Facebook and the Search for the Holy Vagina. A letter in excercise of Complaint.

I just drank out of yesterday’s beer instead of todays’. Does this mean I need help?

No matter.

I have constantly been told that as ‘an artist’ I should have a strong opinion and value about life so that, through art, I may change the world. I find it extremely difficult to find causes that I feel passionate about to the point that I might invite someone to piggyback on my soapy box.

I listen adamantly and politely to argument and persuasion, hold back mockery unless the opportunity is so boldly presented, listen to the next human that pleads opposite, and then go home to my stasis as an ignorant mass of carbon. In order to work on my evolution as either a passionate opinionated individual/ close-minded preachy asshole, I have a letter of exercise in complaint:

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Dear Facebook,

Thank you for constantly reminding me that I am alone.

On my profile I am plagued with giant billboards of intrigued Jewish girls, Christian girls and Taoist chicks. They have a false display of interest in me and it only gets my hopes up.  I truly doubt that they can see me, and if they did, they would only see my zombie-face hypnotized by the glow of the computer. I am also questioning how Christian this bitch might be if I can see ¾ of her areola popping out of her blouse. (that really isn’t a complaint) Although I appreciate the wide array of holy vaginal options, what makes you think that I would ever want to go out with somebody that actually knows what to think or believe in? ‘Opposites attract’. If that is true, than shouldn’t I be pining after a flounder or some other kind of flattened sea species?  They wouldn’t understand my jokes, although that would make it unanimous. Show me the sushi of my fantasies, effbee.

Who Would Jesus Do?

Haven’t you read any of my other interests, Facebook? Where are “girls that love crispy red grapes” or “girls that share a distaste for reality television and the people that watch it”? Or even getting to the point: “Brunettes with ghetto booties that like the arts and MIGHT let you sleep with them.” Do other people share this problem, or is it only me?

You have not successfully placed me into an appropriate advertising bracket. Thanks for constantly annoying me.

I understand that you need ads to receive money to keep your site up and running, and we share a symbiotic relationship because your work helps me advertise my petty drivel and musings to unsuspecting bored humans. So, I will not shut you down. YET. BUT! Effective Immediately, I would like relevant ads. I thought you knew me! We’ve been together for like six years now. I think we can work some of this out. I would like pictures of ducks, brunettes with ghetto booties and passion for the arts, and plentiful bowls of macaroni and cheese. Easy Mac has never broken my heart. If you can find a girl that smells like Mac N Cheese, all the better.

ALSO.

There is a little mark on my computer screen that I constantly try to erase because it disguises itself as an unintentional apostrophe.  Fix that asshole non-apostrophe, too.

Without Love,
Dola.

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Now that I have further proven to myself that I am indeed a million years old: My twenty-fourth birthday is this Saturday. And I know not what to do with myself. Note to self: write a to-do list, on that to-do list, write down to figure out what to do. Perhaps find something else to complain about publicly. I can write an anticipated entry about the horrors of growing old or the anguish of feeling obligated to have a good time.. well, where’s the surprise NOW?

I am having more and more trouble making this blog relevant to living life as an actor except proving that we are ego-centered. This is probably not an important lesson to learn.

“Now, four years after hearing all of the stereotypes claimed about actors, I can say with certainty, that they are all true.” –Ken HillWith Love,
Dola

Dang, just drank the wrong beer again. Why don’t I throw these things away?

Creekside Mexico City. Or, How to Determine if your House is trying to Kill You.

I recently saw a play, Crumble, in which the house a family lives in could speak directly to the audience. The father was murdered by the House who was not okay with being adorned with Christmas lights. I became paranoid. After further review, I have determined that my house Is trying to kill me.

If my quadraplex could speak, what would it say? It would be in Spanish. There would be barriers. Determining each other’s needs would be a challenge. Like most of my intimate relationships, long-term commitment is doomed.

The name of our pile is Creekside Mexico City.

My dear roommate, Travis has a real gift for christening inanimate objects such as houses and sandwiches. But are they really inanimate?

We share a quadraplex with three Mexican families that have 34098 inhabitants. (and that’s not including the animals and babies) . Often, I am not sure who actually lives there. We had some neighbors move out recently and in their truck was seven mattresses and they were still pulling more out while I walked inside. I’ll say this, they know how to consolidate space, and they probably never even played Tetris.

We regularly get gawked at because even though we live about 100 feet from Congress, we are seriously the only white people on the block.

A Neighbohood Soundtrack
4-7:30pm Tejano blasts like a war siren
9-9:27pm Drum Kit made of found objects coming from the little boy’s room next door
10-11pm Live scenes from mexican soap operas that could be useful for either a Domestic Violence PSA or a piñata advertisement
2 – 2:01am Car backfiring/Fireworks/Gunshots one or all of the above

We were regularly visited by a crack dealer that goes by the name of Nathan that lived across the street. He would ask for money and cigarettes. He slowly came to realize that we were just as poor and useless as he was, but that did not stop him from pestering us. I assume he is either dead or in prison at this point, because he disappeared. He did not ever bring us the fruit basket and hand soaps promised.

When we first moved in, we were like giddy newly-weds discussing color palettes and appetizers for dinner parties. I’m not gay, Mom. We took turns marinating our downstairs in retro avocado and dressing the ‘window’ with burgundy curtains. Still not gay, Mom.  (window is in quotes because it is actually a thin sheet of plastic. Don’t tell the scary neighbors). We strung lights in front, invested in some folding chairs and shop was set.  

Then Creekside Mexico City made its move.

The Squeal. The Puddles. The Stench. The Monsoon. The Rain of terror. The Theft.  

For a couple weeks I worked out in my room. Good Idea, said my biceps. The room disagreed. The floor is disguised with a happy veneer of carpeting, but for every step I take there is a squeal of mercy, then a simmering sound like that of a deranged cat whispering “fuuuuckkk you, Michael ssssssss….”. Under my flippers lays an embittered old man plotting my demise.

Then came The Puddles. We would run the washing machine or dishwasher and water would seep up through the tile all across the living room. Then came The Stench. The evasive, ghastly Satan Stench. You would catch a whiff somewhere in the kitchen. It was like poison. As if a demon pooped in your lungs and ran away. The landlords came, the ghost of Satan Stench hid.

Do you smell it?

No. They thought I was crazy. The stench flew past me, mocking.

There! There! I think it’s coming from the vent.

They smelled the vent. Nothing. Asshole.

Again it came. The fridge! It was coming from the fridge!

They, of course, would assume that it would be our own fault, some recently college graduates buying vegetables with health in mind, neglecting them for months in exchange for frozen pizzas. But low and behold, we are poor actors and cannot afford to stock our fridge with anything except condiments.

Finally the demon showed itself in the drip pan. It was a dirty job. I was happy not to do it. Apparently the previous tenant was an elderly woman who didn’t own a washing machine and had a sweet tooth. The freezer was always full of ice cream and the ice cream seeped into the drip pan where it died and rotted without a proper ceremony.

The house lost. For awhile …

One morning, I awoke with a sudden jerk. My face was wet. It smelled like pennies and road-kill. I hurried my glasses on to reveal what looked like an archaic treasure map on my ceiling. But it wasn’t an archaic treasure map. It was a soggy brown blot, quickly expanding and protruding into my private tomb. More copper bulbs sprouted until my ceiling was raining. I threw everything in my room out of its path and replaced it with garbage bags.

The landlord returned. She explained to me that in an effort to prevent the roof from caving in, she was strategically poke one hole in the now pregnant brown monstrosity to drain the carnage. Sort of like how they used to drill holes into skulls to cure headaches. The tiny little hole turned out to be the size of a bowling ball. I slept on the couch downstairs for two weeks. My neck still hurts.

A friend of mine, Catlin, came by a few months back to do a load of laundry. She plopped in her pile and she joined me at the table while I was googling random shit. She was telling me about our mutual friend, Kathleen’s trip to India. The village right below hers (it was on a mountain) got swept away by a monsoon and she spent most of the trip trying to help out the village. She eventually got violently ill from the water after using it to clean her toothbrush. Kathleen was not a happy camper. What exactly is a Monsoon? I Googled it and found a Youtube video of some skinny African women dancing in the rain. Some crazy rain trance music was blasting.

Um. Mike. MIKE. MIKE!!!

WHAT?!?

I looked at Catlin who was staring in horror at our kitchen. A monsoon of water was gushing out of the laundry closet.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuck.
We moved all of our belongings out of the way and started sweeping all the water out the door. (Luckily, our kitchen was raked) It took two hours. Her laundry wasn’t happy either.

Life was ‘normal’ again for awhile. Until I returned from my audition for the American Shakespeare Center in Virginia. I drove to San Antonio, flew to Minneapolis, flew to Baltimore, took a train to Charlottesville, car pooled to Staunton, did my Audition, car pooled back to Charlottesville, was driven to Baltimore, flew to Houston, flew to San Antonio, drove back home to Austin. Fell asleep. The next morning I walked out into the parking lot to discover my hood open, and my car battery a-wall. Creekside Mexico City’s Welcome Home Present. Touche Asshole.
Things have been somewhat quiet for a little while sans our loud neighbors. The house pities me because the rent payments are not coming easily. It is in hiding, working out a genius plan for when I am in a more staple economic situation. Or maybe my birthday. I can feel it steeping…

One may tell us that we should move. 

But hey, rent is cheap. And I like a house of several stories. ;)

The Flaming Ghost of FronteraFest Future

“What are you doing putting your manhood on the sink?”



Helen Allen, Laura Lane, Quinn Walton, Michael Amendola. Photo by  Jack DiBlasi


I am currently in rehearsal for a comedy written and directed by my friend John Boulanger. It is called A Writer’s Vision(s).

The play is a conglomeration of short plays John wrote in college. The story chronicles an aspiring playwright, Jerome, who in three wacky acts, with the help of a muse, an inner child, a mad-house of psychiatrists and a drag-queen, learns how to write, play, live and love. It is equal parts witty, campy, absurd and full of heart. It is certainly a ‘wild romp’. I don’t think I have ever said the word romp out-loud seriously, and could never take anyone seriously that did say it. But somehow I feel it is okay to write it down.  I am Michael am John Boulanger am Jerome am a museinnerchildragqueen. And somehow all of those … ‘people’ need to show up and live harmoniously within my body for the performance. Well … probably not harmoniously.

Most people that know of John will immediately associate him with ‘playwright’ because of his critical acclaim with House of Several Stories (HOSS) but he is truly an amazing director, producer and actor as well. John doesn’t even consider himself a writer anymore, which is absurd to anybody that has read his scripts or seen his productions. It’s as if Christopher Durang, Edward Albee, David Sedaris and Mel Brooks procreated a brilliant Mexican love-child, handed him a laptop, and spawned the future of Austin theatre. 

His writing is quick, his direction is quick, the rehearsals are quick. It’s intense. I feel like a fat three-year old trying to catch up with Michael Johnson. In addition, I am working alongside some of Austin’s most notable and experienced talents, Laura Lane, Martin Burke, Babs George, Jill Blackwood, Justin Scalise, Scott Swanson, Scott Shroeder, Breanna Stogner… and then its Travis, Quinn, Nick, Helen and myself trying to keep up. I am the lead and am on every page of the script. I am the luckiest pinball.



Photo by Jack DiBlasi

Like most productions in Austin, one of the biggest challenges is simply finding a place to rehearse.

We are nomads. So far we have done John’s Living Room, Travis High School and the Austin Playhouse. John’s Living Room was a lovely place to read and drink cheap booze, but did not offer enough room to block without murdering a lamp (especially because of the cheap booze). Travis High School only allowed for a couple rehearsals because of stupid Christmas Break, and we couldn’t smoke on campus, anyway.

The Austin Playhouse is actually a well-reputed Theater in Austin, has a good deal of money (for Austin) and thus a pretty decent playing space (for Austin). So we were all very excited. We gathered down-stage center for our pre-rehearsal banter discussing movies we’ve seen and the odd occurrences of our day when the cast of The Importance of Being Earnest, in their comedy of manners, politely told us to get the fuck out. Communication via e-mail often gets flubbed.

Luckily, there was a medium-sized closet next door that some people confuse for a theater. We gathered our martini plastics and cell phones from 1998 and moved next door where we discovered the set of A Christmas Carol rudely overstaying its welcome. (reference pictures now) It is ironic that we are rehearsing a play featuring three visions, and it is charming to look out a frosted window when it is 80 degrees outside, but it’s like sitting in coach sharing your seat with the left love handle of a super-fatty.

I would like to be in that big spacious playing space with the Earnest cast, discussing cucumber sandwiches in  proper British dialect, when all of a sudden:

“You’re not gay as in happy. You’re gay as in let’s suck some DICK!” reverberates from the wall.

.

The flaming ghost of FronteraFest Future has a home next door, and its name is A Writer’s Vision(s). If you ever wanted to see Babs George describe a pubic hair… 

                        PERFORMANCE DATES:
                        January 21 – 7pm
                        January 22 – 1pm
                        January 28-  10pm
                        January 30 – 5pm

                        @ Salvage VanGuard Theatre.
                        2803 Manor Road
                        Austin, TX 78722
                        Tickets $10 (512) 474-7886

A Writer's Vision(s) (facebook)

Peace, Love and Black-eyed peas,
Dola

P.S. Happy 2011.