Fool's Gold Coast

Borders and Boundaries

I feel that the employees of the Borders in Uptown are pushy and strange, and I have three examples--which, as everyone knows, settles the matter once and for all.

1.
First, there is this British woman who works there. Every time I run into her, she begins by asking me what I'm looking for, then, no matter what I say, she recommends the same book. I've overheard her running the same lines with other patrons, too. There you'll be, minding your own business, and she'll saunter over with a solicitous, "Finding everything okay, love?" (I added the "love" to emphasize the Britishness.)

"Actually, I'm looking for a Scrabble dictionary."
"Well, here's a book you might enjoy. It's about this detective novelist whose stories begin coming true on the streets of Venice. It's cracking good, wot."
"I'm sure it is, but you see--"
"JUST BUY THE BLOODY NOVEL, YOU TOSSER! BLIMEY!"

2.
That's a paraphrase, of course, but here's a verbatim transcript of an exchange I had with another employee (who was rather cute in an artsy-twinkish way, I have to admit) as I was checking out at the register a couple of weeks ago.

ARTSY-TWINKISH: Do you have a Borders Rewards card?
Z: No.
A-T: Would you like to sign up for one?
Z: No.
A-T: Are you sure?
Z: Yes.
A-T: You can save 10% . . .
Z: No, thank-you.
A-T: Are you sure?
Z: Yes.
A-T: That's weird.

So now I must either submit to Rewards (read: e-mail spam) or face teenaged opprobrium? What kind of choice is that?

3.
And, finally, my third and creepiest example. It was Halloween, and I was entering an author's name into the computer at one of those find-your-own-damn-books stations. A fellow dressed as some sort of sad hobo clown (old suit, newsboy cap, white face makeup) came sidling up to me out of nowhere to ask if I needed any help. I knew he was an employee and not a random crazy person only by the Borders lanyard hanging around his neck.

"No, I've got it," I said, slightly terrified, and he sort of backed away.

A few moments later, when I was walking through the stacks in search of the drama section, his pale visage reappeared, glassy-eyed expression still firmly in place.

"I noticed you were looking for Beckett," he said. "May I ask which Beckett? I just finished Watt."

No, you may not ask which Beckett. I would, however, like to know why you were investigating my book searches and why, further, I can't seem to patronize this store without having some type of unsettling exchange. I mean, for heaven's sake, you are following me while dressed as a clown! Are you trying to give me nightmares?!

All That Glitters 89

A look at how I've been diverting myself lately.

Books
READ: Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw [I don't care what anyone says: the ending is entirely unsatisfactory, and the makers of My Fair Lady were quite right to fix it]; Our Town by Thornton Wilder [the good news: I can't get David Cromer's voice out of my head when I read the Stage Manager's lines; the bad news: I can't get David Schwimmer's voice out of my head when I read George's].
COMING UP: Shakespeare's tragedies.

Movies
SAW: Where the Wild Things Are [it's a downer], The Phantom of the Opera [the old Lon Chaney one].
THIS WEEK'S MOVIE NIGHT PICKS:
THEME: Queer Cinema.
KITO'S SELECTION: Eleven Men Out.
MINE: The Boys in the Band.

Current Interests
Sex, 30 Rock, American Theater Company, the South, my health, Sarah Palin, David Cromer, race, Philip Roth, the Film Center, Shaw, Adam Lambert, 80s movies, Glee, cubicle life, the grotesque.

Fool's Four
FOUR RECURRING DREAMS I HAVE:
1. The one about the rats.
2. The one with the weird bouncy flying.
3. The one where my teeth fall out.
4. The one with the scary subterranean gay bar (don't ask).

Foolish Flashbacks
TWO YEARS AGO: "'So I'm an eighty year-old woman,' I said. 'Stop the presses.'"
THREE YEARS AGO: "Consign 'Bea Arthur on Broadway: Just Between Friends' to the rubbish bin? Perish the thought!"

Glitter
Over at The New Yorker's movie blog, the 1957 film version of The Pajama Game is the DVD of the week. Never let it be said that I couldn't pick up a cue.

ELSEWHERE:
My mini-review of Seanachai Theatre Company's Mojo Mickybo is in this week's Chicago Reader.

One Thing after Another 21: Religion and Art

PREVIOUSLY:
1. "In Paris, Trixie's dead son Andrew is checking into the Hotel d'Ennui.
'What a coincidence!' says Eli, the guy who tried to tell Andrew about Jesus on the flight over. 'This is where I'm staying, too!'"
2. "'Say,' says Trixie to Olive, 'how would you like to accompany me on my counseling session with Rev. Dr. Lonnie Lloyd?'"
___________________________________________________________________

Andrew did not know Eli would be at the Louvre, but Andrew is nevertheless not surprised to see him there. This is how his luck has tended, pre-death and post.
"I am beginning to think you are following me!" says Eli. "What brings you to the Louvre? The art?"
"Isn't that what brings everyone to the Louvre?" says Andrew.
"Not me," says Eli. "I am here to tell people about Jesus."
"I see," says Andrew. "How is that going?"
"Hit and miss," says Eli. "I really thought I was getting through to this one Asian couple, but then it turned out that they did not speak English. I think they thought I was giving them a tour."
"Oh," says Andrew.
"I am not giving up, though," says Eli. "As my mentor and pastor Dr. Lonnie Lloyd would say, 'Don't be a quitter, son: / Just go and git-r-done!'"
"I am going to go look at art now," says Andrew.

Zac & Zak

David Zak, who recently announced he's stepping down as Bailiwick Repertory Theatre's artistic director, has been posting a series of Q&As with local critics at the Chicago Examiner. “I’ve always wondered, where do these people come from,” he told Performink. “I just wanted to generate this conversation about who the people are who are deciding."

“Everybody got back to me," he continues, "except for the guys from TimeOut Chicago, which I thought was hilarious.”

I don't know what that crack about TOC is supposed to mean, but I think I detect a tone! This makes me think maybe the questions he poses to the critics have a similarly snippy subtext, so I have decided to translate them for you below.

How did you get started in this part of the business? Do you have formal theater or criticism training?
TRANSLATION: So, just who do you think you are, anyway? What gives you the right to pick on the hard-won fruits of our labor? Is it safe to assume that you're a failed actor, like every other critic?

What about the job makes you crazy with joy?
TRANSLATION: Do you like ANYTHING about the theater? Or are you, as your writing suggests, a joyless churl?

Can you write about a favorite moment that you will always remember from a Chicago production?
TRANSLATION: Seriously. I bet you can't name one single thing you like about the theater. Go ahead. I dare you.

What do you most dislike about doing this job?
TRANSLATION: So go ahead: carp away like you always do.

Any advice you would give to Chicago’s producing community – either the non-profit or for-profit side?
TRANSLATION: Ooh, look everybody, we've got the freakin' Oracle of Delphi over here, ready to dispense some more of his awesome wisdom on how we're doing our jobs wrong. Better not miss a word!

What do you want us to know about you as a person?
TRANSLATION: I know it's a stretch, but maybe you could try to say something that humanizes you for once. Or are you happy with the impression you give of being a heartless monster?

Anything else you want to mention?
TRANSLATION: God, how I loathe you.

[If you're interested, you can read my answers to Zak's queries here.]

Playlist XIII: Latin Influence

I've slapped together another compilation CD for the BFF. I call this one "Latin Influence" because, well, because the music exhibits a Latin influence. A good many of the songs are of Brazilian extraction, but Brazil counts as Latin, right? I mean, I know the language there is Portuguese instead of Spanish, but it's still a South American country full of brown people speaking a Latin-derived language developed on the Iberian Peninsula, so I say it qualifies.

In any case, the CD's track list follows, and, below that, I've included a link to a Blip playlist that includes most of the music listed so that you can feel what it's like to be my best friend. Olé.

1. "Water to Drink," Victoria Williams
2. "Venus," Ari Brown
3. "Latin from Manhattan/I Got Rhythm," Patti LuPone
4. "Pico de Gallo," Trout Fishing in America
5. "Dance the Night Away," The Mavericks
6. "Fly Me to the Moon," Frank Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim
7. "Spanish Rose," Bye Bye Birdie (original Broadway cast recording)
8. "Bambalele," Audra McDonald
9. "Spanish Flea," Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass
10. "Cuba," Gibson Brothers
11. "Carnavália," Tribalistas
12. "Hasta Luego," Justin Hayford
13. "Gentle Rain," Barbra Streisand

Playlist XIII: Latin Influence

ELSEWHERE:
My short reviews of Tympanic Theatre Company's Bastards of Young and Black Ensemble Theater's The Message Is in the Music are in this week's Chicago Reader.

I Hate Those Meeces to Pieces

I have several recurring dreams because, evidently, my unconscious self has run out of material, too. One of the dreams that recurs most frequently, in one form or another, is the one about the rats

I blame my mother. She has a terrible fear of rodents and did her darnedest to pass it along to my sisters and me. All throughout our childhoods, she impressed upon us the conviction that the worst thing in the whole entire world--worse even than liberals, excessive noise, and leaving your shoes in the middle of the floor--is a mouse. In fact, we weren't even allowed to say the word; we had to substitute it with "shooey"--which wreaks havoc on the rhyme scheme in the opening lines of "'Twas the Night before Christmas," I don't mind telling you. I remember once when one of the poor creatures was found in our house, my mother promptly decamped for the garage, vowing to live in her beetle green Mercedes until the thing's removal, and half-inclined, I think, to sign the house and its contents over right then and there, provided the transaction could be done through lawyers and wouldn't require her meeting the shooey face to face.

Naturally, given this state of affairs, rodents loom large in the psyche. I used to have dreams about mice, but living in an apartment in college that had an uninvited guest (I named him Vito) ultimately helped me to come to terms with that particular brand of critter. Rats, however, continue to give me the willies, and so they have taken over as the star vermin of my nightmares.

Mostly, they do ensemble work--infesting my home, pursuing me in great hordes, that sort of thing--but occasionally there will be a star turn: I will step on one of them as I'm getting out of bed, for example, or one will attempt to gnaw my face off, or, as I dreamed the other night, I'll be locked in a leaky barn with a gigantic specimen intent on infecting me with rabies.

It's most unpleasant, I can assure you, and more than enough to make one wonder what in heaven's name one has to do in order to have one of those nice sex dreams one has heard so much about.

All That Glitters 88

A look at how I've been diverting myself lately.

Books
READ: The Letters of Noël Coward, ed. by Barry Day; The Plot against America by Philip Roth.
COMING UP: books by Samuel Beckett, Alice Munro.

Plays
SAW: Yeast Nation (American Theater Company) [everyone else in the world liked it, but I found the production shrill and the show a rehash of Urinetown, which was written by the same people; also, I don't know what the cast did to the costume designer to deserve ending up, at the end of the show, in merciless pink unitards that would make Kate Moss look lumpy--but it must have been something really bad]; The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, An Epilogue (About Face Theatre).

Movies
SAW: Disgrace, The Stepfather [one of those movies where someone behaves incredibly creepily, but only one person seems to notice].
LAST WEEK'S MOVIE NIGHT PICKS:
THEME: Secret Service.
KITO'S SELECTION: Absolute Power.
MINE: Dave.

Music
BOUGHT: Barbra Streisand, Love Is the Answer.

Current Interests
Social networking media, Philip Roth, the Obamas, lit crit, music, poetry, the World Wars, cubicle life, plays, attractive men, Bill Clinton, tabloid news, Top Chef, my sisters, evangelicals.

Fool's Four
MY LEAST FAVORITE SESAME STREET CHARACTERS:
1. Elmo [natch].
2. Baby Bear.
3. Telly.
4. Bob.

A Foolish Flashback
ONE YEAR AGO: "That's what having a longtime stylist means: he tries to get you to grow your hair out, until you do, at which point he begins trying to convince you to let him chop it all off."

Glitter
Halloween is less than a week away. How about a little something to sharpen your antici . . . pation?

List of Links 33

Found around the Web.

DRAWN TOGETHER: The Trib profiles Matt Groening and Lynda Barry, both of whom will appear at this year's Humanities Festival.

BUT WHERE DO THEY SAY "YOUSE"? A helpful map shows where in the US people say "you guys," "y'all," "you all," and "you" [via Roger Ebert].

LESSON PLANS: What, exactly, does it mean to "teach gay marriage," anyway?

ANIMALS IN PEOPLE CLOTHES: For just $495, you can buy a dead squirrel dressed up to resemble Queen Victoria!
Meanwhile, Huffington Post assembles a gallery of racist Halloween costumes for pets [via Boing Boing].

FRANK DISCUSSION: Barney Frank talks about political marches and running for office and such.

AND FINALLY: A bunch of eggheads attempt to burst Henry V's Agincourt bubble.

B&E

Halloween fast approacheth, which means it's time for the entry in which I fret about the costume I'm going to wear. As of this writing, I haven't the foggiest. Earlier, Kito and I discussed dressing up as gay icons Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street because 1.) Kito looks something like Ernie, and 2.) I have certain qualities in common with Bert--uptightness, a hairy brow, and, though I can't say I share Bert's ardor for paper clips and bottlecaps, I'm certainly not opposed to them (having to draw the line somewhere, however, I cannot support his strongly pro-pigeon stance).

Pulling it off, though, presents a problem. I worry that the costumes we'd put together would either look grotesque (orange and yellow facepaint, finger-in-a-light-socket hair) or dull (striped shirts, slacks). We set the bar rather high last year with our undeniably adorable take on Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and I'd hate for anyone to think we had blown our creative wad.

Better to forego putting together a costume at all than suffer that ignominy.


ELSEWHERE:
My short review of The Right Brain Project's The Modern Prometheus is in this week's Chicago Reader.

Destination: Wedding

Hi, everybody. I've returned from Florida--a day later than planned because, if you must know, I was throwing up on Sunday and didn't feel like sitting on an airplane. The wedding was lovely, though, and--most important--my reading during the ceremony went over like gangbusters. Also, at the rehearsal dinner, I read "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat," which was received well too, once I got past all the pussy in the first stanza. After the third or fourth time I had said the word to only a smattering of nervous laughter, I began to fear I had lost the crowd, but I somehow managed to get them back before the Owl had purchased Piggy-wig's ring, so that by the time the title characters were hand in hand on the edge of the sand and dancing by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, the audience was entirely in my power.

At the reception, I drank enough red wine to stain my teeth a regal purple and talked for some time to an Australian who, though tiresomely straight, was at least nice to look at, listen to, and lust after. The wine might very well have caused the next day's vomiting, but because I prefer explanations in which I am the victim rather than the cause of bad circumstances, I choose to believe I caught a bug from my three-year-old niece, who had been spewing the contents of her stomach all over the place two days prior.

Unfortunately, she and I were not the only casualties of the weekend. A bridesmaid also succumbed to stomach woes, and, closer to home, my beloved Jack Spade travel bag sustained a tear in the fabric at some point during my travels back home.

Still: rips, bugs, pussies, unseasonably chilly weather (did I mention that?), and straight Australians notwithstanding, it really was a lovely wedding, I promise.


WHILE I WAS OUT:
My review of Lookingglass Theatre Company's Fedra: Queen of Haiti appeared in last week's Chicago Reader.