Oh man.
Opening night tomorrow.
The tension, it...vibrates. Right through your skin. It's not enough to bounce your knee, you have to bounce your everything, waiting to go on stage.
I could live with being a starving artist, if it's always as fun as this.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Baby it's Cold Outside
GHS-30938 was the worst planet in the solar system.
In the galaxy.
In the universe.
At least other planets had the good grace to be so terrifying, so gaseous, so poisonous, and generally so Goddamned uninhabitable that not even the most desperate spacers would attempt to settle them. Planet Meteo, bombarded daily by chunks of rock which, thanks to the atmosphere's unique characteristics, turned into planetwide cluster bombs. Planet Dust, so named because the wind storms made even the inanimate probes choke and die. Planet Siphonia, which leached energy out of engines and blood out of people. All of them horrible, all of them unsettled.
GHS-30938, which was so loathed no one bothered to name it, was the worst planet in the multiverse precisely because some desperate colony ship put down upon its just-barely-livable surface. Perhaps the stay was supposed to be temporary; MacIntyre could only hope so, because what kind of ancestors would land on a planet that was half ice cube, half lava intentionally?
GHS-30938 orbited a star so closely that its Day Side nearly boiled, and always stayed that way. Tidally locked. Its Night Side was, in a way, better for habitation--provided you didn't mind living frozen in perpetual darkness. Not figuratively frozen, unable to move--literally frozen, as in constantly buried in ice.
McIntyre kicked an outcropping of ice, briefly illuminated in his path by the spotlights behind him, and reflected on this. It snapped against his boot, spiraled off into the distance.
That meant he was getting closer. Only about ten below, here; try that shit farther from the equator, you'd break every toe in your foot, the ice solid as rock.
I live on the worst planet ever, he thought, and now I'm going to die on it.
Looking up, seeing the dim, alien light on the horizon, he was given small comfort: at least he wouldn't die cold.
In the galaxy.
In the universe.
At least other planets had the good grace to be so terrifying, so gaseous, so poisonous, and generally so Goddamned uninhabitable that not even the most desperate spacers would attempt to settle them. Planet Meteo, bombarded daily by chunks of rock which, thanks to the atmosphere's unique characteristics, turned into planetwide cluster bombs. Planet Dust, so named because the wind storms made even the inanimate probes choke and die. Planet Siphonia, which leached energy out of engines and blood out of people. All of them horrible, all of them unsettled.
GHS-30938, which was so loathed no one bothered to name it, was the worst planet in the multiverse precisely because some desperate colony ship put down upon its just-barely-livable surface. Perhaps the stay was supposed to be temporary; MacIntyre could only hope so, because what kind of ancestors would land on a planet that was half ice cube, half lava intentionally?
GHS-30938 orbited a star so closely that its Day Side nearly boiled, and always stayed that way. Tidally locked. Its Night Side was, in a way, better for habitation--provided you didn't mind living frozen in perpetual darkness. Not figuratively frozen, unable to move--literally frozen, as in constantly buried in ice.
McIntyre kicked an outcropping of ice, briefly illuminated in his path by the spotlights behind him, and reflected on this. It snapped against his boot, spiraled off into the distance.
That meant he was getting closer. Only about ten below, here; try that shit farther from the equator, you'd break every toe in your foot, the ice solid as rock.
I live on the worst planet ever, he thought, and now I'm going to die on it.
Looking up, seeing the dim, alien light on the horizon, he was given small comfort: at least he wouldn't die cold.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Things I Love
Cursing.
The sheepish grin you see when someone forgets she's cursing in public.
Pornography.
The first, painful bite of too-hot gyoza squirting soy sauce against your teeth and making you wince at how goddamned good it tastes.
Lazy strokes of a fingertip along a girl's bare back.
Kisses at the throat, occasional bites, a fistful of hair.
Post-workout glow.
Post-sex glow.
Glow.
Driving 85 in a 55 blaring Reel Big Fish and poorly, but honestly, singing along.
The blissful realization that you finally get your monologue, feel what your character's saying. It's the difference between reading a poem somebody handed you and performing one you wrote yourself.
Cats. Cats are nice.
This week, dear hypothetical readers: tell me what you love.
The sheepish grin you see when someone forgets she's cursing in public.
Pornography.
The first, painful bite of too-hot gyoza squirting soy sauce against your teeth and making you wince at how goddamned good it tastes.
Lazy strokes of a fingertip along a girl's bare back.
Kisses at the throat, occasional bites, a fistful of hair.
Post-workout glow.
Post-sex glow.
Glow.
Driving 85 in a 55 blaring Reel Big Fish and poorly, but honestly, singing along.
The blissful realization that you finally get your monologue, feel what your character's saying. It's the difference between reading a poem somebody handed you and performing one you wrote yourself.
Cats. Cats are nice.
This week, dear hypothetical readers: tell me what you love.
Your Daily BRAAAAAAIIIINS
Rehearsals are heating up. I feel like the living dead this week.
Got an interview with a web publishing company; let's all be optimistic.
For tonight I'm going to sleep before I crack open somebody's skull and feast on the goo inside.
Got an interview with a web publishing company; let's all be optimistic.
For tonight I'm going to sleep before I crack open somebody's skull and feast on the goo inside.
Friday, February 15, 2008
In Which I Make You Do My Job
It's friday again, dear readers, and though I tend to drop a day or two each week I'm striving for consistency. With that in mind, let's play a game:
Describe yourself to me. What you're doing, what you look like, and what you're thinking about right...
wait for it
Now.
Describe yourself to me. What you're doing, what you look like, and what you're thinking about right...
wait for it
Now.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I try hard to imagine the thought process of my brother once I start inflicting Politics upon them like some vile disease.
Is he--the Obama thing again? God, I already voted for him at the Primary, what more does he want? Oh, great, Iraq. Yeah, I want to hear about that some more. I wonder if we have any beer. He's for raising taxes? What kind of--yeah, Budweiser! Wait, what's for dinner. Kennedy? Can't eat Kennedy, why is he still talking about this, wait, shit, I have to say something or he'll know I wasn't paying attention...
"Yeah."
I know, brother. I know.
Is he--the Obama thing again? God, I already voted for him at the Primary, what more does he want? Oh, great, Iraq. Yeah, I want to hear about that some more. I wonder if we have any beer. He's for raising taxes? What kind of--yeah, Budweiser! Wait, what's for dinner. Kennedy? Can't eat Kennedy, why is he still talking about this, wait, shit, I have to say something or he'll know I wasn't paying attention...
"Yeah."
I know, brother. I know.
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