I Think I Used to be Smarter

I found this poem I wrote about a year ago, and can't help but feel like my brain is on the decline sometimes. Oh, how smart I was last year!

A Sweet Ditty


If older mem'ries of you rise anew
And sorrow strains upon my puerile face,
I'd hate to think of what I'd done for you
And how you put me in such horrid place.
But yet your visage's now quite clear,
the sadness comes (and here I go again)
and flesh below the cheek becomes all tear
while I peruse the scrapbooks of our zen.
Do you recall the very time and day
When first you told me how you loved me so?
I said to you, "dear, that's a dang'rous phrase."
Oh! You and I most cert'ly did not know.

That last bit just might cause you, dear, to slay me;
I fucked your mom and gave her crabs from Haiti.

The Child Knows Good Theatre Etiquette!

Today, I was at the Soto Velez seeing a new show a friend of mine had worked on. It was matinée performance for the children of the school in the adjacent building. The kids were bouncy and didn't seem to want to settle down until fifteen minutes after the curtain was supposed to have gone up.

So when the lights finally went down, it was a relief to myself and the two adults I was sitting with in the way way back behind these wonderfully crazy kids. As the room became dark, one of the kids continued to talk, and was interrupted by his friend who yelled at him, "shut the fuck up."

Stifled laughter was heard in the ensuing moments.

I Need An Assistant

The joys of being a triple major are coming down on me this present week. The work isn't particularly challenging for any of the classes, but the thing is, it's a LOT of menial tasks.

Memorize this piece in Italian.

Read this.

Memorize this sonnet.

Say this.

Move here.

And occasionally, "hey can you play this entire Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta for me at a moment's notice?"

None of these have ever really posed a problem for me. These are my natural abilities, and I've bullshitted my way through this for three semesters. But now I've suddenly gotten myself into a position where these two Rehearsal and Production Credits are the hardest I'll ever have to earn.

I CAN'T SEW. I can NOT sew to save my life. I need help. Badly. I can design costumes, fine. Pick out fabrics, brilliant. But ask me to put a precious fabric to a sewing machine and I quiver, because I'm horrible at it.

And I have five dance costumes to fix and ameliorate by Monday. I stared at the sewing machine and cried quietly today.

I think I have to boo-hoo to Andrea.

Concentrate on Now.

This weekend, for the first time in my life, I was fired from a job.

I understood, entirely, even though it was only my third night there. I just wasn't able to grasp the menu and keep up with the other waitresses. It was embarassing. About two hours before the end of my shift, I knew my co-workers were complaining about me and began to have an anxiety attack. Since we weren't swamped, I informed one of them and she told me to step outside.

This job was sort of the culmination of my frustrations with life. I'd been putting a lot of pressure onto myself to figure out what I'm doing for a career, and just forgetting to take time to breathe. So as I'm standing outside in the autumnal cold, my co-worker Amy came out to check on me. And despite the fact that I know she was frustrated with me, I felt like I connected with her on a personal level.

Because basically she said in two minutes the exact words I had needed to hear for months. She was a bit older than me, married, and in grad school. The vibe of cool and knowledgeable exuded from her. She said to me, "Miles, this isn't the end of the world. Just take time and relax, we're here to help you."

Of course, it was much more elaborate and profound to me than that; I wish I knew the exact words. But after we had spoke, I just stopped being tense. After months of struggling with it, I just stopped.

Sometimes I think I was fated to work there if for no other reason than to hear those exact words I had needed someone to say to me.

As we were cleaning up that night, my boss called me upstairs. I knew what she was going to say and was prepared for it. And frankly, I'd had enough of the job. I respected everyone I worked with, but that job just was NOT for me. I slowly walked upstairs and she gently let me go. I went down, grabbed my coat, and clocked out without saying good night, even though I wasn't really upset with anyone, just myself.

But, dear Amy, wherever you are, I hope you know that I am forever grateful to you. And that if I could ever just go back and say "good night, and thank you so much," I would.

And now I have relaxed, and I am just going to concentrate on the here and now.

Courtney Love's Halloween Party

Friday night, to commemorate the arrival of friends Braden and Samantha from the tundra of SUNY Oswego, I threw a party. I decided it would be a really great idea to make it a costume party and require that people come dressed as their favorite drug addict.

So I was Courtney Love. Because that bitch is a MESS and doesn't even TRY to hide it. I wore high heels and a red slip, mussed up my hair and smeared lipstick all over my face.

By request from my friend Brian, I performed my signature number, "The Ladies Who Lunch."

Three hours and twelve drinks later, I did it again. Both of these are shortly going to be available on either facebook or Youtube.

The best costume of the evening however, goes to Stephanie Scerbo. Everyone was raving about how amazing her costume was, I thought she was Violet from Peanuts. She wore a plaid formal dress with a bow in her hair.

Laaaaaaaame.

I was like, "Stephanie, where the fuck is your costume?"

She looks at me and said, "I'm JonBenet Ramsay, you dick."

I died. DIED.

On a weirder note, however, one of my token straight friends had an episode. I had no idea what was going on until it had already happened. I saw a cluster of people huddled around the bathroom and puddles of blood everywhere. My first instinct was that it had been a fight. I saw the back of Matt's head as he bobbled like a slow-moving metronome back and forth. My heart stopped. His girlfriend, my close friend Sarah, who I've known since childhood, was sobbing.

But if you and your loved one were both drunk and one of you was bleeding profusely, you'd probably be sobbing as well.

It turns out it wasn't a big deal, but the most amazing thing is that Brady took complete charge of the situation and handled it with the most efficient and graceful professionalism. I would have been dumbstruck. We had a sober driver take him to the hospital for stitches, and he is fine. He had burst open a wound he'd gotten in tech class.

And that was my Friday night.

Have a Nice Day

The other day, I get a text message from one of my best friends, Kevin, who always educates me on obscure musicals.

"Get online ASAP. I have to Dorothy Loudon song to end all Dorothy Loudon songs."

I'm in a class, so I don't get online right away, but I'm thinking about it on the way home. Dorothy Loudon is a class act, she's so peppy and clean, and just an old fasioned Broadway star. I absolutely love her.

So later, when I heard the song "Have a Nice Day," I was absolutely taken aback at the use of racial slurs flying out of her mouth. It was obscene, and the audience was laughing hysterically. What's even funnier is that this song was penned by Jerry Herman, the squeaky-clean composer of such old-school hits of Broadway, such as "Mama," and "Hello, Dolly."

Naturally, I played this for my roommate, Marisa.

"I can't believe that this was written by the man who wrote 'Hello, Dolly!" I exclaimed.
"That doesn't really surprise me," she replied, doing her nails while waiting for her hair dye to set in.
"Why's that?"
"Well, isn't 'Hello, Dolly' kind of a racist play?"
"No, it's like the most beloved family musical of all time."
"But it's got all white people in it, right?"
"Usually, yes."
"Well, there's a start."
"Just because a play has only white characters in it doesn't make it racist. 'The Importance of Being Earnest' is a satire making fun of white people and is in no way racist."

Without taking a pause, she then said,

"Well, it could be."

Oh, yes. Here we are!

I'm sitting here, inebriated, in my freezing bedroom at 3:15 in the morning. It's been an interesting day, in terms of mood swings. They went from good to shit and back again in no time.

And as I continue to sit here, just finished tally-whacking, I couldn't help but think about my high school years, randomly. And what a long, weird journey it's been. With former loves, and an estranged group of friends, and a dysfunctional family, I wonder how I made it this far.

Right, Captain?

Aye-aye, sir.

Wilde Tampons

A few days ago, I was alphabetizing my books and out of my copy of "Sense and Sensibility" came two photos, both from my trip to Ireland two years ago.

One is of myself next to the "fag on the creag," Oscar Wilde, with a tampon.

The other is from Kilmaheim Jail, graffiti an inmate had shared with the rest of the world:

BEWARE OF THE RISEN PEOPLE
THAT HAVE HARRIED AND HELD
YE THAT HAVE BULLIED AND BRIBED

Sometimes I try to care.

Of White Trash and Women

Last night was the official first party in my new apartment. Members of the Theatre Department showed up dressed as white trash, the scum of the earth. We put on "Pink Flamingos" as the guests arrived and served Pabst Blue Ribbon and other disgusting beers.

Later, I spent alone time with a woman for the first time in I-don't-know-when. It was interesting and fascinating--I knew I was sort of turned on, but also insanely curious about the anatomy of a woman that I'd previously left unexplored. It was like trying a new ethnic food almost. I had a good time, and now I am certainly positive that I'm a hundred percent homosexual.

I woke up around two this afternoon to the sound of my phone ringing, I picked up and saw it was my father's number. "I just came home," he told me, "to find that your mother has moved out."

She apparently bought a house two months ago that is a couple streets over and never told anyone.

Despite my ability to see this coming from a mile away, my heart still kind of sank.

Marisa and the Bird

My roommate Marisa is obsessed with our bird, Yoey. He was a hand-me-down from a friend of ours who lived here last semester, and Marisa was more than happy to take him in.

One morning, I staggered down the staircase to hear the sounds of the bird screaming bloody murder and Marisa cupping him in her hands and blowing on him incessantly.

"It's to keep him from biting me," she explained.

She moved over to the couch and let him out to plop around next to her.

"BE SOCIAL!" she yelled at him as he fluttered around. The bird can't fly to save its life, so he tumbled to the floor and perched on a cable wire. A spell later, he begins to waddle across the hardwood floor towards the kitchen. Marisa had decided it was tim for him to go back into his cage, and gets on her hands and knees trying to coax him back into her hands.

This clearly does not work, as the bird hates all human beings.

So she begins to chase him on her hands and knees until finally she gets him and proclaims, "I GOTCHA YOEY, I GOTCHA!" After letting out an "ouch," she begins blowing on him again as she places him back into the cage.

"Fuckin' bird," she says.

Man Night

My sexual preferece can best be described as 'grey area.' I think masculinity is funny. I think feminists are funny.


I'm not too sure where I belong in the grand scheme of things.
HOWEVER, tonight was a night to remember-- we at the State University of New York at New Paltz's Theatre Department call it MAN NIGHT.

Man Night is a watered-down version of a tradition handed down to us by men of honor and distinction who have gradutated in recent years. It is typically held at a house called "No Fro," which has since become inhabited solely by women. So we took it upon ourselves to bring it to another house, which we call "Oakwood." Anyone in the department will know what this is.

So we, of legal age and such, all pitched in for this party. And upon arriving at the house, my sleeves were immediately seized by a knife wielded by a buddy and ripped off. At this, I laughed.

However, the living room had been raided by a group of women from NO FRO and they had taken all of our cheap beer and in its place, put a bottle of champagne with a sign that said PUSSY BITCHES and put pink balloons and banners that say IT'S A GIRL everywhere. I found this amusing, but as I had put in money towards the beer, I was a wee bit prickly..

Oh, did I mention that if we did anything "less than manly," beer was poured all over us? I didn't want to eat the kielbasa until it had cooled off, so beer was poured on me. I laughed.

As the group of us "men" headed over there, in sleeveless shirts (many ripped by knives), we chanted and grunted. I lowered the pitch of my voice as I chewed on toothpicks. God, I felt so manly.

When we got there, the girls were all dressed as "men," sporting menswear and painted on goatees, bandanas. It was a sight to behold. Our goal was to steal their cat...didn't happen, but I got two shitty beers and a shovel from them.

We got back to the house after the raid. Apparent the "stolen" beers were in someone's room the whole time, so what the hell? A joke gone too far, but funny nonetheless. Some women came by later, but we drenched them in kool-aid and such. At this point it was two in the morning, and I staggered onto my bicycle and went home.

But if this is the most I'm getting out of my education, I'm glad I'm having a fucking great time.