Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: How Michelle Came to Make Philadelphia Her New Home

The following takes place between the hours of 3:00pm and 4:00pm.
Somewhere between Chicago and Washington D.C. And Philadelphia. And Norfolk...

3:00PM: Clear-eyed and optimistic, I roll out of Chicago. Flight doesn't leave for hours, but it's always good to build in a window, right? Riiiiiiiight...

3:30PM: The train is crowded, and a fight breaks out on the Blue Line back to O’Hare between a guy clearly looking for a fight, and what appeared to be an older, (possibly) mentally challenged man. Directly in front of me. I could’ve thrown a punch, were I so inclined. The guy who picked the fight jumps out at the next stop, while the older man lays bleeding and unmoving on the ground. The train is stopped - medics come - guy eventually walks out on his own, with the help of more than a few other people. I discuss our ringside event with a lovely middle-aged Chicagoan woman. She encourages me to visit again.

6:20PM, 6:30PM, 6:45PM: The first leg of my flight is delayed. Repeatedly. Firstly… because of reasons unknown. Secondly by lightning. Then by a mechanical issue. We will eventually take off, but suddenly the hope of making a connection, while not abandoned, is beginning to look bleak.

9:40PM: Somewhere in the air over DC, we begin to circle the block for a while, delayed by something mysterious on the ground. Even the pilot doesn’t seem to know. We fly endlessly in circles. My connecting fight departs at 10:10… I’ve already heard rumors that there are no more flights to Norfolk until the following afternoon. I clench my teeth and begin scanning the plane for people in front of me small enough to knock out of the way.

9:55PM: We finally land. My exit gate is 35 - I look around, 32, 33, 34… There IS no 35! I run up to the counter and ask if it’s even possible to still make my flight - and WHERE, in God’s name, is gate 35?! The slowest, oldest man in the world eventually croaks out, “Well, it hasn’t left yet… So it’s possible. But it’s all the way in the next terminal.”

9:57PM: I take off running. Flip-flops clacking obnoxiously on the tile, my wheeled suitcase flying behind me in defiance of physics like a 75 lb. banner of panic. Pedestrians leap from my path, clearly terrified of the snorting, panting, redheaded hurricane hellbent on reaching her destination with no obvious regard for the fact she is clearly never going to make it.

10:07PM: There is a SECOND security check-point between me and my destination. What. New. Hell. Is. THIS?! I stop cold for only a second, then hurl my suitcase and backpack onto the conveyer belt. I unpack nothing. I toss my shoes and my cell phone into a box. The security guard shrieks, “MA’AM! YOU HAVE TO TAKE YOUR LAPTOP OUT OF THE BAG!” so I yank it out of my backpack and fling myself through the gate. Running again, I briefly reflect on the number of times I’ve exercised really excellent caution when heading through airport security - and how it obviously was all for naught, since they clearly don’t give a crap. So long as you take out your laptop.

10:13PM: My gate is empty. The plane is gone. In a shameful display of defeat, I cry a little. Tears of failure. Tears of homesickness. Tears of being grossly out of shape and having just run through an airport in flip-flops.

10:40PM: My options are these. I can take a flight to Charlotte the next afternoon. And… Then live there. All the flights from Charlotte to Norfolk are overbooked. The kind girl behind the counter, who finally realizes the futility of trying to send me to Charlotte, has a discussion with her manager. They can get me there - first class to Philly, then Philly to ORF. In theory, I might eventually make it home. She hands me a hotel coupon (discounted, not comped… they cannot control the weather. This is a fair argument) and directs me to a shuttle headed that way.

10:48PM: I call Tim, who had every good intention of coming to get me, but the more we discussed it, the more ridiculous driving all hours into the night began to seem. It was too late to rent a car and just as expensive anyway. I book the hotel and attempt to hop a shuttle. In keeping on theme, the last shuttle of the night took off at 10:45.

11:00PM: My Uber driver, Bockrie, arrives. Bockrie, a very friendly but terribly confused young man from Sierra Leone of the tender age of maaaaaaybe 18, begins to make some questionable choices. Wrong turns. U-turns. General bewilderment. Muttering to himself about which way to go. At one point I find myself yelling, “NO! NO! DON’T GO DOWN THAT STREET! IT’S ONE-WAY!”

11:15PM: I fall into a fit of hysterical laughter in the backseat of Bockrie’s Toyota Camry. Hungry, tired, and frustrated, Bockrie is just the adorable, confused cherry on my travel sundae. Eventually, he will drop me off at the hotel. By pulling in through the exit gate.

12:00AM: I’m settled into a room at the Old Crown Plaza hotel in Alexandria. The water pressure is terrific, and the bed is comfortable enough, but the smoke detector has been detached from the wall, and I had to rearrange all the lamps in the room just to find one without a loose connection port that will actually charge my nearly-dead phone. But these are minor issues... At least I have a room. Roland, the super friendly desk clerk, tells me when I check in that many of the people the airport sends to them get sent BACK to the airport when they run out of rooms.

12:10AM: I ask Roland, the super friendly desk clerk, if there’s anywhere I can get a bite. He directs me to a bar about 4 blocks away. It’s a safe neighborhood - I hoof it. They don’t serve food. But they do have beer. This is more or less acceptable.

3:08PM (The following day): Zipping past the uneventful morning of shuttles, first legs and exceptionally chatty lawyers from Albany, here I am. 24 hours from the start of my journey, sitting in an empty airport terminal in Philadelphia on the world’s longest layover. There’s one more leg to this trip, and then I’ll be home. Of course, I still remember about 17 hours ago when that was also the case… But,  still... I remain optimistic. It is, after all, always sunny in Philadelphia. And there’s plenty of brotherly love and such. And besides, if Tom Hanks can live at JFK, I can surely live here if I need to, right?

Good thing they have beer.

"boom / OR," OR... The Best Thing No One Ever Saw

"I won't have one of those 'OR' titles... one of those greedy, get-it-all-in titles. 'The something-something OR what-you-something...' I don't care if the Great Man did it, they take up half the poster, and the typesetter charges by the word. Make up your mind and pick one, thank you." - Lady Davenant

In a near-impossible 3-page hulked-out monologue in OR, by Liz Duffy Adams, that line is mine. It arrives wedged in near the end - a breviloquent lesson on naming plays twice; a practice I became well versed in watching episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle as a kid. So, it's not without irony that I wrote my own title the way that I did.

We opened a show last night. boom by Peter Sinn Nachtrieb. A genius little 3-person one-act (though to be fair, it runs about 80 minutes - it just doesn't have an intermission) about the end of the world. A straight up comet-explosion, apocalyptic, civilization-destroying end of the world comi-tragedy. And tonight, we'll open another - OR, - Liz Duffy Adam's even sexier, albeit somewhat ridiculous, Restoration Era door-slamming farce about spy/playwright/poetess Aphra Behn. And we'll do it with the same 3 cast members. Intriguing? Sure. But for an actor, the concept was all but mind-blowing.

When Generic Theater announced their season last year, I was taken in by a few things.

1.) A partnership with Double Dog Theater on this (these) show(s). Double Dog does undeniably interesting work, is run by some amazing, truly creative, and fun-to-work-with folks. Point boom/OR,. They also have a profit-sharing model for paying their actors and crew, which, let's face it, is a major bonus. Time = money, and if any of that comes back your way, it's basically like winning the lottery. Another point boom/OR,.

2.) The concept of 1cast/2plays was just difficult enough to understand that you can read the heightened concentration on Jeanette Rainey's face in the video as she struggles to make sense of what this event actually IS. Complicated theater that can't be readily explained by a cue card? Color me curious. Point boom/OR,.

3.) It looked like a CHALLENGE. I'm choosy about the shows I audition for - they're time consuming and I have a day job. And a significant other who eventually wonders where I've run off to. So, the things I ultimately audition for are things I know I will KICK MYSELF for not being a part of. And this was, without a doubt, exactly that. Great writing. Multiple roles on different sets. Repertory theater, which is essentially unheard of in this area. And repertory with the same actors and crew? Point boom/OR,. Basically all the points. I sucked it up, hauled that giant sack of points into an audition and laid them at the feet of our now-director Brendan Hoyle, who I'd recently declared a creative genius. (Don't tell him this, his head will swell, and we'll have to revoke the title and that will be the end of it.)

So, cut to now. Weeks of rehearsals and hundreds of lines memorized and nearly a dozen characters developed (well, hey there, multiple roles in one show!), we open. To a warm, receptive, engaging crowd. Of about 20 people. And that little red warning light that had been quietly blinking in the back of my head since before I even auditioned suddenly comes into focus. This show is a TOUGH SELL. While conceptually brilliant, well marketed (read about us here... and here... and here!) and doing everything it needs to be amazing... the fact remains. It's going to be a hard sell! The plays are basically brand new. Consider theater years in terms of dog years - the oldest of the shows was written only in 2008, which means most people have yet to even HEAR of this title yet. It's a gamble to pay for a ticket to a show you've never heard anything about. On top of that, there's a good chance you might not KNOW anyone in the cast... There are only 3 of us. And while that's a huge part of what makes this so conceptually amazing, I'm as guilty as anyone of not seeing local shows when I don't know anyone who's in them. Never heard of the show and no one's gonna be mad if I don't see it? I'll keep my $17, thanks. Maybe I'll go see a movie... I don't know Matthew McConaughey personally, but he looks like he could use my money. And those Hollywood studios are really struggling to make ends meet...

So, begins my point. (Did you see it coming...? I know, it nearly slipped right by in the subtlety, there.) There are amazing things happening that need your support, and boom/OR, juuuuuust might be one of those amazing things. And, oddly enough, this isn't about me for once! (WHAT?! I know!) Whereas I'm having a total blast, and I want people to come and be impressed with my ability to put on a bunch of different wigs and hats really fast (isn't that why people go into acting in the first place?), this is about something else. It's about recognizing something special... Something different... Something that might expand the definition of what art and theater is in this town. Something that's good for everyone! Support it now and you'll get to see more interesting things down the road. Actors and techies alike will be provided bigger and better opportunities to do things that stretch them, because it's already been proven that the community will hold up the ticketing end of the bargain.  

This might not be a life-altering experience... You'll see a play (two, if you like what you see and decide to catch them both), and you'll be hella entertained - because, let's face it, they're comedies and it's near impossible not to get a laugh or two out of it. BUT, support for something like this will benefit everyone. Actors, directors, crews, audiences... the whole flipping City of Norfolk and then some! But you have to come. Suck it up and drop the cash, because it's going to make all the difference in the world.

I can't encourage you enough to come out... Whether you want to (somewhat dramatically) change the course of history or not. :) We run for 3 weekends at Generic Theater down under Chrysler Hall in Norfolk, through February 15. I promise you will kick yourself for missing it.

#foodnotfood

(I'm gonna get a little rant-y here. So bail now if you're not feelin' it. I don't actually make a point in the end... it's just observational whining.)

I have a lot of problems with food. And not necessarily the ones you'd think. (Though, take a good look at my curves and you can safely guess I've got those, too.) My biggest problems with food come in a form of impatience. I don't care enough about it to deal with it. It's a hassle to figure out. And shop for. And cook. Tim and I have a long-time understanding that, should something ever happen to him, I will likely die of starvation. I'll live off whatever cereal we have in the house until it's gone... and then I will just slowly allow myself to fade away. The autopsy will reveal cause of death as "Apathy."

So, last night, I allowed myself an experiment. I went to the store, and wandered the aisles. Slowly. Really considering what I would actually be interesting in eating, come lunchtime the following day. On any ordinary trip, my impatience would get the best of me, and not finding anything immediately to my liking, I'd give up and leave - assuring myself another lunch of whatever-looks-least-processed-in-the-vending-machine. But since I had nothing to do and nowhere to be, I forced myself to take a little more time.

The siren's call from the cereal aisle eventually proved too strong to ignore, so I veered my cart-ship down the row, absentmindedly wondering when the American public had decided they needed 47 varieties of Special K. And that's when I saw it.

It wasn't the first time I'd been annoyed by food-disguised-as-other-food, but for some reason, this time it really gave me pause. Cap'n Crunch is a great cereal - though, health food, it is not. Was it really necessary to take a perfectly unhealthy sugared breakfast cereal and repackage it as an even UNHEALTHIER dessert? While the crotchety old man in my head prepared his angry remarks on childhood obesity, the physical me kept slowly cruising the aisles. And like the breakfast cereal that broke the camel's back, suddenly it began to occur to me how much STUFF was in these grocery aisles. And none of it was food. Oh, it was edible, alright. But 90% of it had been manufactured from chemicals and by-products and dyes and cardboard and donut flavoring. I began to recall articles I'd read about American grocery stores being "impossibly well-stocked," and how surprising it must be to foreign travelers to see aisles and aisles of food available. In every variety imaginable.

But the problem being... it wasn't food.

I'm going to gently fold my star-spangled trio-of-eagles t-shirt and set it aside for a moment to simply ask the question, "WTF, America?" What are you trying to accomplish here? Does anyone really benefit from this much variety? This many choices? Are we really such terrible consumers that this is what it takes to get us to keep buying? We've oversaturated ourselves with glossy, nacho-cheese flavored, 99% processed, family-sized bags of crap, and it's become so commonplace, no one even sees it anymore. And being alive long enough to know what bags of crap I like, I didn't even notice how many new bags of crap had sprouted up while I wasn't looking.

I know this is the point of the story where an ordinary person might make a great life change. They'd abruptly decide to grow all their own food. Or only shop at Whole Foods. Or buy only locally-sourced, no-GMO, organic, biodynamic, permaculture grown, sustainably raised chickens whose names they already know. But, for someone who can barely decide they might like to eat a sandwich sometime later in the week, that seems pretty overwhelming.


I'm not really looking for an answer here. And I'm not going to turn into a person whose entire Facebook feed is devoted to telling people their favorite foods are poisoning them. (Yes, we know. Don't be smug.) But it was a pretty revelatory evening. And I sense there may actually be small changes in my future - be it the occasional trip to Whole Foods. Or finally weeding out our garden in the backyard and planting a few veggies. (I will never eat a chicken whose name I know, however... at that point we're friends, and I'm not ready to go vegan.) But I might actually read a few of those your-food-is-poisoning-you articles people love to shove in my face, because I've finally noticed for myself that, while they're still smug, they may be true.

Wouldn't it be interesting if the market research that gave us Sprinkled Donut Crunch went into Keeping the American Public Trim, Happy and Not Full of Chemicals? I know it isn't a new thought, but daaaaaaaamn it would be super convenient for us impatient, careless foodies if the FDA had public interest truly at heart.

Story of a Veteran

Because it's Veteran's Day, and I love to talk about my father, a story.

"My dad was in Vietnam." And for most of my life, those five words summed up pretty much everything I knew about it.

It surprised me a little. Dad was a great storyteller. I mean, the man really knew how to work a room. If I ever needed to find him in a crowd, it was only a matter of following the people laughing the loudest. I always knew he'd be at the center of it, telling some Big Fish tale of how he killed a river snake with a rock from the shore hundreds of feet away, or how he'd been dragged down the hallway by the ear by countless Catholic school nuns, or how he hit his brother in the back with a dart playing William Tell and how, "He would've been fine if he just hadn't moved!"

The stories were great. (And to the chagrin of his brothers and countless Catholic school nuns, all true.) But on the subject of Vietnam, he was surprisingly quiet. He had stories of joining the army, and stories of the army's plans for him - which were pretty lofty, from what I understand. But he said almost nothing to me about his time in the war, and in the naiveté of childhood, I found that very strange. Vietnam seemed like a fascinating place, and enough time had passed by the time I came along that I assumed he'd be wide open to talking about his "adventures" in the war.

As I grew up, my father did begin to open up a little more. In my late teens/early twenties I think he began to see me less as his child and more as a friend, and it was only then that I managed to ask him the right questions about Vietnam. He recounted a few tales - but even then, only things I always considered to be on the fringe of the whole story. About people he met and things that happened - one particularly poignant story of how his platoon killed an elephant, which even though he shared the story in an entertaining manner, I could tell it was something that never sat right with him. My father, reluctant admirer of creatures big and small.

It was finally my mother who opened my eyes to how deeply the war had affected him. On a visit to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in DC, she told me, he had cried openly at what he found there. I could count the number of times I'd seen my father cry on one hand - one FINGER, if I'm being honest. And yet, this thing, decades after the fact, could still bring that man to his knees. It was no real wonder he never talked about it... An entire other lifetime couldn't erase what had happened there.

My father was so young when he entered the war. It's so easy to forget that. I'm more than 10 years older now than he was when he joined the army. And though he's not with us any more, I personally credit his death in small part to that nightmare of a war. Exposure to Agent Orange left him with a wealth of health problems that followed him his entire life. As though the mental scarring weren't enough.

I am proud of my father still for his time served. He joined the army of his own volition, did well, and got out. He went on to create a family and another life for himself outside of the military, but he could have easily stayed on and been a success. He taught me respect and appreciation for those who continue to serve, and it's nothing but respect and appreciation that I have. "Happy" Veteran's Day seems like a flippant thing to say when I consider those who fought alongside my father, whose names he found on that wall. So, instead, a "Respectful" Veteran's Day, and a heartfelt thank you for those serving where many of us could not.

When Books Hurt Your Feelings

When you're already on the fence about a piece of literature you're engaged in, it can come as quite a shock when that book somehow manages to damage a piece of your psyche so hard that you're STILL thinking about it the next day.

Truth be told, I cried myself to sleep last night. Tim was already long asleep by the time this embarrassing scene went down, and thankfully, too. Much like the time he walked in on me sobbing to the end of "Marley and Me" (a movie I had previously sworn never to subject myself to), and cried, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF?!" while (unsuccessfully) trying not to laugh at the masochistic heap of crying wife he'd cheerfully left only a few hours before, I couldn't even begin to explain this sudden and horrid onset of emotion.

But what I can tell you is the one thing those two moments had in common - they were both about a dog.

I've never felt more betrayed by a book. Betrayed by a protagonist who, up until then, had been likeable enough. Betrayed by a protagonist who, upon falling in love with a man she'd only just met, abandoned her only "family" - Weeds, the dog - to fend for himself. It was sweetly written - she would visit him every day. She would continue to care for him in secret, because (for some reason I have yet to read) this man doesn't allow dogs in his life. But, it doesn't change the fact that she LEFT this dog. And there is no way to make a dog understand why he'd been neglected. It's the teddy bear at the end of A.I. It's Harry and the Hendersons. It's that terrifying episode of MacGyver where the petri dish of culture gets spilled and kills the lady scientist's adorable little collie. (And the lady, too, but WHO CARES?! SHE WAS CONSUMED BY HER DESIRE FOR SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY!!!)

You brought this upon yourself, Dr. Sandra Millhouse!

I dropped that book like it was fire in my hands. And I've been terrified to pick it up since. Because I know there's going to be more about this dog. And it's going to hurt my feelings. This overreaching, self-indulgent novel full of psycho-babble and meandering modernism that I can't even decide if I like IS ACTIVELY HURTING MY FEELINGS. AND I DON'T CARE FOR IT.

It might be time to "Little Women" this thing.

*Books are neat, aren't they? :)
**The book is Iodine - a novel by Haven Kimmel. Though truly one of my favorite authors, this particular book is a bizarre departure, and one I probably couldn't recommend to anyone not already heartily basking in her literary grandeur. (Or to anyone who pointedly overreacts to fictional dog abandonment.)

"I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else."

I said this to a cast mate last night after another hysterically fun, sold-out performance of Avenue Q at the Little Theater of Norfolk (running for two more weeks, and yes, that was my sales pitch). He grinned in agreement and said, "You need to make that your Facebook status."

I laughed, because it's definitely one of those well-phrased, quippy plugs I tend to make on Facebook - actor friends would appreciate it, people who know my sense of humor would get it. It's easy and brief and just relateable enough to make people click "Like," before moving on with their lives.

But here's the thing. The raw truth in that statement has eaten at me since the moment I said it. And not just because it skews a little on the "emotionally unhealthy" side - I mean, those aren't cards I've ever held that closely to the chest, anyway. It's more about perception. About the image I put out into the world. About the way people are perceiving other people - and how they're almost always wrong.

Someone recently referred to me as "popular." As "the popular girl." It was an off-putting assessment - not an insulting one, by any means - just surprising. But, it's not untrue, I guess. I surround myself with people I love, and I try to be kind and as funny as is humanly possible so they continue to want to be around me... But, it can feel like a calculated maneuver. I've referred to myself as a "personality chameleon." If the person I'm being doesn't seem to meld with the person that you're being, then I can make adjustments. I can make you like me. Or I can certainly put a lot of time and energy into TRYING to make you like me. I try not to do hateful things, like talk about other people behind their backs, even when it's popular opinion. (Which is not to say I don't do  it - I just don't like myself when I do it.) I try to stick up for the little guy. I even (often unsuccessfully) try to wipe the knee-jerk snotty look off my face when people are saying things I find completely inane. I generally don't talk about my bad days. I know what makes people unlikeable, and those are the things I avoid.

But what people tend to forget, or simply not realize, is that I spent the better part of my life being painfully shy. Literally running away from any scenario that made me uncomfortable. And if you think that doesn't still happen, you'd be so very wrong. Only now, there's the added benefit of getting to berate yourself afterwards for being a "31-year-old woman who just ran away from a group of enthusiastic high school students who were trying to get your autograph," because you couldn't wrap your head around the fact they might actually want to talk to you, and not just your six other, better cast mates.

But the "perks of being a wallflower," so to speak (thank you Stephen Chbosky), are actually this: I see it. I recognize the hesitancy. The running away. The thought that you might like to say what's on your mind, but you're so choked up in your own thoughts that nothing ever comes out of your mouth. And that's the reason perception is a terrifying thing. The amount of energy people spend wishing they were more like someone else, when they're probably not even grasping the reality of who that person is in the first place. You like me because I get you. I get you because I WAS you. I still am you. And that's why I put my energy into drawing you out in the first place.

Actors are insecure. I'm insecure. It's not groundbreaking news. But perception is the devil.
You become a chameleon because you hope to avoid drawing attention to yourself - and sometimes that disguise is bright and colorful (or kind and funny), but it suits the surroundings and you blend in. "I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else," is always going to be true for me. Onstage, offstage... Even popular girls don't always know who they are.

And now for something completely different...

I stumbled onto this video again while researching another band we have coming to the Discovery Music Series - it's the Mountain Stage interview with The Weepies.

It's been a few years since The Weepies played the stage at the Attucks Theatre, but I remember that concert like it just happened. The Weepies were my favorite band before they came to the Attucks, and they continue to be long after. It's not something I even have to think about. "Michelle," you might say, "You listen to a freakin' crapload of music. Who's your favorite?" "The Weepies," I'll reply. Instantly. I won't even launch into a long, hipster diatribe about it, because A.) it's easy truth and B.) you've already stopped listening. But, it was frosting on the cake to meet them in person and learn that they are as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you want your favorite band to be. They were magical on stage AND off.

Tonight, the Wheeler Brothers are playing our stage. And no one in Norfolk has any idea who they are. I know this because in spite of the marketing dollars that were thrown far and wide at this series, we've sold less than 100 tickets to this show. And I didn't know who they were either. But, here's what I can tell you about them: their YouTube videos are great. They post really funny animated gifs to their Twitter feed. Oh! And they were also just voted Austin's Best New Band of 2012. Wait... That last part seems important. They're TALENTED.

No one is guiltier than I am about not buying tickets when I've never heard of the band. I mean, why would you? Money's hard to come by, and what a crapshoot that could turn out to be. But, the thing I love about the Discovery Series (and why I mention The Weepies) is that it doesn't often matter WHO the band is. The venue is an experience all it's own. The sound quality is brilliant, new and amazing bands are playing new and amazing music, and CREATIVELY, too (can we talk about how the Alternate Routes incorporated a tool box into their percussion arsenal last show?)... You get to know the band. The venue is intimate. The bands are little known. Some of them are still manning their own merch stands. They WANT to meet you. They tell stories on stage. You connect to them. You love their music. You buy their CD's. You find out that the band you loved on stage is just as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you wanted them to be. You become a fan for life. You go to their sold-out arena concerts and say, "I liked them so much better at the Attucks." (Remember the Avett Brothers? Yeah. We're STILL saying that about them.)

The Attucks is in a dismal neighborhood. You've never heard of the group. The show is on a Thursday night. It's raining. There are about a million reasons NOT to go. But forget all that stuff for a minute. Open yourself up to this theater. It's one of my favorite spaces in Norfolk, and it's not because of the building. (Which is beautiful, by the way.) There's a warmth that comes from intimately engaging with musicians that's a completely different animal from the hype of a standing, sold-out concert in a sweaty, smoky venue. Which is probably where the Wheeler Brothers are headed on their next tour stop. I don't devalue those places - I like a loud, sweaty concert as much as the next girl - but, this. THIS. This is something different. Something really, really, really good.

And you should go there.

Top Ten Reasons Why Tim Jenkins is Better than the Baby Jesus

High School: Revisited

Since I don't have teenagers to offer this advice to, here are some valuable lessons I learned from judging a high school talent show this evening:

1.) If you ever thought you might've been over-exaggerating how awkward your time in high school was... allow me reassure you. You're not remembering it wrong. The awkwardness is practically tangible.

2.) It doesn't matter how good looking you ACTUALLY are, high school standards are INCREDIBLY skewed. It's actually pretty remarkable the things that can make you unpopular. And when you're unpopular, it doesn't matter how talented you are - no one cares. It's righteously infuriating. That said, though, charisma will take you a long way. Not pretty? Not smart? Not the best at anything? Doesn't matter. Learn how to work a room and no one will ever give you a hard time again.

3.) However... the pretty (but charisma-free) popular girls are still going to end up behind a microphone. No one wins in this scenario. Especially not the audience. Folks who value popularity will pretend to get it, but inwardly, everyone is cringing.

4.) I remember being told that I had no idea what love was when I was in high school. Which, of course, turned out to be true. But, here's the thing: whatever those kids think is love right now is the only point of reference they have. You'll never get them to believe they don't know what love is, so why bother telling them that?

5.)  If it doesn't have boys in drag, it's not a high school talent show.

6.) While a teacher can be your greatest ally in high school, you should probably know they're also rooting for the snotty kids to fail.

7.) While it's great you're a songwriter, no one actually wants to hear the ballad you wrote. To point, "I don't want any of this lover's lament crap. I want something peppy, something happy, something up-tempo. I want something snappy." That's how you win talent shows. Charisma, baby. Charisma!

(I feel I should amend this to note that high school was not a bad time for me. I traveled pretty safely in the middle of the pack - liked by kids on all ends of the spectrum, for the most part. But it's FASCINATING to have an outside view of this world. Like a goldfish bowl that you used to live in.)

Summer Luau Poster

I'll be honest - I get bored sometimes at work. Don't get me wrong... I'm BUSY. And pretty much all the time. But with a lot of unstimulated fodder like ad mat localization, website data entry, photo resizing... It's overwhelmingly sad how much of this designer's job doesn't really involve design at all. So, recently, I decided to take the matter into my own hands and basically design the crap out of a poster project that really no one was even paying attention to. I did it for me. To remember that I'm capable of more than the daily grind of task-mastering that gets handed to me every day. To remember that I was once good at making stuff. To de-numbify my brain.

What proved to be the jumping point for this project was just a matter of being completely taken by the work of studio People Too. Their paper cuts are GORGEOUS. And while it wasn't exactly in the cards to hire a studio out of Russia to illustrate a no-budget project that no one actually cared about (for a free event, no less), I decided the effort to learn how they were making these things would be well-worth it in the end. And now that I've done it, I want to do it again. I want them to hire me. I want to move to Russia. (Ok, maybe not that last part.)

Your paperclip legs and hairless paper cranium are sexy to me, big-lipped, torso lady.

The creepy, waltzing, headless hula zombie stage...

A little glue dandruff...

My giant fingertip will crush your tiny stamen, itty bitty hibiscus!

Homemade lightbox - pretty proud of that, but this was also about the time I began cursing my hipster professor for how little photography knowledge I came out of college with. (Ask me any question about ZeFrank, though - I can tell you LOTS about that guy.)

Lots of natural light on the balcony of Chrysler Hall! Ha ha... Don't mind me...
I CANNOT BE CONTAINED TO MY OFFICE!!!

Final result? Super happy fun times! Would I change some stuff if I were to do it again? Yes. Definitely. But, the process was ridiculously fun, and the end result pretty freaking adorable if I do say so.

For my next poster... I'm thinking clay. OR PUPPETS!

Dad.

Whenever in a department store, he liked to find the biggest pair of XXXXL granny panties he could find and yell, "Are these the ones?!" to us across the entire store. I suspect it was payback for making him go shopping in the first place.

He once rolled up the label from a mustard jar and stuck it in his nose, embarrassing me so much, I ran out of the room crying. (Despite the fact it happened in our kitchen. And only our family was watching.)

He was always kind enough to take the fish off the line for me, but refused to let me be the kind of girl who wouldn't bait a hook. He had tackle boxes full of the sparkliest, most intoxicatingly rubber smelling, tassle-y, tentacle-y lures, but rarely did I ever see him fish with anything other than a worm.

He was always the one who clipped my toenails. A detail I remember, as I had the most excruciatingly ticklish feet, and he was the only one who could A.) hold me down and B.) frighten me into submission. I got to sit on his lap, though... I liked that part.

He taught me how to make a peanut butter and bacon sandwich on toast. I try not to think about what it did to his heart, because it's still one of the best things I've ever eaten.

He built us a treehouse. He mowed over every watermelon & pumpkin seed we ever planted. He never really blamed us for killing the saplings in the front yard by ramming our sleds into them after a run down the hill. He made us pick up sticks in the backyard... WITH A VENGEANCE. He buried our dead hamsters by the side of the house.

He took great pride in my ability to "run like the wind." Usually he just said it so I would run and fetch stuff for him, but sometimes, I think he was just impressed and liked to see me do it.

He never went to church, except for weddings, or special services, or someone's First Communion. He communed with nature - that was his church. Or that's what he said. I always thought God liked that about him. I know I liked that about him.

He could make anyone laugh. I spent so much time being embarrassed by him talking to strangers that I nearly missed how good he was at it. There wasn't a waitress alive who wouldn't flirt with him or a baby on the planet he couldn't make stop crying.

He drank a lot of Michelob. I asked him once if it was because it almost spelled my name, and he said, "Of course." He left one in the refrigerator the last time he was at our house. Even though we've moved since then, it came along with us. Someday, I expect, someone will drink it by accident. And when they spit it out and ask, "HOW OLD IS THIS BEER?!" I'll probably laugh. Because he would've found that hilarious, too.

There's no end to the things I remember, just an end to this post. Happy Father's Day, all. And Dad? Miss you every freakin' day. I'm going to pull the label off a mustard jar in your name.

Two Blog Posts, Both Alike In... Eh, who am I kidding?

I have no dignity.

This really should be two separate posts, as it's two completely separate thoughts, but since only like three people read this thing anyway (hi, three people!!!), I'm jamming it together.

Part I: Client Edits

My job is a bit of a cluster right now. It's a long story that barely warrants repeating - if you know me in real life, you've probably heard it anyway. But along the bruised and shrapnel-ed path of the last few months, I've been asked multiple times over why I don't take another job elsewhere. And believe me, I should. Not because there's no light at the end of this mess - there's definitely a glimmer starting to show. But, honestly, it would be a smarter move to leave. There are better opportunities for me out there - jobs where I could actually have health insurance (I've been contracted for the last four years - there's no visible end to that in sight), or get paid like the private sector does (yay, city government...), or work collaboratively with other creative-types, or work for a company I always said I wanted to work for...

But THAT... is not what this is about.

This is actually about why I STAY.

This isn't by any means the only reason - it's just something I was reminded of recently. And it's a hell of a thing. In my current position, I am the only one of my kind. I'm the only designer - I'm the only creative, really. And at the moment, I don't even have a boss. There is literally not a soul telling me when my stuff sucks. Which is actually kind of a HORRIFYING thing - I'm never going to get any better. And what if it really DOES suck?! But, in the exact opposite way, it's fairly awesome to be able to do something once and have everyone think it's great.

Enter freelance. I do a bit of outside work for one of the tenants of our theater, and was recently schooled in the fine art of client edits - something I'd nearly forgot existed in the real world. I spent an entire day on a project for them, only to have them turn around and change pretty much everything about it. I may be exaggerating the point a bit, since it's been so long since anyone handed me such brutal changes, but this is pretty much how that went down:


It wasn't so much the number of changes they had, but moreover how they stripped out everything I thought was interesting about the original piece. It was commissioned to advertise their event in an art gallery, so I thought the bright, vintage-y comic book approach was pretty nifty - and apparently so, as they actually told me the original was "too hip/cool" for what they were going for. I could only laugh. I'd clearly missed the mark for them, and that was on me, but what a way to go down. I never take edits personally (though I'm often distressed by the amount of additional time they take), but I had forgotten how much they do make you question your own aesthetic. I couldn't even tell you anymore if the initial design was good - everything about it had to be stripped clean, so how could it have been?

THAT is the thing that would happen all. the. time. were I to go work for an agency. That exhausting, "make the client happy," soul-sucking thing.

It's not the only reason to stay, but it is (FOR SURE) a reason.

Part II: WTF?

I'll readily admit to being sort of a pretentious radio listener. If I can't listen to my iPod or Pandora station in the car, I leave it on satellite radio (when it's free), NPR or the comedy station. But today, all those sources failed me in one way or another and I turned the dial to a country station.

And all I could think was, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED SINCE I STOPPED LISTENING TO THE RADIO?!!!!"

I've listened to this a second time, and it didn't horrify me quite as much, but I'll tell you, when you're not prepared for it, all you can ask is, "Why is this viciously cruel person trying to pass his murderous rage off as parody?!"

Please enjoy.

Call Me Rebekka

"I yam what I yam, and that's all what I yam." - Popeye

I spend a lot of time being me. Which is weird, because I don't always totally love me, so you'd think I'd be someone else some of the time. I pick up mannerisms belonging to others - if they set them down, and they look shiny, I'll pick 'em up and try 'em on for a bit - but I've yet to commit to full-on personality theft. Mostly because I never remember the props and fake mustaches and phony accents that come along with being someone else.

But I realized there's a person I'd very much LIKE to be - and until today, I didn't realize her name was Rebekka. (Mind you, this is a real person, not a, "I've decided to name this personality Rebekka. She loves cats and pistachio ice cream," scenario.) Rebekka Seale writes a blog called Dear Friend, which I happened on today. And I realized, as many activities I might have in common with this girl, SHE is the person I sometimes wish I were. The sweet, sourdough-baking, wool-hat-knitting, brown-paper-and-twine-sandwich-wrapping, dreamy-watercolor-illustrating poet-type, who writes romantic things like, "Here's wishing you all sweetness in the world this month: Blazing fires on frigid nights, and shimmery snow if your winter has been anything but. May your hands be kept warm by steaming cocoa, may you be intoxicated by the perfume of flowers, and may you lavish love on all those dear to you."

I swear, if I ever said anything like that to anyone they would look at me like I had three heads and probably ask if I were drunk. Which, yes, I would probably have to be to even attempt it. And even then it would probably come out more like, "Here's wishing you cheese sandwich! ... Er... flugelhorn..."

I posted this mostly as a kudos to Rebekka Seale, whose blog made me take a break from the silliness and sarcasm and sloppy awkwardness that pervades most of my waking hours, and made me dream of a person I'll never be, but would very much like to be. A person whose blog looks like a really glamorous Pinterest board.

Hibernating

It's January. And it's what I'm doing. Seems like I've spent every night for the past... uhhh... (what year is this again?) ... let's say, past few nights, curled under a blanket on the couch, laptop in hand, catching up on pretty much every TV show I can stomach. Throw in a few movies from Tim The Pirate King's collection, and it's safe to say I've become a genuine sofa tuber.

It's not great.

It's not that there are a ton of other things I should be doing, just a ton of other things I could be doing. That I'm not.

Yaaaay, laziness.

So, while I summon the energy to lift my head three inches off the arm of this couch to scowl and shake my fist at winter, I give you Brief and Terrible Reviews of Ten Things I've Recently Watched.

1. Community














Vast and wide is my love for Joel McHale. His Han Solo-esque, kind-of-a-jerkwad sex appeal aside, however, Community is quite possibly the greatest show on television. You should probably watch it immediately before it goes the way of Arrested Development and I weep openly.

2. Parks and Recreation








I'm mostly happy this show came along right as The Office was starting to suck. Totally funny. Totally watchable. Not always an Amy Poehler fan, but she's pretty much adorable. (Plus Adam Scott! *Please see "Party Down" below...)

3. "Being Elmo"










Watched this because it got great reviews, and it didn't disappoint. While Elmo happens to be the one Muppet that makes me want to poke babies in the eye with a stick, Kevin Clash is so infectiously humble and sweet that even I started to get on board with the Elmo thing. It's hard not to root for someone who achieved their childhood dreams in a perfect, totally cheeseball way.

4. American Horror Story










Spoiler Alert: Sylar from Heroes is a gay ghost.


5. "Cars 2"














AKA, "The Pixar Film That Never Should Have Been Made." I kind of hated the first one - and it took me THREE TRIES to finally sit through the second one. As it was, I gave up halfway through and starting writing this blog post. Sooooo... There's that.


6. "The Future"









It had all the right components - it was an indie flick about 30-somethings, written, directed and starred in by the quirky, pseudo-mysterious Miranda July. Basically a recipe for success as far as I'm concerned - but the fact was, it depressed the hell out of me. I can't even tell you if it's a good movie, because I've already committed suicide. I might've liked it. We'll never know. Because I'm dead now. And spoiler alert: SO IS THE CAT.

7. Bob's Burgers










I think it helps that I'm a big fan of Eugene Mirman (and really any comedian with a ridiculous vocal inflection), but the character development on this show is ridiculously good. Give it at least three episodes before you decide how you feel about it. I miss this show already. It's time for a new season.

8. "50/50"











A fine, mostly unmemorable movie. The fact is, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is always going to be good. And Seth Rogen is always going to be sort of ok. And, together? They were nice. A glowing, unremarkable review if ever there was one.

9. Party Down











Two seasons and it was cancelled. And it was the GREATEST UNEXAGGERATED CRIME KNOWN TO HUMANITY. I just watched this whole series again, and remembered, with great sadness, that there would be no more episodes. Adam Scott, however, is now on Parks and Recreation, so I take some solace in that... But, truly... Truly... This was a great piece of television. Watch it now. In remembrance of me. (Or them. Or something. Maybe a caterer you met once.)

10. Dog: stealing and eating two pieces of fried chicken, throwing them up, and eating them again











Yeah. It was this dog. My dog. And it was, quite possibly, the most horrifying thing I've ever seen.

Except maybe "Cars 2"...

"It's not a parade anymore..."

This was the sentiment expressed to us by a clearly over-it police officer following the Grand Illumination Parade in downtown Norfolk last night, as we were steering our float back to our building. While it echoed much of what I was already musing over, in actuality he was commanding us to turn off the music we still had blaring through the speakers. "Turn that off... It's not a parade anymore."

I have a love/hate relationship with this parade - I adore the work, and the opportunity to get out from behind my desk. I love the problem solving aspects of creating giant pieces and getting them to do what you want them to. And that great feeling when it actually works. I love creating. I love the freedom of it. I would do this kind of stuff all the time and leave the graphic work in the dust if it made any sense to do full time. I love that every now and then you'll hear an old lady in the crowd say, "Now THAT'S a beautiful float," and it seems worth it.

I hate having to depend on other people to make it work, but I LOVE the people that I have. There are a handful I trust to show up when they say they will, do the work they promise to do, and generally not despise me for my nit-picky ways. But, eventually I expect to wear those people thin, and have to replace them with less reliable folks. (And when I say "a handful" I probably mean 2 or 3 tops - they're REALLY hard to come by.)

I hate knowing that no matter what I create for this thing, we will never, EVER win - I just can't cater my taste to the over-cluttered, super-shiny, gaudy cluster that I know the judges love. It's really ok by me if we never win (it matters way more to me that I like the final product), but I hate having to tell people we didn't. I can't manage everyone else's expectations, and I get the vague impression that people don't understand why we keep putting so much work into it it if we never win.

I hate that for every thank you from a kid whose hand you put a candy cane into, you get an equal number of parents screaming at you that they have TWO kids, and need TWO candy canes!!! Even though, at that point, you're twenty feet away, because the parade moves so quickly, and there are 20 billion people on the route. There's some math there that will never balance out.

This year was particularly weird for me because my boss somehow checked out of the whole process. I tried to express my disappointment about this to a friend who really didn't want to listen and I probably should've let it go then, but it's still bothering me. I never signed up to take the whole thing on myself - sure, I'll put in the huge amount of extra hours to make the float happen, but I never wanted to be responsible for organizing the whole event. I don't need the added complications of making sure everyone knows where they're going, and gets there on time, and that all the marketing materials are in order, making sure we get shots to send to the show, and instructing the actors to wave enthusiastically, and realizing at the END of the parade that 2000 promotional candy canes doesn't even put a dent in the number of people at this thing, and we should reevaluate that for next year. She came down once in the process to look at the thing when it was half-finished, and told me to make sure I wrote Star Awards (our internal company award system) for everyone who helped me on it, and was never seen again. I don't want to write Star Awards. I've personally thanked everyone, many times over - if we have to go through bureaucratic process, I'd prefer that didn't fall to me. I'm a designer. I just want to design the thing, let the organize-y people organize and let the leadership lead. And though I'd prepared myself for the moment when she wouldn't show up - she has a new baby and I sympathize - I was still surprised when she didn't.

But on more positive notes, everything went off as hitchless-ly as possible. We made it to and from the parade in one piece (ALWAYS the biggest concern for me), the costumes looked great, and everyone had a good time. And now it's over. As an overwrought cop once said, "It's not a parade anymore."

Design Booze

I'm a sucker for packaging design. I don't always care what the product is or what it does - if it has beautiful packaging, I'm pretty easily inclined to buy it anyway. Or at least spend a good deal of time contemplating it before convincing myself I don't really need a $300 silver-plated panini maker, just because I liked the label.

I'm especially guilty of this practice in liquor stores. Or, most recently, the craft brew section of Total Wine, where I left with a $10 six-pack of 400 Pound Monkey, because the illustration was so freaking delightful.

(As it turns out, it's a light little IPA that's not so bad either.)

And while I've considered stocking an entire bar out of booze with packaging I love, some of it is really pricey. (Not to mention, I'm sure some of it tastes like complete swill.) So here, in no particular order, are a few other beverages I've loved solely for their design.

Frisky Midget

Not ALL my great loves are based in illustration, but this one? Absolutely. (Plus nesting dolls always intrigue me. They're so quirky.)

(P.S. I don't actually drink wine. It's a love that was never meant to be.)

Frozen Ghost Vodka

Gorgeous and totally gives me the creeps. Well done, Frozen Ghost.


1800® Tequila Essential Artists

All of the bottles in this series are very cool, but it was the Gary Baseman one that sold me the hardest. I love tequila, I love mermaids - and amazingly, NEITHER of those things were even the reason. It's the mexican wrestler. I just... I just... love him.


Rush River Beer

Every now and then you see something with really simple design and great typography that is just bare enough to stand out from everything around it. I guarantee there's probably not a glossy finish in their entire product line, and it makes me want to snuggle them.


Grimm Brothers Brewhouse

Yes, it's totally about the illustrations. BUT, everything about the Grimm Brothers brand is working for me. Look at that logo! GAH! I can't even deal.

Kraken Rum

Without a doubt, Kraken has got to be some of the BEST packaging design ever put out into the world. So much so, I'm not even taken by sticker shock at their $1000 custom wallpaper. In fact, I kinda like it. And throw in that lamp for good measure, because that octopus really speaks to me.


I've been thinking I might like to design someone's craft brew, based solely on my love o' booze art. So if anyone makes a crappy beer that needs to be salvaged by some awesome artwork, give a girl a heads up. There might be a trade agreement to be had.

A redesigned blog for a redesigned brain.

I took a very lengthy ten minutes to change my header design this evening. It's pretty fantastic, isn't it? One might think I do this sort of thing for a living. And therefore stop caring about it the instant I get home...

But, I've finally relieved the pressure that blog header was putting on me. The pressure to have an identity. To know what I'm doing. To have a purpose in writing. I never had those things to begin with - I'm not sure why I thought that would change over time.

I may update more often now. Or I may not. But, the open space to write is promising. My social networking efforts are often unpleasantly stalked, putting a significant hitch in my desire to speak openly. And there's no good way around that, other than to shut up entirely. But writing is cathartic... and, mostly, for me, when it's being read. Preferably, by people who won't bring it up in conversation and make me talk about it, when all I was really looking to do was sort something out aloud.

It's been a strange week. Hell, it's been a strange last few years. Emotionally draining, and the recovery time never what it should be. Sometimes it seems that I never "get over" anything anymore. It's a terribly taxing way to live.

So, new header. Same brain. Let's see how it goes.

A Tribute to a Very, Very Good Car

Hello. My name is Michelle. And I'm a raging anthropomorphic. (Ok, so that wasn't the correct usage of that word at all. But it was the only way I could make it sound like "alcoholic". I was trying to do something there. Allow me a little literary license for once in your life, would you? [Oooh, hey! Alliteration! Fancy! I should do this more often!])

Ok. Where was that going, anyway...? The car. My Alero. Not my first car, mind you - that would be a hand-me-down Plymouth Voyager minivan, courtesy of my adoring parents. Of course, little did they know that one fateful day I would launch that van over a cliff into an icy lake on Christmas Eve. But, that's really not what we're talking about...

The Alero was the first car I, myself, purchased - a doozy of a vehicle, what with it's four doors and steering wheel. AND the rear spoiler, which, to this day, I still maintain made the car go faster.

Just LOOK at that spoiler!!! Even parked, it's practically a blur!

Of course, this vehicle, too, became subject to the harrowing hazards of the road - frankly, I blame Virginia. I don't think it actually matters where you're from, you can always say, "At least people knew how to drive in (insert your hometown here)!" (They don't.) But, I mean, seriously - at least people knew how to drive in upstate New York! (They don't.) Regardless, only a few months into my Virginia residentdom, a crazed woman on the highway gave me this:

To be fair, someone else hit me in that exact spot AGAIN this year... A terrifying double denting!

A hit-and-run several years later that nearly ended in a high speed chase down the back streets of the worst part of town, with me in hot pursuit of the offending crackheads left me with this:

I'm sad because crackheads jacked my license plate.

Why I never got any of these things fixed speaks more to the costly, sinister nature of car repair, and is, in part, why I so greatly admired this car. While I continued to neglect it, it began it's slow retaliation with laudable passive aggression. First, the dashboard vinyl peeled up. Then the fan stopped working on it's lower settings. The blinkers began functioning intermittently, and often only after rapidly pounding the 4-way button. The radio dial fell off. The driver's side window stopped opening. The passenger's side window stopped opening. The driver's side window started opening again. The driver's side window stopped closing. Eventually the motor would grind to a halt, and the entire pane of glass would drop out of it's track. Duct tape became a standard issue accessory.

I'm classy!

With eleven years under it's belt, the final act of abdication seemed to come when the tiny, ere unnoticed button holding up the seat belt simply fell off. As if to say, "I can take no more," my brave little toaster began it's sluggish decent into retirement, with no less than four not-entirely-detrimental emergency lights blinking sadly at me from the dash.

I have since purchased a new car. It's fabulous and shiny and new and everything you could ever possibly want in a car. But what it doesn't have yet is the history - the memories, the time spent, the sheer weight of garbage I pulled out of the Alero before trading it in. And that, is the real reason I write this. Because, apparently, to know me is to have looked at the contents of my car.

BEHOLD!!!!!!!!
Um, wow. Just... wow.

Shocking. Truly shocking. While the car was pretty messy, I'll admit, I had no idea the sheer volume of things that were living in my vehicle. I won't bore you with a detailed list, but allow me to reveal some of the more, shall we say interesting bits...

You never know when you might need a disguise. Or, um, multiple disguises...

High school tassel '99, TCC tassel '04, ODU tassel '08 - nearly my entire life's education.

"WAMP" license plate. Not mine. Not anyone's. Where did this come from? And why do I have it?!

6' roll of white canvas. And a wiffle bat. And a bag of plastic forks... Ah, the things I might have MacGyvered.

FIFTY-NINE City of Norfolk parking garage passes

And, finally, the item I found most terrifying of all...

The tiny plastic toy chest I was given to put my teeth into after they were broken off in a trap-door accident during a rehearsal for "Evil Dead: The Musical". Open. Empty. Which, if you haven't pieced together the horrors, means somewhere, there were teeth in my car. Real, broken human teeth. From my broken, human head. I shudder to think of this Blair Witch turn of events. For this reason alone I may have had to trade in the car.

I loved that car. Right to the end. It's beyond nice to have new - I never knew how warm my butt could be until someone heated the seat - but there is so much affection for the old. I'll miss you, dear friend! I hope they send you to a farm upstate where you can sip motor oil on a rickity front porch and shake your tires at birds that try to poop on you. You've more than paid your dues - I hope you have a lovely retirement!

Good work, old friend! RIP