Getting Territorial, or There's a Mouse in My House!

Yesterday a friend was telling me about the trials and tribulations of introducing a new cat into her already-cat-populated apartment. This involves keeping New Cat in isolation, petting various cats in succession to get them used to the new smell, etc. Because right now? Cat already in residence is none too fond of the interloper.

Which we all know. Cats are scary territorial. They hiss and claw and take a stand by hiding on top of the refrigerator. They will fight to keep the apartment their property (anyone who owns a cat and thinks they also own their apartment is wrong and we all know it). As, I have learned, will bunnies. (Oh lord. Do NOT get me started on territorial rabbits in close proximity. They're vicious little buggers. Short version: if you can possibly avoid it, don't try to keep five rabbits in one New York apartment. Just no.)

Role-Playing: Playwright for Hire

Playwriting was never really a goal of mine as a fledgling writer-type-person. I was going to be a novelist. Or a poet. Or a ... Person Who Writes Short Stories (we need a nickname here). I wrote a collection of A-B dialogues in high school that all seemed to have something to do with elephants (don't ask), but that was it. Or it was supposed to be.

And then, one drab summer I wrote myself a role in a play. And then I wrote another play that, though based on me and two others, I later retweaked (several times) massively to fit the actual actors cast in the production.  This clearly gave me the very dangerous notion that I had the power to write roles for specific people.

Here I am in Arcadia

Thursday night I saw one of my favorite plays in the history of ever, Arcadia [editor's note: A girl named Zelda is seeing a crapload of plays during the month of May. Consider yourself forewarned]. This was my third time seeing this production, my fourth time seeing the play, and my bazillionth time experiencing it, as I've read it more times than I can count.

I love this play. I love this play. I would see it every night for a month if I could.

(Please bear with me, o those of you unfamiliar with the play, as I promise I will get to you in a moment.)

Love and Alcohol (sort of)

The title of this post is salacious and misleading! Twist!

Last night I saw a play called Drunken City, a quiet(ish) little piece about a group of people learning the truth about themselves through the magic of alcohol. And, surprisingly within that unoriginal premise, at its heart are two sweet simple honest declarations of love (or at least declarations of intentions toward love). And I must admit, I was suckercharmed by it. I smiled open-mouthed at the sweetness of it, in a completely unironic un-cynical-twentysomething-New-Yorker way.

Because I gotta admit, I miss that.

Reacting to the reaction to the reaction

I'm a little behind schedule on this blog post (I like to get one in Monday afternoons) because ... well ... a lot has happened over the past few days. I had thought at first to write something about performing the solo show this past weekend and how it compared to earlier versions and then ... this happened.  And the world changed just a little bit.

Or maybe it changed a lot bit. It's a hard thing for me to read. My roommate called my mom and me into the living room to watch the president's speech announcing his death. My mom's first reaction was assuming he had died of sickness, but then on finding out that he had been taken down by American troops, she was satisfied we actually accomplished that goal. My roommate's first reaction was "there's going to be retaliation. They won't let this slide." My first reaction was ... I don't know. A quiet surprise. A moment of "oh. That's happened. This is good." But not knowing further implications.

I don't know what this will actually mean.