

This is how New Jersey does hair. 

This is not a store I've ever seen in real life. This is a man, on the verge of the silent scream. 

This is another way New Jersey does hair. 

This is another imaginary store. 

This is what Betty Friedan was talking about. 

This is me. I am not amused. 

I really hope Struggledelphia gets a Forever 21 soon. Because I'm not relishing going back out to New Jersey and living through that grotesque carnival of human misery again....I'm completely kidding. I love that place. Bring it on, New Jersey, I can take it. 

Give Us This Day Our Daily Struggle

I walked to work this morning. I had a meeting part of the way between my job and my home and it didn't make sense to go all the way to work first, and this city is basically bereft of public transportation so I walked. I walked through mountains of snow, because even though it has been almost a week since the last storm apparently it's been decided that the sidewalks of Struggledelphia should remain as scale models of the Alps. And I walked through rivers of ice, because salt is for pansies and the city government would prefer that us Struggledelphias bravely take on the elements with nothing more then our bare hands and Quaker determination. And I fell. Right on my knees. At the corner of Struggle Garden and 11th street. Thank you, good people of City Hall, for teaching me that valuable lesson about falling down in public.

But on some level I'm glad I walked all the way in because my path took me through all kinds of struggle, and as I always carry around my camera, I can now share some of that for you. Enjoy. Happy end of January. If February has this much snow, I'm moving to Mexico. Who's in?

Struggleslovakia

I was driving in downtown Struggledelphia the other day when I came upon a deeply perplexing sight. Cold the wind was, and icy breezes blew through the city. Wrapped in fleece and down, the noble inhabitants of my fair struggle hurried on their way, faces turned from the bitterness of the day. None of this, of course, is surprising, it's been insanely cold here in Struggledelphia, the kind of weather that makes you understand why so many Colonial beverages mix hot liquids and alcohol (Have you had mulled wine lately? A hot toddy? Cider? It's all working for me right now). But what WAS surprising was the large typically vacant office building at the corner of Market and StruggleFirst street which was festooned with pictures of actor Bradly Cooper's face in some kind of pseudo political campaign. But the weirdest part? That political campaign was for the city of New York.

Now, I'm fairly certain that Struggledelphia is not, in fact, New York. I know for a fact that there are at least 5 people in our Chinatown who speak English, which is 500% more then New York has. Also, we barely have a subway system. Also, a bottle of water costs under 5 dollars. So it seemed unlikely that the two cities had in fact fused together overnight and that I was at the corner of Struggledelphia and Broadway. Although that would be an awesome Twilight-zone....

And then it occurred to me, none of this was real! It was, in fact, a movie. A movie being shot in here in Sturggledelphia but set in New York. Right, Because the two cities look EXACTLY alike. We have a Statue of Liberty as well. It's called the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. Looks exactly the same, if you squint. And have glaucoma. And it's nighttime. And raining. And all the power is out. Right?

And then I realized, as I dodged Bradley Cooper fangirls (and boys, let's not be heteronormative) and tried to make it to my pilates class in something approaching on time, they have been shooting a lot of movies in our fair city. Last summer they shot the completely unsuccessful "How Do You Know", and the as yet unreleased "The Best and the Brightest". The movie that has prevented me from punctuality recently is called "Limitless". And apparently the trailer for "Ceder Rapids" features the Struggledelphia skyline, even though the movie is supposed to be set in, well, Iowa. Thanks, guys, that was kind of you. Next time you are here, we are spitting in your stupid cheesesteaks.

So what does this add up to, pray tell? Why, it's obvious! Struggledelphia is the new Prague! Think about it, Prague is the stand in for every European city ever. Movies are shot in Prague all the time, because it's cheap, it's beautiful, and stupid American movie audiences will never figure it out. Unless they actually go to Prague...but of course that's crazy talk. Americans don't travel. We are literally incapable of being outside of a 50 mile radius of a Starbucks and/or a McDonalds. Everyone knows that. But really, think about it some more. Prague has never been bombed. Struggledelphia has never been bombed. Prague is famous for it's history. Struggledelphia is famous for it's history. Prague was the capital of Bohemia. Struggledelphia has a naked bike ride! Prague has had not one, but TWO defenestrations. Struggledelphia recently got a Barney's co-op! I could go on like this all day, but I think you all get the picture. Struggledelphia is the new Prague. Come visit us quickly before we convert to the Euro and all the cigarette prices go up.

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.

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 Goes Whole Hog

First of all, I want to apologize for the lateness of this post. And then I want to do what I was taught to do as a proud US Citizen and completely pass the blame over to someone else. In this case, that would be my friend Ben. You see, Benny-boy had this grand idea that we should do a joint post, rather like a conversation piece. Fine, I said, because in theory it seemed like a fun thing to do, and besides, I was still waiting on my next Netflix. Our email conversation started off really well, we had a solid back and forth, worthy of a few laughs at the very least. But what began as a steady stream of struggle ended up a tiny trickle that dried away into nothing, leaving my last response cold and alone out in cyberspace, waiting for Godot, and an email back. Lost, confused, a little betrayed, I wondered, was it me? Was it Ben? Was it the struggle? Sure, it's definitely that last one. But it's also something more. Because the more I looked around me at my peers, the more I could see a trend. I saw energy, excitement, a fresh approach to everything (even to pants. But tights? Not pants. You aren't an innovator, you are an idiot. Subject closed). But what you don't see is completion. So much build up, so little finale. There is a "that's what she said" joke in there, but I'm in no mood to make it. Because here is my grand revelation about most people in their early twenties: Excellent start, no follow through.

As I sat, fuming at Ben, and, of course, the mailman who had neglected to bring me my Netflix, I considered this strange phenomenon. After all, it's not just Ben, who couldn't follow up on an email, but it's all of us! It's all around us! We can figure out how to have sex, but we can't figure out how to use condoms! We can avoid an actual call by texting in abbreviations! And if I cared at all about the World Cup, I might bring that up too! I mean, is it any surprise that our generation is the one that has brought back leggings AND rompers, the two most half-assed garments you can possible find? I don't think so, people!

But me? I'm not going halfway down that road and stopping! No, my friends, the struggle isn't something you embrace just a little bit, with one arm, or maybe giving it a subtle graze on the buttocks! You have to get all the way in there, hug it out, throw both arms around the thing and just squeeze! So I am, from now on, all about the follow through, and you should be too! After all, they do say in for a penny, in for a pound, and while we may have thrown off the shackles of our funny-talking dry-witted former landlords in other respects, that little aphorism about their strange monetary system remains. So to inspire you to, as my father says, "finish the job", the following is a list of some current young people who I consider all talk and no action:

1. Amanda Bynes. Girl is retiring from her "acting" "career" at the age of 24.  I call foul on this one. Faye Dunnaway has an acting career. Isabella Rossini. Helen Miren. Hell, I'll even give Cathrine Zeta Jones more credit then Ms. Bynes. Because Zeta Jones isn't best remembered for humiliating Colin Firth and Saturday night on Nickelodeon. Yet. You need to HAVE a career in order to retire from one, right? Because if that's not the case, I'm telling everyone I'm a retired Navy SEAL.

2. Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. Not only are they making horrible Mormon-propaganda films about sparkly vampires and the bad actresses who love them, but they NEVER WASH THEIR HAIR. I know that hundreds of thousands of people are standing in line to throw money at films that would make Sergei Eisenstein weep, are you telling me you really can't afford shampoo?

3. Gossip Girl. This show started out all sexy and fun but now it's gotten awkward and weird. That's usually the way it works when you go to college, but, you know, in REVERSE.

Don't get me wrong, I know there are plenty more out there. But I'm going to solider on, and preserve the thin slice of hope I have that for all the Gossip Girls and Bynes' out there there is a Carey Mulligan or a Regina Spektor whose clean hair and actual talents and jobs prove that my generation really can get something done. Otherwise, what's all the struggle for, then?

I can't condemn Ben completely, by the way. He did finally get back to me, and our experiment in joint-blogging will be up soon. So maybe follow through is something that can be learned and developed with proper encouragement and care. Still, I'm not holding out any hope for the Twilight cast.

Dinner for Struggle

It's been very clearly established that I feel fairly negative about most people most of the time, and it's true, I do. However, I feel very positively about most FOOD all of the time. And while I'm perfectly capable of eating large amounts of food all by my lonesome, I tend to try and get someone involved in the process with me, in order to, you know, fulfill social protocols, avoid drinking alone, and dispel all those nasty rumors that I'm building bombs in my basement. So when my friend Jacob (hi, Jacob!) announced that he would be coming into Struggledelphia for a brief interlude I saw no reason not to kill two birds with one stone and have a dinner party, giving me an opportunity to make an enormous meal, invite over tons of people, and, and this is the genius part, avoid actually having to deal with any of the guests.

You see, I'm a little controlling when it comes to cooking. Maybe it was the five years I spent working at a chef right here in Struggledelphia (and as a result if anyone needs a new acid dealer they should let me know, I know at least three!), or maybe it's my secret belief that if I put a knife in the hands of a stranger it gives them a tactical advantage over me should something go down, but I have spent at least 65% of every dinner party I have ever thrown sweating my make up off in the kitchen cooking and cleaning as outside on my patio youthful revelers carouse and quaff. And, to be perfectly honest, part of me really enjoys just that, the act of preparing and creating and watching other people enjoy the product of that process. And another part of me enjoys the fact that whenever I disappear for too long, my friend Mariel (hi, Mariel!) starts to call for me like a baby bird, and then everyone else notices I've been gone and drags me back out to ply me with wine and, (horror of horrors!) socialize. Well, if you can't avoid people, at least surround yourself with the least dreadful of the bunch. And make sure they bring the wine.

So to help out all those who are in search of dinner party guidelines, I've included a few helpful tips, along with photographic illustrations. After all, if I can manage to make it through a night with other people, open flames, food, knives and a gin-based Sangria (don't ask), YOU should be just fine.

1. Be an excellent cook. Or hire one.

 2. It's not the 1950's and 60's anymore, please avoid making Jello-based desserts. I love Mad Men as much as the next sane human being, but come on, people, there's love and then there's crazy. You wouldn't just go around stalking the object of your affection, would you? Walk that same line with pastry, and you should be fine.

3. I know there is a recession on, but serving your pet as the main course is tacky. At least have the class to capture and kill someone else's. It can be a group activity, and thus solves the problem of bored guests should that come up.

4. I don't care how bad you are in social settings, resist the urge to try and escape by any means necessary.

5. Finally, give your friends some love. Especially if they are the ones keeping your wine glass full, and not making fun of your apron.