Tag Archives: day-to-day

Eggsistential Crisis

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I love my apartment, and I love my roommate, but I have to say I miss the old place. The idea of separate rooms at all is one I once enjoyed, and we had a backyard for Newcastle to poke around in. We also had a great neighborhood. In the spring, all of the bushes became soft and colorful.

It’s a mile walk to the 7th Street Hill Café, which I’d long ago adopted. On Saturday mornings, I liked to sit in an easy chair, sip a latte, and watch them assemble the Eastern Market, a cross between a crafts fair and a Farmer’s Market.

I came to the 7th Street Hill Café, located on North Carolina Avenue, on Saturday to do just that. Riding high on bipolar disorder, I needed to get out of my apartment and experience the world. I settled into the chair, pulled my markers out of my bag and eat my breakfast sandwich, resisting the urge to devour the whole thing in two bites.

After I returned it to the end table, the old man in the opposite chair said, “You have egg on your shirt.”

“Gross.” I plucked the solid yolk and dropped it onto the plate, keeping it far from the last bites of my sandwich. I said, “Speaking of eggs, I saw a Cybertruck downtown. I’m gonna crunch some numbers, and I’m gonna get a second job, and I’m gonna go to the bank, and I’m gonna get a loan, and I am going to egg that piece of garbage.” (It’s one of the funniest jokes I ever made. I’m going to use it until I run out of people to say it to.)

“Or,” the old man, whose name was Glen, said, “You could fill up two—no, three—no, two coffin coolers with eggs and sell them at the farmer’s market. That’s what Dan did, you know Dan?”

It was 8:13am, and I accepted that I was going to be in this conversation until the Post Office opened at nine. “No.”

“Dan used to sell eggs here at the Eastern Market. I used to truck them in from his farm. So many eggs. Dan died of a stroke. Not kidding, he just keeled over and died. That’s why nobody’s selling eggs at the farmer’s market anymore. Do know that you can tell what a chicken ate by looking at the color of its yolk?”

I gasped. “No!”

The old man chuckled and looked a bit smug. “Oh, yes. If the yolk is this deep amber, orange color, it ate a lot of marigolds.”

He smirked at me through his beard and waited for my reaction. I had to formulate one, and the only way I could prove I was paying attention was to ask a question. “You feed them marigolds?”

The old man chuckled. “No, no, no, they’re free-range. They can eat whatever the fuck they want. And if I ever want to eat a chicken dinner, all I need to do is grab a rooster who’s getting too big for his britches and hold him upside down and slash, motherfucker! Decapitated! Heh-heh!”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I buckled the fuck up to see where it was headed. It was difficult to follow along, but not because it was a bumper car of thought. No, Glen stubbornly clung to one subject until he veered off into a completely different direction, like he was jumping from train of thought to train of thought at a crowded depot.

Glen once punched a “shepherd bitch” (a dog) in the head, and she was nice to him after that. He recounted why you should never piss him off through the parable of a tense standoff with the owner of the Eastern Market. He already had his Halloween costume ready to go. (Hooded cloak, Goblin nail extensions. A paper machê Satyr mask a friend in Venice made for him.) He couldn’t remember why he didn’t exchange a word with his half-brother for two years while they shared a house. He kept me up to date on the lifespans of his siblings, including his “bitch sister” (a person), who is still alive. For a coup de grace, he unloaded on me how people are always on their “fucking phones” all the time. He could tell you how to get from point a to point B. “You know how? Not through your fucking phone, that’s for sure. Not on a map.” He tapped his temple.

Suddenly, he was gone.

I finished my drawing in peace.

I packed up and wandered off, my first destination being the Post Office to mail a package I’ve been meaning to mail for six months (sorry, Donna). I made it halfway up the block before the generous application of the color orange, my favorite, caught my eye. I’d walked past it on impulse, but I yanked my emergency brake and skidded over to the side to see more paintings.

They were collages coated in a thick layer of shellac, and a figure, bald, faceless, and strangely sexy, appeared on many of them. She said, “I love watching people come in for a second look.” We talked about color, I told her everything I liked about her art, and I bought a piece. She told me her name was Quest, and she gave me a big hug. The visible part of Quest’s hair was made of gray feathers, and she wore a robe, not a dress. I don’t think she was human. In a good way.

I was in and out of the Post Office at the speed of someone who’s done it a lot.

Even though I have Ember’s number, I decided to walk the ten blocks to the House of the Devil to see if she was standing up for us. On my way, I acquired a lava lamp, and I attempted to take a picture of a street called Justice Ct. until a Latinx man accosted me. He knew English nouns, and that was it. He shouted at me an incomprehensible string of them that told the story of an immigrant succeeding in this country, and something about that was making him angry.

A middle-aged couple across the street, surrounded by Chihuahuas yelled, “Sir, can you help us with our dogs? Sir?” I realized who they were talking to me, and I separated from the loud man to join them.

The woman yelled, “Thank you for helping us with our dogs!” The angry man continued ranting, impossible to understand. I never got the names of the couples, but I thanked them profusely.

Ember was not at the Pit of Despair. She later told me she was taking the weekend off. She’s earned it for sure. I look forward to resisting next week.

Exhausted and overstimulated, I headed straight home. But first, there is a big sign at the stop before mine labeled “Arts Walk.” I’ve been meaning to go there for at least two months. I hopped off the train to check it out because I was still jittery. It was okay. It was no Eastern Market. I bought a belt made of an old bicycle tire.

Also this weekend, a relationship that lasted well over a decade came to an end. I’m not going into details because I like to keep it classy in this joint. Also because it was enormously frustrating.

Culture doesn’t put as much value on a friend breakup as it does a romantic one, but they still hurt. You’re closing the door on all that history and intimacy, even if it ended badly. You have every right to mourn.

The truth is, we’d broken years ago, and I just wasn’t ready to let go. I already mourned.

Sunday, I dedicated my day to my project, the fruits of which you’ve seen yesterday. I’ve received no feedback on them from any of the St. Mark’s Players, and now I’m frightened to go to the show on Thursday.

My next project is finding a light bulb for my lava lamp.

General Grievance

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I tried to work through the manic episode, but it was an unusually social day at work. I was trying to do my job because my morning hours are precious vis-à-vis my productivity. Past editors-in-chief of Blood and were getting their pictures taken with the Research Council, and they loved to laugh in front of the elevators, which I sit near.

I hid in a vacant office and finally got some work done. Unfortunately, our laptop batteries last only about an hour, and nobody on my floor could locate a cord. I tried taking a walk, and it didn’t work. If I didn’t start my day two hours before everyone else, I wouldn’t have finished anything.

When agitated, some will sputter something that sounds like English but seemed to be a forgotten dialect. That was me telling my boss I had to go home. It must have scared the crap out of her.

The walk to the Metro was calming, and I breathed through my commute in a half-empty subway car. I got home, didn’t play with Oscar, laid down, breathed for twenty more minutes, and finished my work for the day, except for one thing.

I had to bring myself down before the show, but I also wanted to hang out with Ember and whoever she had collected since I saw her last. That person was Steve, a chatty, retired man carrying a sign that said, “Nazi HQ.” Steve’s girlfriend works in the Capitol and may be a legislator.

Immediately after I introduced myself, an older man on a bike in the Cadillac of MAGA hats wheeled over on one of those rental bikes. Everybody was calm. Ember didn’t engage, she just waved her sign. Steve and the man traded talking points, which were deflected by the target’s stubbornness. Nobody got angry, but we thought he was stupid, and he thought we were stupid.

When I had arrived, she wasn’t sitting in the path of the douchebags because they had parked their Escalades in front of her. Off to the side, she waved one sign as high as she could (which wasn’t very high) and wore one around her neck.

I wondered if she was acting weird around me for some reason, but she’s really just weird in general. Thursday, she had painted Celtic knot-work on DMT onto her cheekbones. Her glasses were amber and the shape of sunflowers. Her baseball cap was covered in metal studs.

Speaking of DMT, we talked a lot about it. In fact, she had a recipe for extracting it from tree bark because “it comes from nature.” No thank you. The last time I tried a hallucinogen, I had a bad time, so never again. The last time Ember did, she saw a blue goddess who said she was ready.

I asked her how long she’d been doing this, and she told me two weeks. I asked her how long she lived in the DMV area, and she told me two weeks. Something called her, she didn’t know what. I tried to explain that I didn’t believe in the supernatural, but I was fascinated by it, but I lost control over my words and turned into a sputtering mess. We changed the subject.

She had been living in Vermont as a cook. Apparently, she has a bachelor’s in psychology but without a masters and doctorate, it’s a useless degree. She couldn’t find a “real” job, so she did some factory work while her soul died. She quit the kitchen when her calling found her, and she came straight here, where her cousin lives.

Ember is inspiring and brave, as well as being cocky and full of life. It’s impossible to believe that she came from the parents she later described to me.

The sidewalk, a block from Union Station, is prime hunting grounds for people-watchers, like myself. Except for the guy on the bike, most people, ignored us after I arrived. As the day went on, though, people thanked us, took pictures with Ember (She had the flashy signs), and chatted with us.

For example, while his family waved at us with enthusiasm, a dad told his eight-year-old daughter, “They’re protesting. If there’s something you don’t like, protest.” An older gentleman walked past us, spun around, middle fingers extended, and yelled, “Fuck the Heritage Foundation! I used to work for George W. Bush!”

I was there for an hour when we were approached by two people Ember already knew. They were federal workers, so they wore Covid masks to hide their identities. Though they did tell me their names, though: Brandy and Dani.

Brandy (plot twist: he’s a middle-aged man) paced the sidewalk, a tiger in a cage, with his own sign. He’s a veteran, who are another demographic the government is screwing.

Dani brought a slide whistle, playing it every time someone entered or left the building. She lives in Takoma Park, the same town as all the coffee shops I like.

Next, we met Carrie. Carrie was passing by on her way to Union Station, wearing a Banksy T-shirt and a red headscarf. She needed to plan tonight’s White House protest, but she stuck around for half an hour, discussing the resistance. While Dani played the slide whistle, Carrie booed.

We later found out this is illegal, as Ember explained to me slowly and carefully so as to avoid misunderstanding.

I left after about two hours, when it had gone from a single fiery woman to a small movement. As I pointed myself at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Dani spread her arms. I generally don’t do hugs, but I let her wrap her arms around me this time. It felt right.

If I needed any proof this was an episode, and a particularly bad one, it could be found in the way I kept up with Steve. And with Jane from the play, with her delighted, effervescent charm.

I suggested an idea for how to increase ticket sales for Thursday shows to the producer. I pitched my artistic services to the same producer. I teased some of the actors who’d never spoken to me before. I started so many conversations, and I invented the word “DOGEbag.”

The problem with hypomania is that it’s not as destructive as regular mania, so it feels like a lot of fun. However, as my morning in the office proved, it’s not great. I probably need to talk to my doctor.

I also got three phone numbers.

Virtue Signaling

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Glenn Beck, whoever that is, held a rally on September 12 (I can’t remember the year) to unite us as a country, like we were on September 12, 2001. I can’t begin to list all of the ways this is a lie, so I won’t. Remember, though, regardless of where you were, what it was like when the world ended, but the next morning, life went on. We had no idea how we were supposed to move forward. Somehow, we did.

When Donald Trump pulled his face off to reveal Elon Musk making a Nazi salute, the world ended. Those of us with any decency had been betrayed by their neighbors, their coworkers, their bosses, some of whom are now saying, “I didn’t vote for this!” Judges are upholding Elon’s draconian cuts and unprecedented access to the confidential information of innocent Americans.

Somehow, life goes on.

It’s bad out there. I don’t need to tell you why. I can’t look at the news without wanting to vomit, and this is not an exaggeration. It’s hard to remember what it was like to be happy, even for a minute. Your body and mind are seeking out dopamine. There are lots of ways to get a little hit of it, but the best way is to pay someone a compliment. That way two people get dopamine hits.

Lately, for no reason, I’ve been more aggressive about pointing out things I like about a person. The dam burst when I was sitting in the dressing ballroom at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church with Lisette listening to my expertise about dresses. I have no expertise, but somehow suggesting binder clips(?) was the solution.

Lisette’s performance and character are my favorite part of Metromaniacs. I realized then there was no reason to keep this to myself. So I told her. She was startled, but touched. The next day, I told Lucille that she had that influencer vibe, and she told me she hadn’t looked at it that way. I’m looking forward to telling Mondor that his fall is art.

I’ve started bugging strangers on the street, making them smile for a moment. It’s not always rewarding, as in the three elder Zoomers walking side-by-side. As I passed them, I said, “You guys look really fucking cool, keep it up.” Then I added, “I’m being sincere. You really look cool walking like that.” Their expressions said, “Who the hell is this crazy old person?” And I think they were waiting for me to hit them up for some Molly.

I’m telling you all this because I need to brag. Bragging is in fashion. However, you only get to brag if it’s about the size of your bank account and/or penis, how much gas your car goes through, and how much people love you. Culture has criminalized bragging about the good things you do.

Well, go fuck yourself, culture, because I’m bragging about making life a tiny bit better for a tiny amount of people. It’s easy, it’s free, it only takes a few seconds, and you can turn someone’s day around. I’m bragging because I want more people to do it.

I got my hair cut two weeks ago in a slightly different style, and someone in the office noticed, and it made my morning. How could I not want to do that for other people?

I’m not a good person. I’m passive-aggressive, my manners have atrophied, my lizard brain is kind of racist, I’m impatient, and I’m a disappointment to my cat. But I like to think I’m a decent person. I do try to have some empathy.

It’s in the spirit of this that I say this: You. Yeah, you. The one reading this. You have a great smile, and I love seeing it. Except you, Lisa. Your mouth is nightmare fuel.

She Doth Protest

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My walk from Union Station to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, only a few blocks from the Capitol, takes me past the headquarters for the Heritage Foundation. These are the people who repackaged George W. Bush from nepo-baby frat-boy to a statesman. They dream up legislation to dump us into the Dark Ages. They are worse than Trump and Elon because Trump and Elon would have no power without them. I tend to flip the building off as I walk past.

Wednesday, the last day of Tech Week, I saw something on the approach that confused me. was a parka, hunched over, on a stool. As I passed by, I noted that the parka was female, and she was carrying a skillfully painted sign that said, “I will not be complicit.”

I walked by and made it to the end of the block before I decided I was going back. But first, I wanted to do something nice in this 25-degree weather. (In metric, that translates to “absolute zero.”) I returned to the Heritage Foundation with a cup of black coffee, which, it turned out, she drinks as is. We chatted for about a minute, and I thanked her. She would be there, she said, seven days a week, eleven to six.

I stopped by Thursday at about noon, but she wasn’t there. I was disappointed, but my life wasn’t over. It’s enough that I met her. She has inspired me. I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with this tiny, resilient person, sitting in the Arctic cold, forcing these conservative douchebags to walk around her.

I didn’t expect to see the protestor there on Saturday, when the foundation was closed, but there she was. It was a few degrees above absolute zero, but it was still cold, so I grabbed a black coffee and strolled over to her.

She didn’t recognize me because I was wearing a different jacket, but she appreciated the coffee. We talked, a little longer this time, and I learned that she is hardcore. She understands that she comes from a place of privilege, which allows her to quit her job and sit there full-time. Until the people in this building are gone, she isn’t going to participate in this fascist-capitalistic system. I’ll be honest, I find that naïve, but I admire her conviction.

There have been monstrous protests all over the touristy parts of DC since the election, doubly so since the president and his master started goose-stepping around the Oval Office, throwing oppressive executive orders around like confetti. She told me she could go to any one of them, but her calling placed her here.

I asked her if it would be okay if I hung out with her for a couple of hours here and there. She looked at me like I recited a cookie recipe at her in Esperanto. She sputtered for a moment and told me of course. She could use the company. She told me that, the other day, five people stood with her.

I had to go catch up with my ex-roomie, and without my watch, I wasn’t sure what time it was. I introduced myself, and she replied with “I’m Ember.” I told her it’s a beautiful name, and that seemed to make her uncomfortable. I feel bad about that, but to be fair, it is a beautiful name.

Sunday, after a late Saturday, I decided I wanted to protest. At eleven a.m., I caught the Metro to Union Station and walked to the Great Satan’s lair, but she wasn’t there. I really do want to protest, so I plan on stopping by this week. Even if she’s never there again, she affected my life profoundly. She makes me want to resist.

Having a (Costume) Ball

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Last night was the dress rehearsal for Metromaniacs, and it was worth the price of admission. From the gold and white of Francalou to the red cape on Damis, they went all out. There were buckles. So many buckles. Everybody had buckles except for Mondor, who was a filthy servant and didn’t deserve any.

The problem with working backstage is that I can’t see a proper performance, and that made me sad. The performances were very physical, especially the women. Lucille posed across the stage like an Instagram model, and Lisette imitated her, but I’d only seen them do it in twenty-first-century clothes. In fluffy Sun King dresses, I’m sure it was a sight to behold.

I was there for a reason, though, and Maddy walked me through this. There wasn’t much. I will mostly be sitting in the back, reading my proofs on my phone, and waiting for the very few things I need to do.

First, we had to check the props table, with the fake quill pens and the feather fan and the hat Yankee Doodle named Macaroni. Everything was in its exact space and labeled, and the cast tended to leave them right where they belonged, so after initial setup, we only straighten them out for the next show.

Next, we plug in the running lights and the backstage blue lamp, so nobody breaks a leg. Next, we prop open the secret door so cast members doing costume changes don’t get locked out. Next, we set the trumpet. Next, we reset the beanbag boulder for the first act.

The next thing we have to do is retrieve the weasel. Lucille tosses it backward, over the curtain, where it lands right in the path of the actors’ mid-stage exit. If we don’t want anybody to break a leg, we have to grab that right away.

We hit a wall during the quick change at the end of act one. I observed so I can try it out tonight, but Maddy, the professional, dove right in. In less than two minutes, Lisette needs to drop her drab, black maid’s dress and step into a royal pink one. The problem was that the maid’s dress had a corset, and corsets are shifty.

Every time Maddy and Lucille thought they had loosened it, they found themselves struggling with more string. The play had to be paused to figure this out. The fancy dress, petticoats, and wig went right on with no opposition. Tomorrow, Maddy and I are going to practice unlacing a corset, which I haven’t done since I was married.

And finally, in the second act, we have to grab Macaroni when Dorant flings it, not because we don’t want people to break a leg, but we didn’t want anyone to smash that delightful product of haberdashery.

That was it. We left everything where we it started, unplugged the lights, reset the weasel, and headed home in the freezing cold.

There is an issue, though. I’ve been getting home three or four hours past my bedtime and waking up at my normal ungodly hour. A sudden disruption of sleep patterns can trigger a manic episode. I should have called my doctor, I said, lamenting that I have to call my doctor to work with the community theater.

All I can do is continue to have fun and hope for the best. I need stimulation! I need excitement! I need one of those fake quills.

Zany to the Max

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(Tech Week continues! Prologue: https://jrmhmurphy.com/2025/01/13/paint-no-rest-for-the-wicked/; Setting up: https://jrmhmurphy.com/2025/02/17/critical-stage/)

The name of the play is Metromaniacs, which sounds like cartoon set in the DC Underground. It’s actually set in a mansion in Paris, in the eighteenth-century.

The metro in Metromaniacs refers to a metronome, and therefore meter. It’s told in rhyming couplets delivered with such casual ease that it took me half of the first scene to notice. The theme of the play is poetry and the power of words to seduce.

The plot is convoluted. It’s a farce—it’s supposed to be convoluted. What follows is the general breakdown of the characters and the first part of the story.

1. Francalou, rich man and scorned poet, created the alter ego of Meriadec, a reclusive lady poet. As her, has become quite the celebrity in the literary journal circuit, despite that the work is objectively bad. He has written a play so utterly noxious, the cast got sick. But the show must go on!

2. Lizette, maid and master manipulator, is the sassy voice of reason. To put it bluntly, everyone in the play is an idiot except for her, but even she is a slave to her needs. She was my favorite character and performance, hands down, because the chaos of the first act was almost all her doing. From behind, she looks exactly like Francalou’s daughter. Not that this will come up later or anything.

3. Mondor, Cosmo’s loyal, frustrated, and creepy manservant, tries to corral his boss, then gives up and steals his fake identity to woo Francalou’s daughter. His heart truly belongs to Lizette, but she spurns him at every opportunity.

4. Damis is a wannabe poet and man in debt. (He is played by a guy named Oscar.) He wrote a play under the name Bouillabaisse, opening this very day. He is deeply in love with Francalou’s alter ego, but he thinks Meriadec is his daughter.

5. Lucille, Francalou’s daughter, played by everybody’s favorite actor, Jane, is aloof, yet overly performative. Poetry makes her all tritterpated.

6. Durant is a rugged man’s man who wants the rich man’s daughter. He gets his old friend Damis to write him a poem, but this backfires. (Don’t worry, it turns out well in the end.)

7. Angry Uncle Baliveau. He paid for Damis’s school, and Damis has been going to school for ten years. Before Baliveau can have Damis arrested, Francalou maneuvers him into starring in the play as a character based on him.

From there, it gets weird. Mistaken identities, deception, fourth-wall-breaking, love at first sight, three weddings at the end (there are two women and five men in this play; do the math), this is a classic Shakespearean farce, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that. It doesn’t have the substance of the Bard, but it has the delirious energy of his best comedies.

The actors were having a great time, and they each brought their own level of expressiveness. Francalou was manic, Lizette confident and amused, Mondor was sleazy, Damis was twitchy and deluded, Durant was a doofus, and Angry Uncle was angry. Jane was a lot of fun as Lucille, with her influencer vibe. Performing as someone who is performing has got to be a challenge, but she stuck with it.

The trees we spent so much time painting for the set are actually for the set within the set, but we never see the play. Probably for the best. It sounds like Vogons wrote it. I also found out the purpose of the beanbag boulder: Mondor falls face-first onto it; as a connoisseur of pratfalls, and having been a fine practioner of them in my youth, I was remarkably impressed. He went straight down like a two-by-four. I’ll be setting up the boulder during intermission, and I probably shouldn’t screw that up.

I’ll be working backstage with my sketchbook, which might be a problem. The most important prop is a notebook with a leather cover and a long strap to wrap it in. In the dark, it is identical to my sketchbook. That won’t go badly, will it? On the set of a farce? Nah.

Critical Stage

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I returned to St. Mark’s Church on Capitol Hill this weekend for the beginning of Tech Week. The cast of Metromaniacs has been practicing for weeks now, and it’s time to do rehearsals onstage. A stage, therefore, needed to be built. The trick to this is that St. Mark’s is an active church, so stage must be disassembled every Saturday. Sunday was the day it would be built for the first time, using the trees and moon I’d helped decorate in January (https://jrmhmurphy.com/2025/01/13/paint-no-rest-for-the-wicked/ ).

I didn’t have as much fun as the first time. In fact, it was kind of a drag during act 2. This was because a call went out for volunteers, and lots of people showed up. There were about twenty of us there in total, and no one knew each other, aside from the director, the producers, the cast, and the crew, who all had ther own in-jokes.

The volunteer named Elizabeth had the right idea. She introduced herself to everybody and asked them where they’re from. It’s a legitimate question in DC.

I hate when someone asks me that, because I have to respond with a high-pitched, “Welllll…” I could always continue and say “Lots of places,” like Connor McLeod, but I always list them. They usually zone out after the first three.

Elizabeth was adorable, with her platinum bob, pink hoodie, clear-framed glasses, and her fearlessness. If you meet someone like this, you’re likely to assume that, once you got them started, they were going to talk you into unconsciousness. Not Elizabeth.

She answered questions quickly and efficiently, so you had to steer her in the right direction. She was born in 1997. She’s from Montgomery, she went to college in Birmingham, and she moved here because she needed more culture in her life. She likes backstage work, but hasn’t done it since high school, and she will be my rival from now on.

The other person I met immediately, who was not afraid to talk, was Jane. She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, and had a Barbie figure. Her hair was long and straight, from the nineties (formerly from the sixties), and her voice squeaked like Betty Boop, making it difficult to understand the words she was saying. She was in the cast, and she’d never done community theater before. She was spirited away early on.

Ernie spoke. Ernie reminds me of my tenth-grade communications teacher, who was a compact, swarthy man with a mustache and an aggressive hippy vibe. He assured us that once he finished giving his speech, he would be giving the whole thing over to Monique, the stage manager.

He did not. He led us through the transformation of the seating from church seating to bleacher seating. First, we stacked the chairs already there.

Then we set up the risers. (That’s Elizabeth with her back to us.)

And finally, putting seventy-six of the chairs back.

With twenty of us, it was easy to get the work done instantaneously. The problem was, by the time you can get something to do, someone sweeps in and grabs the job. It was a full-contact sport trying to be useful. You’re tripping over everyone, and everyone is tripping over you.

Elizabeth, as always, was the vanguard of activity. She just went to people and asked them questions. I tried this, but if you’re awkward, and someone calls out for volunteers right when you ingratiate yourself into a conversation, it might be discouraging.

When they started hanging the curtains in front of the altar, I realized that I was only getting in the way. I sat in the bleachers and counted down the 127 minutes until we were done, but then it got interesting.

When we were painting last month, Ruth, the bouncy producer, was disbelieving and thrilled that I was interested in working backstage. When I arrived today, the other producer, the assistant stage manager, the director, and Monique, the stage manager, were thrilled to meet me.

As I sat there, feeling useless, Maddy, young and concerned, and Monique, middle-aged and amused, sat on either side of me and explained what I’d be doing. Monique, as you might remember, was the stage manager, and Maddie was her assistant. My job includes moving the “beanbag boulder” during intermission.

After that: stuff to do! The three of set up the backstage so we wouldn’t be seen from the bleachers, wouldn’t get in the way of the cast in this manic farce, and would be in a lot of light because there would be a lot of downtime, and they’re encouraging me to draw.

They also showed me the props, among which were a feathered fan, a plushie ferret, a glass clock, and the contents of locked box. The contents of the box were a pouch full of (fake) blood, a pouch of (fake) silver coins, including three British pounds, and a pair of (fake) dueling pistols, which were the reason the box was locked.

They sent me home early, which I realized when I looked at my phone, was eighteen minutes early. On my way out, I bumped into Jane, who was in full costume, which I can only describe as Marie Antoinette. Monday night, I’m advised to do nothing but watch the rehearsal so I get a feel for it. This is going to be a breeze.

Art Failure

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It’s been really cold here lately (Colorado people, shut up), and I’ve been working from home so I don’t have to walk a mile to my Metro stop through some Jack London nightmarescape with tundra temperatures (I said shut up, Colorado people).

Just as an aside, my job is awesome.

The temperature Saturday got as high as 42, which is the answer to life, the universe, and getting the hell out of the house. It’s a three-day weekend, and I thought it would be nice to go to the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Chinatown.

I forgot what was happening Monday.

My train pulled into the Chinatown station, and quite a few people exited, which was unusual for this time of day on a Sunday. I listened to my podcast and kept moving. One of the exits takes you right to the steps of the gallery, but it was gated off. The other exit was two blocks away, which meant I had to walk two blocks to get to it and two blocks back to the museum. However, those exits were gated off too, and transit workers were yelling at us to go away.

A worker stood near the stairs and told us we needed to get on a train and take it to the next stop to get out. Emboldened by the injustice of it all, I asked her why they didn’t just shut the station down. She said, “I don’t make the rules, I just tell you what to do.”

I took a train to the closest stop and realized I didn’t know which way to get to Chinatown. The National Mall was straight ahead, so I went in the other direction. I wasn’t 100 percent, though, so I stopped at a corner to get my bearings.

A smug, condescending douchebag walked by me, smirked, and said, “I’m from here, and we don’t pay attention to those things.”

I looked up from my phone and said, “I’m from here, and I don’t either. I’m just a little disoriented.”

“Sure.” He strode off.

With surer footing, I headed for Chinatown, weaving between National Guardsmen and their rifles, emergency fencing, and a thick crowd of white people. I saw a long line of red hats, and I couldn’t imagine where they might be going. As I walked past, I searched for the destination, but I couldn’t see one, nor could I see the end. It wrapped around a whole block, then crossed the street, then turned a corner, and disappeared.

Two blocks later, the museum was surrounded by guardsmen who weren’t going to let me in. I normally don’t eat lunch, but there was a Nando’s here, so I stopped in. The host asked me how many. I said one. He looked me up and down and narrowed his eyes, “I see.”

It was about noon that the MAGAs started coming in. I knew they were MAGAs for two reasons. One, there was nobody else in this part of town today; the locals know to stay clear. Two, they were wearing red hats, even the toddler, which I consider to be child abuse. Next, several tables of really hot people showed up. I was hit with the dilemma of admiring them while finding their entire worldview to be nauseating.

The worst part about the entire situation was that people thought I was one of them, especially because I was wearing my lumberjack shirt. On the other hand, blending in allowed me to enjoy my chicken in peace, live blogging the entire experience to my friend Emilie, who I picture reading it in a luxurious bath, sipping cava and shaking her head at my antics.

The only time I felt nervous were when the wannabes moseyed in and took a seat. If you’ve ever been in a Nandos before, you’d know to let the host seat you. If you could read, there is a large sign that says, “Please wait for the host to seat you.”

They wore black T-shirts, black sweats, black boots, black gloves, and black trench coats. Their glasses matched, and they both wore their thinning hair tightly clipped. I checked them for weapons when they pulled off their jackets because I didn’t want to be in the middle of a shooting when I was right across from them.

Most of the patrons got up and left when they realized Nandos was foreign food. I’m just relieved they didn’t stick around long enough to find this:

Reel Talk

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(Trigger Warning: It took a lot of work to keep this PG-13. I had to take a shower after the events of this brief adventure, and not in a fun way.)

I hate it when Facebook recommends stuff to me, based on my “interests,” including the reels. At one point, I was only getting clips from 2 Broke Girls, even though I am not remotely interested in that show.

The algorithm decided that, if Kat Dennings wasn’t enough, it would send me all the big boobs they had. Even though I didn’t click on them, the algorithm decided I needed to see more uncomfortable-looking breasts. It sent me reel upon reel of buxom women, mostly dancing.

When that phase passed, it switched to end-to-end Taylor Tomlinson clips, which finally got me clicking on them. (Her comedy connects with me.) However, the batch I actually engaged with didn’t last long.

Now it’s kind of crazy. Mostly, it’s gone back to big boobs, but they’re uncomfortably huge now, and I’m not turned on. I feel bad for the girls. Also there are the occasional clips from 2 Broke Girls and Taylor Tomlinson.

Today, I made a huge mistake. I saw a preview for a reel that featured an inhumanly pretty ginger in a corset. Her boobs were average-sized, so I don’t know what she was doing here.

I’m making huge strides in my artwork, and I’m trying to spend more time on faces. She was a beautiful model. And not because she was in a corset. Honest. In that two-second preview, she became a muse to me, and I needed to see more. I knew not to click on it, but I did anyway.

The video lasted about thirty seconds, and it was on a loop. The entire show featured this beautiful woman digitally stimulating the camera, as if it had male parts.

She could have been playing with a cat. She could have been banging on a silent bongo. She could have been painting. She could have been using a shake weight. But she wasn’t. She had the smug look and rhythm people have when they’re engaged in this kind of activity. Or so I’ve heard.

I closed my laptop and thought about my choices. I feel really gross now. I know I’m a vulgar person. I own this about myself. However, there’s a time and a place, and I don’t think Facebook is it. It’s not even sexy, it’s icky. Never again will I click on—ooh! Taylor Tomlinson video!

Paint No Rest for the Wicked

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A couple of months ago, I volunteered to be an usher at a community theater production that in no way needed an usher. They told me they’d be in touch if they thought I could help out on their next production. Right before the holidays, a group email went out, rife with reply-alls, soliciting volunteers for set painting.

I like my life. But I need to get out. I need to have conversations with people who can answer me and don’t bite me at random. I’ll take one or the other.

There was a Saturday and Sunday slot. Because I greet the world like a vampire if you wake him up in the afternoon, I volunteered for the two hours Saturday, and not the four hours Sunday. My contact was Ruth, which is one of those wholesome old-person names that you rarely hear anymore. I had a picture of her in my head.

I arrived a quarter after because I timed everything badly. And most of the work had been done because the rehearsal ended early, and the cast had decided to attack the primered foam trees with rollers. They were baffled by me, I was baffled by them, until Ruth showed up.

Ruth was not an old person. Ruth was a perky, bouncy, thirtysomething, cute as a button, who threw herself into the work. She had no idea what was going on, but she was going to take point because someone had to. The woman with the plan was Kathryn, who was a hippie from the sixties and fussed like Piglet. She was what I thought Ruth was going to be like.

One of the volunteers was a house-painter, so he was available to coach, which he was more than happy to do. He didn’t even need prompting. He would just show up behind you and point out an uneven patch, then stroll away for the next tree trunk where they awaited his wisdom. He was a silver fox with no neck, a fitted T-shirt, and wranglers he kept pulling up.

He and I bonded over the Doors. One of their songs started playing on the radio station (I didn’t know they still had those), and he couldn’t identify it. I asked, “Want me to tell you?” It was “LA Woman.” He explained to his companion that the Doors were from the sixties more than the seventies because Jim Morrison died in the early part of the seventies. Was it ’71? ’72? ’73? He then rattled off a bunch of the Dead at 27 Club.

I spent most of my time in the storage closet with Ruth because it looked like someone emptied a giant junk drawer into it. The storage closet is about the same size as the one Kate dumped my stuff in after the divorce, which is to say it’s very small. The theater troop were there by the grace of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, with a Sunday school in the room the next day, so all the trees were going to have to be put away. Apparently, the stage had to be broken down and stashed every Saturday night for mass.

I have no spatial reasoning, so I don’t know how to make things fit, until Saturday night, when I was directing Ruth to move things into the best space. She laughed a lot, which was good because I was supposed to be funny.

When everyone went home, Ruth hung out with me while I waited for my Uber. She asked me my favorite part of community theater thirty-five years ago, and I told her working in the wings. I’m the first person who didn’t say acting, so she is going to talk to the stage manager, who might need an assistant, as the play is a farce.

I made it to bed and woke up the next morning to continue the project I was working on Saturday. I asked myself if I wanted to stay home all day like I’ve done for the past bunch of Sundays. I did not, so that afternoon, I headed out to St. Mark’s Church and met more people.

I arrived early because I overcompensated, so Ruth and I cleared up the chairs from Sunday school and learned stuff about each other. She told me her husband was a novelist, with one book self-published, and he was interested in trying out his hand with traditional publishers. I offered some tips.

She was very excited to introduce me to Jess. Jess is on “The Board” with her husband, and she’s an artist. When she was showing off the samples she wanted to do, she turned to me for my expertise, even though I explained I am not an expert. When I asked what kind of art she did, she sheepishly told me crafts stuff, as well as a large bus for a karaoke competition. She was way more of an expert here than I was. In fact, I did two things all afternoon. First, I attempted to sponge over the base layer in a way that looked like leaves. It did not work. I attempted to add highlights. It looked like Jackson Pollack had rolled around on one of his canvasses. The second thing I did was paint over it with the base color and left it to Jess, whose trees looked magnificent.

Meanwhile, Kathryn, who assured us she was no artist, singlehandedly added a level of depth to the tree trunks that was uncanny. Ruth painted the moon, using a video on TikTok for a reference, and Kathryn was there to help. But she was not an artist. No, sir.

When I showed up, I told them I could only stay for two of the four scheduled hours because I would need to return to my cave with my cat and shun the outside world. We were done within two hours.

Now, all I have to do is wait for Ruth’s email, and maybe I’ll be able to hang out backstage and juggle, while surrounded by weird people.

It’ll be fun.