“Deciding if I should blog” performed at The Kitchen NYC April 6^th 2009

I came on stage carrying a few bags and a laptop, singing:

Should I blog, blog, blog, blog, blog

It’s new, it’s now

Should I blog, blog, blog, blog, blog

Should I blog, blog, blog, blog, blog

It’s new, it’s now

Should I blog, blog, blog, blog, blog

Should I blog, blog, blog, blog, blog

I don’t know how…

I put the laptop on the chair and put the bags down in front.

I have let the social networking train zoom on by me.

I’ve refused to keep up with technology.

I’m very low tech.

I’m lazy. I’m stubborn.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid I can’t afford it

I don’t have an ipod. I have a discman ok.

I just have to hide it when I’m on the subway.

Or I chose to be in the moment of the subway ambiance.

I don’t have cable. BUT I got the coupon.

I got the converter box,

I don’t have an iphone.

I don’t spend my time doing this (index finger drag motion)

I don’t care about apps, I care about my abs.

Oh today while I was shopping I said hello to the cute guy

who I thought was saying hello to me. But he glared at me

BECAUSE he was on a headset and having

a private phone conversation. In the middle of Macy’s.

He should have been texting I wouldn’t have bothered him…

I want to get to new technology when I am ready to get to new technology.

Or maybe when enough people invite me to be friends on facebook.

O allright, I can successfully text. I’m just not that quick.

But texting is a very truncated conversation.

I have a lot more to say than LOL.

I started to sing. [No kidding. It needs some work and some instrumentation. Ask me for audio clip and help me out!]

Should I blog? It’s 2009?

Should I be out there online?

Should I blog? Should I brag?

People blog. People brag.

People share. I should dare.

People post. I should boast.

I sat down on the chair and started typing away on the laptop.

My age. How I cope with being a woman of indeterminate age and hairstyle who is terrified that her fake age is now getting old. I could post over and over about ways to deal. But with my luck, some asshole will post my real age and that’ll fuck me up.

My identity. Being Connie Perry. Finding Connie Perry. I could post about the realtor Connie Perry in Monterrey California, the one who owns connieperry.com but hasn’t done anything with it. Or the goth costume maker Connie Perry who looks like she’s obsessed with Stevie Nicks… I could seek out Connie Perrys… I could google search Connie Perry. Wait, I already do. .

But the trouble is, I’m not obsessed with being too obsessed with myself.

Oh I know, I could blog about looking like Susan Sarandon. Frequently someone will tell me that I look like Susan Sarandon. Huh, ya, you see it, right. I know. And some of them are really weird men. And quite a number of them are obsessed with how many lemons she used in the filming of Atlantic City…

Well if I’m gonna blog I gotta see what’s out there.

Excuse me while I google search.

There are a lot of blogs.

I went to one of the bags and I pulled a scarf out and waved it around, in my right hand.

There are blogs about this

And blogs about that

On being skinny

Or being quite fat

Blogs that don’t spell

Or look like such hell

Blogs that are good

And some that suck

Blogs about fuck -

ing or drinking

or biking or hiking or liking

The Jonas Brothers.

I let the scarf flutter to the ground.

I even know their names…

I went to another bag and pulled another scarf out and waved it around, this time in my left hand.

There are blogs about hair

Makeup and cats

Football, hookey

Baseball and bats

Cupcakes and pies

One that tells lies

When they mentioned Heath

Blogs about teeth -

ing or drooling

or walking or talking or stalking

The Jonas Brothers

I let the scarf flutter to the ground.

Kevin Joe and Nick.

There are thousands and thousands of girls

Blogging and texting about Kevin Joe and Nick.

And Kevin, Joe and  Nick are blogging back.

And blogging forth. And back and forth.

There are a zillion million blogs

Someone is blogging right now? ABOUT ME?

Or are you texting?

is there someone twittering? Well, tell people you are at the kitchen

Ahhh – kill me if I decide to twitter.

There are a million zillion blogs

Could there be one more?

Could there?

There are a zillion million blogs

Should there be one more?

Should there?

Well if I decide to go in and spin

I’ve got to

I went back to the chair and started unfolding the laptop and unfolding it and unfolding it…

Type type type all about me.

Hype hype hype all about me.

post and post and post

over and over and over…

Tag it tag it tagi all to me

Link it link it link it all to me

Post and post and post

Over and over and over

Type type type all about me.

Hype hype hype all about me.

post and post and post

over and over and over…

By now I was holding onto the ends of a large piece of grey shimmery fabric and I was shaking it and shaking it and flapping it up and over me…

Tag it tag it tag it all to me

Link it link it link it all to me

Post and post and post

Over and over and over

I had gotten completely under the fabric and was poking around and about. Then I dropped the fabric to just below my head.

I still end up all alone at home in my underwear.

And I don’t wear my good underwear when I’m home alone.

I don’t really think this is social networking.

I’d like to have a conversation face to face.

But I’m afraid this is what it’ll all come to… so help me out here…

 Should I blog?

Lights out. The end.  So, ask me for a youtube clip, if I get enough requests, I suppose I would post one. But how many requests is enough? Please let me know what you think. Should I blog? Thanks.

 I was extremely conscious that the wild, vivid, crazy scenes flashing before my eyes and that I inhabited were dreams. I knew I was snug in a dorm bed at an artists’ retreat. I knew the sun would awaken me early and inspire me to get to the page with my pen, if only to write down the dream.

The place I’m at retreating boasts a vegetarian kitchen that is heavenly, warm and for all intents and purposes hosts a diet that is an ideal. But all the conversations around the huge wood table and near the industrial stove are about vegan versus vegetarianism and what else is a good source of protein. You want your tofu, you got it. Try kale. Some tempeh, sure. Keynwah wah wah. (Quincia). I never expected to ever converse about mung beans for more than a minute. Are you going to try the polenta? After six days a few of us plotted our escape from lentilville.

We drove to town quickly in search of meat. We stopped at the first place we could. An old tavern. Meat. We needed meat. The parking lot was overflowing so it must be ok. It was. It was filled with like-minded carnivores. We seemed to acquire fangs as we were led to our table; the kitchen grease smell helped the incisors descend.

We appraised the menus, scanning and deciding. Debating and salivating. Rib eye? Delmonico? Filet Mignon? Just give me meat. The idea of shrimp or any seafood was ludicrous. The menu offered no sign of millet. Thank God. I needed this departure from veganville. Get me a pork chop. Now. Fuck the applesauce.

Tore into the plate, almost before it had time to rest before me. Ravenous. Drooling. Like I haven’t eaten. This is far from the truth. I have been very well fed by an amazing array of fresh local produce, grains, beans, and yes, clever sources of protein. My intellect and creativity have also been very well nourished.

But I eat, chaw and masticate. I sigh, high on gravy and bones. I was so excited to burrow into my meat dinner that I stopped talking. All conversation ceased as we all grunted and chewed our way back to some of own sanity. We are far away from our routines and we have spilled out our art. We have shown our bad habits. We’ve had difficulty accepting them in ourselves or in others.

I feel I’m riding a fine line of “just leave me alone” overlapped with how interested I truly am with the other participants. I love the fun. I love the art. It is very social. But it’s 24/7. I can be a pain in the neck. Even to myself.

So it makes sense that my post pork chop dream is fun and social and exciting. I was on. I was performing. I was speaking in a velvet voice, lush and perfect. I knew my lips were oversized; kind of a fuchsia cartoon, merely over-plumped by injection. I had a cigarette to point with and gesture at and a toilet seat in vibrant sparkly purple resting over my arm; an oversized bracelet. I think I did twirling tricks with it. I held an intricate staff made from found objects and coffee grounds. I used it to beat out my act seeming to rhythmically punch up my jokes. I had jokes. I was brilliant. I wore a top hat that held a family of bunnies, one or another would crawl down to re-light the cigarette at much rehearsed intervals.

I finished my set with great fanfare and applause. As I turned to leave stage the next act was being ushered on. It was a gorgeous pork chop nestled in a bed of basmati rice. The crowd went wild.

I have been told that I look like you. A lot actually. And I believe I do. If you were to meet me you would probably think I was the Chihuahua version of yourself, kind of your elfin little sister. Or perhaps, if you got to know me, you’d come to think of me as the love child you had with Rip Torn.

Anyways, quite often, sometimes on the subway system in New York, a person, usually a man; a balding paunchy man, will give me one of those double take looks. You know, like he recognizes me, almost. But really it’s because he recognizes you. Then after staring at me some more he’ll push up those glasses from the 80’s that he’s sporting and yup, he finally figures out why I look so damn familiar.

If he is bold or on the make he’ll make an effort to get closer to me and after awhile, after some unusual posturing and/or staring he’ll say: “Excuse me, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Susan Sarandon?”

I want to say: “So what fool. Leave a look-a-like alone. Maybe I just want to ride the D train in peace. Without some special “I think Susan Sarandon is hot” fool pestering me. Fuck off.”

But usually I am way too polite and too approachable. I usually do not ignore the crazies. And quite often, I don’t mind the attention. It’s a compliment. I look like you, Susan Sarandon. It’s a real ego boost. I do sometimes get miffed when the man posing the question assumes I’ll get just as interested in him as he is interested in you. Ok, a couple of conversations at a bar have led to hook ups that have happened and well, ended in disaster and sexual dysfunction. Especially with the guy who looked like William Dafoe. Let’s just say I have learned the hard way to keep my boundaries.

I have to say based on what people discuss about you to me makes me realize that some people are shallow assholes. Don’t they know that there is a war in Irag raging on? And that over 4700 American soldiers are dead. And how many Irag civilians have been killed? Who cares how many lemons you used on your sexy arms during the filming of Atlantic City. I have been told over 100. Is that true?

So to take a very bold initiative as we enter the sixth year of a war I do not agree with if people don’t wake the fuck up. I am going to try to start pretending that I am the activist Susan Sarandon and I will try to engage any and all people who approach me into a political dialogue. Not just whether you are married to Tim Robbins or not. I must insist people raise their voices in protest. I’m going to hassle people and be active.

I just wanted to give you a heads up.

Sincerely yours in peace,

Connie Perry

PS I hope that maybe in the future people will tell you that you look a lot like Connie Perry

Every once in awhile I have a collision with a special needs person. No, not me

Hear me out: An interesting encounter, sentimental enough to make me mull over a notion that I’ve had since my dad died in 1981. A notion that my dad is saying hello to me.

My dad worked with special needs adults in a rehabilitation center north of Boston. Most of them were mentally retarded, some physically challenged as well. He coached them to get their manual labor skills up to speed so that maybe they could get jobs. He had some success and he had many funny stories. And he was great a mimicking their characteristics after his workday. 

Oh ya, dad could really play up the “retard” act. His main target for playing out all the touching and feeling and quirky mannerisms that he dealt with on a daily basis was my mom. He’d hover over her like the mentally retarded adults he was with 9 to 5. He wasn’t being cruel; he was just bringing home his work with fond chuckles. 

A few years after dad died mom and I traveled to Walt Disney World. We flew from Boston.  Right after the plane became airborne and the seatbelt sign had been turned off a very large clumsy body hovered above my mom from behind asking really loudly where we were going. Not letting us even answer, more excited voices chimed in to say that they were on their way to Walt Disney World.

Turned out that there were 20 or more travelers from a special place in Massachusetts, from a town called Belchertown. In Belchertown, there is a home for mentally retarded and special needs people, a sister facility to where my dad worked.

So for the next three days all over Disney World my mom and I ran into the Belchertown gang. Most amusingly so at the fireworks display one evening where we saw the behavior that my dad had mimicked delightfully. Seemingly awkward, weird, and funny to others milling around, what mom and I agreed upon was that “It was like dad was with us.” 

I think that was the beginning of a notion taking shape. Or just my way of coping.

When you lose a loved one you really want to forget all the associated pain but then it’s infinitely more painful to realize you have forgotten. I needed a really good notion to keep a connection. Sometimes I was convinced it was when I farted that my dad was saying hello, but I that’s just my bad diet. 

Ok, I audition and join a group of actors putting on children’s shows and one of them worked with special needs people involving them with theatre. No wonder I was drawn like a moth to light to Marilyn. She allowed me to be privy to her group’s production of Grease. The Broadway version doesn’t even come close to a chorus of out of sync, yet heartfelt rendering of “Tell me more, tell me more…” 

A sweet-faced mongoloid woman named Tracy divinely performed the song “Beauty School Drop-Out”. She was so in it. I’d like to believe that dad was definitely saying a great big hello and sharing a huge chuckle with me again. 

Meeting Martin when I lived up in Spanish Harlem put me off the notion a bit. I would wait as usual, for the bus to ride down Fifth Ave and this particular special, special needs neighborhood guy worked so hard to communicate to me.

It took a long time for me to comprehend that he was saying his name: Martin. I couldn’t really understand why he needed to work so hard to speak to me but I never cut him off. I just felt he deserved my attention and something about him was providing me with a well-needed chuckle. He was comical; he had this loping stride, his speech was painfully halting; yet after our third collision he finally managed to ask me to have sex with him. (I would mimic him here). 

Ew. Dad. Just say hello.

Ok, so maybe I was just completely wrong about my notion. Maybe I just have these collisions because  I’m the crazy one. I’ve been in New York City long enough to know that everyone just hustle’s on by or gives the crazies a very wide berth. Usually nobody connects because they figure it’ll lead to an unpleasant encounter. To me that’s the pessimistic view. 

Just recently when I went to swim I was surrounded by 20 special needs adults happily wading and splashing around me. It was hysterical. 

And then last week I was on the subway writing in my journal when I heard the sputtering sounds of someone desperate to communicate. Of course I looked up. Putting aside my skepticism was worth my while as I listened closely to a woman struggle to ask if I was keeping a journal. When I nodded yes, she struggled to tell me that a journal was really, really helping her and it was really, really a good thing.

I told her it helped me too. And that we should both keep writing. Then I got off at my station; had my little chuckle and said “Hi dad” under my breathe.

It is noon. I have been awake for almost an hour. I have looked at all the headlines. I have been drinking coffee. Too much coffee.  I have been pacing around; talking out loud as I listen to the radio and glance at the TV. I feel a twinge in my stomach. Why? Because I’m performing at an open mike stand up comedy show tonight.

Is there anything funny about priest’s pedophilia this week?

I have nothing. I’ll go back to bed. 

Three P.M.  I’ll make another cup of coffee. Maybe I can wrangle out something, anything that might be funny if I just write stuff down.

As a former catholic I always, always believed priests were celibate.

Today I realize I’m the celibate one.

Now I want to go back to confession and say “bless me father it has been awhile

Since I’ve had sex with a young boy, how about you?

Even if I risk 4000 Hail Mary’s I just want to ask.

I got nothing.

How about this? I log onto my aol online account and it says “you’ve got debt.”

I really got nothing.

6:03pm. I won’t go. I just won’t go. No, I’ll go but I’ll get there so late I’ll be the last performer in a 56 comic line up. Or, I’ll get a great slot but will follow someone who bombs, someone who destroys any optimism the crowd has. Crowd? Two or three people may show up. Two or three people may stay.

You people suck.

6:31. Why open mike comedy?      6:32.              

If I can just write something funny then everything will be ok.

6:33.

OK, I can hide my age, it’s my fake age that is getting old.  

It’s just after 7pm.  I enter bar /lounge /basement and I see cute comic. He looks up and says hi. We chat. I laugh. He is really cute. I hear that inner voice: “don’t have conversations with comics; they’re just trying out material.”

But he’s adorable. He’s talking to me. We flirt.

He’s 22.

22 sucks.

7:19pm. Along comes the brooding, dark comic.  He’s maintaining his stage persona (which may be asshole if perfected much more); just when I think cute comic will ask for my phone number.

I go get myself a beer; I take out my notebook and keep writing.

I lied about not having sex. Oh I got laid all right… laid… off by my boss.

And then we had sex.

Just about Eight O’clock.  I join an expanding line to pay five bucks, write my name on a piece of paper, put the paper into a hat, all to get five minutes of stage time in New York City and a free drink.

I’m in front of the older guy who can’t turn himself off.  “How about, me and you?”   He says his wife will be ok with our dating. I say I won’t. Ha ha ha. I can use that.

I just had a visit with family. My brother asked when my wedding is. 

Who needs a special day to have sex with a married man?

8:23pm. The reading of the names has been going on and I finally get slotted at number 22. Number 21 has already complained to me about how late that will be;

I realize I will follow her; I get out my pen.

She sucks.

The House of Representatives voted to allow guns into cockpits. Over at America West Airlines the pilots celebrate with a keg a beer.

I suck. Especially when I think I’ll have to explain a joke.

8:28. Second comic has funny material and he’s hilarious. He fills the room with his potty/crapper/fart jokes and a long bit that ends with a mention of his dick.

I think dick jokes suck. 

But the audience laughed.

I don’t have a dick joke. Do I need a dick joke? I don’t have a dick.

But I sure have balls if I can pull off a good five minutes tonight! Oh ya.

Shit.

Speaking of shit, comic seques with “So I was taking a dump at work.”

Ahhh. Hey, I can go get a free beer!

Married guy who owns or runs or books something decides to whisper to me: “I think you’re very attractive, when do you go on stage?”

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I go get my free beer.

10:36. A guy comes to the stage and sets up a story of a medical procedure that he recently had in his rectum.

Who cares?

Is there anything funny about poopy doo doo doo? 

Wait.

Today at my rectal exam four hunky med students were swabbing at my ass.

Now, is that good writing or just a good dream?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

It’s 11:49pm

Is it too late to get one more beer?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It’s 12:30. The host is drunk.

Oh my God, I’m drunk.

Open mikes suck.

12:47am. A comic stalls and sputters, trys to connect then blames the audience.

Woa, blaming the audience sucks.

Ok, it’s after 1:30am. I’ve waited for my turn and I’ll wait again tomorrow.

And I’ll keep writing.

I will not suck.

2:10am.

I take the stage. 

I do not suck.

Thank you!

Goodnight!

Bette Davis’ mother was born in Maine and when she married she relocated to Massachusetts where Bette Davis was born.

My mother was born in Maine and when she married she relocated to Massachusetts where I was born.

Bette Davis’ full name was Ruth Elizabeth Davis.

My full name is Constance Ann Elizabeth Perry.

Bette Davis relocated to New York City to pursue her desire to act.

I relocated to New York City to pursue my desire to act.

These are some striking similarities that I have with a film legend.

Now, I knew of the woman.  I was familiar with some of her movie roles, I knew she was famous.  She was Bette Davis.

I even knew the hit song by Kim Carnes sung in the late 80’s. “Bette Davis Eyes.”

And I knew some classic Bette Davis lines.  Who doesn’t?

“I’d love to kiss ya but I just washed my hair.”

“Fasten your seat belts, It’s going to be a bumpy night.” 

“What A Dump.”

I’ve even been told I resemble her, especially in the eye area.

But I was never aware that there existed a Bette Davis that I could relate to.

A Bette Davis who would provide some inspiration for me.

Then I saw Of Human Bondage.

Bette Davis played Mildred, a bitchy waitress who tortured Phillip, a restaurant patron, a man with a clubfoot.

He was so in love with her and she treated him  badly.

Near the end of the film, she blasts at him:

“You cad.  You dirty swine. 

I never cared for you not once.

I was always making a fool of you. 

You bored me stiff.  I hated you.

It made me sick when I had to let ya kiss me.

I only did it because ya begged me.  Ya hounded me.  Ya drove me crazy.

And after ya kissed me I always used to wipe my mouth.

Wipe my mouth.

Do you know what you are?

You gimpy leg monster?

You’re a cripple, a cripple, a cripple.”

Then she threw plates at him.

Now, when I was a waitress I never hurled insults at restaurant patrons, especially ones with clubfeet.

I only asked, “How is everything?

Care for a drink?

How about a chair for the foot?”

I never threw plates.  I cleared them away.

But in all honesty I should have become a woman who hurls things.

I should have choose to be difficult because I get overlooked by being nice.

And Bette Davis’ Mildred is a brash role model for me.  She was a bitch. 

She was a famous one.

She was a difficult woman.  And I liked seeing that.

So maybe the next time I am a waitress I’m going to hurl something

at someone. 

And watch the foot. 

Next I discovered What Ever Happened to Baby Jane and my new role model became a garish monster. Even more difficult.

In her opening scene she shuffles across the hall, up a flight of stairs, pausing to scowl, a sense of disgust in her eyes.

Once on the landing she takes a huge swig of liquor, flings open the door, startling her wheelchair bound sister:

“Enjoying yourself?”

She s\pounced over to the television, shut it off, and spit out: “Then you’re an idiot.”

She sweeps from the room, slamming the door.

Now, I would never insult a person in a wheelchair.

Especially my sister.

I would have asked if Blanche needed anything.

If she could see the tv ok, if she could hear the tv ok.

I never would have shut the tv off.

I never would have killed the bird.

I never would have served the bird for lunch.

Now, after watching that film I’m thinking I should choose to be difficult.

If only just a little.

Because it’s empowering to a pushover like me to see a wickedly evil woman.

By the way, Bette Davis’ daughter made her film debut playing Suzy the neighbor girl in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.

My mother’s daughter made her film debut playing Suzy The Hot Dog Girl in Celtic Pride.

Bette Davis married and had yum-yum with a man named Ham.

I say I’ve eaten ham.  Yum.  Yum!

She met her second husband at an Inn in New Hampshire.

I have been in New Hampshire. 

She was romanced and wed by Sherry.

I have rendezvoused with the hard liquor myself and once wed the floor.

In Now Voyager she played a dumpy emotionally fragile woman from Boston.

I’m an emotionally fragile woman from Boston who has been dumped.

In what Ever Happened to Baby Jane she was a child with a look-a-like doll.

When I was a child I looked like a doll.

People still call me doll.

And assume I’m a doll.  Assume I’m sweet.  Assume I’m nice.

Nobody ever thinks I can be mean or difficult.

Is it better to be labeled a bitch?

I spend time pondering this and to my delight I discover All About Eve.

I strike gold for caustic lines flung out to everyone by Margo Channing:

“I’m so happy you are happy.”

“How nice for you…  How nice for Eve…

How nice for everybody.”

“We’re all busy little bees full of stings

making honey day and night.

Aren’t we honey?”

And my favorite:

“Not mouse, never mouse

if anything, rat.”

I said:

“Not mouse, never mouse

if anything, rat.”

One more time, just for me:

“Not mouse, never mouse

if anything, rat.”

Near the end of the film Margo hosts a party for Bill and gets quite drunk.

She’s in the kitchen with a playwright bitter and angry about being too old for his next play and too old for Bill.

“A mass of music and fire, that’s me.

More like an old kazoo and some sparklers.”

“Bill’s 32.

He looks 32.

He looked it five years ago.

He’ll look it 20 years from now.

I hate men.”

Now, I’m not known to be caustic, crass or cynical towards men.

I’m usually cute.

But as I’ve been finding out more about her life, especially her four, troubled failed marriages,

Well I’m trying to snarl:

“You make me sick.”

“You disgust me.”

Instead of my usual “hi there.”

I could just politely say “no thanks, busy”

But maybe “Darling we’ve been down this road before

and it’s still quite a dead end for you”

might be more effective.

And it just might be fun and empowering to hurl out:

“I think you are such a soft weak fool.”

“I can’t stand the sight of you.”

“I can’t bear to let you touch me.”

“Out of my way you pathetic moron.”

Unless you are a fireman, policeman or rescue worker,

Then I’d love to have your baby.

I am learning to become quarrelsome, contentious and uncompromising.

In The Letter she played a murderous woman in an apartment.

In my apartment where there was no heat or hot water for a time I was acting murderous and writing letters.

In Dark Voyage she played awoman losing her eyesight who discovered love. But at a price.

I am a woman who was losing her eyesight who discovered laser eye surgery. But for free.

Because I hassled the doctor’s office to get my insurance to cover it.

Can you get what you want by being nice?

Or can you get what you really want by being difficult?

I am choosing to continue an infatuation with the sass and spunk of the late great Bette Davis.

Someone I would love to be known as; a real gutsy dame.

Last week as I made a hair color appointment I channeled some of her intensity. Because I barked out “It’s got to be Harlow gold.”

I chose to be difficult.

           Once upon a time I had been hanging around a theatre hoping to be discovered. Suddenly the call came and I get my first break.

            Lights up. I am on stage in body padding with facial hair as a diminutive man-like-creature, yawning profusely. Hi ho, hi ho, I’m playing Sleepy a dwarf in Snow White and The Seven Dwarves. The other dwarves were played by surly junior high school girls. I tried to blend in like the director thought I would.

            Act one lights go down. I’d make my way from the stage to the tech booth in the back of the theatre because I also had to run the lights and the sound for the second act. I had to be responsible for the electrical equipment all alone in the tech booth.  So the actor playing the woodsmen could go get bullied by the wicked queen, plant the poison apple then get back to relieve me. On opening day I got so frazzled getting back thru the packed house for act three that I lost some facial hair and ended up yawning thru the dwarf’s song. Ever have junior high school girls glare at you?

            Then all start to giggle at once. Then ask: “how old are you really?”

            In the receiving line when the audience exits I would see how they walk right past the dwarves to fawn all over Snow White and the prince who saved her. I would notice they oooh’ed and ahhh’ed all over her pretty princess dress.  So I got up my nerve. I started to pester for a pretty role. “I can do it. Just get me out of hi ho clothes. I can play pretty”.

            Next show I’m onstage wearing pointy ears, funny shoes and elf hat crouching behind a set piece with two other actors.  We will soon talk and sing in high pitched nasal squeaks. Hee hee hee hee heee. I fell pretty, oh so pretty. Onetime elf number two wasn’t on stage as lights came up and everyone could hear the toilet flush and feet running. “Elves have to use the potty too”, called out a small kid. Hee heee hee hee heee. They sure do…

            Remember I was hanging around the theatre hoping to be discovered. In the fairy tale la la land of my mind I really thought I’d get discovered alright. Discovered for a pretty role. I really thought I’d get to play princess.

            So I started to campaign for higher profile roles. I squeaked to the director numerous times: “Can’t you see how pretty I am? Could you cast me as princess?”  He told me he was writing a role especially for me. I sure had my hopes up. I still do.

            To be passed over for Rapunzel was a blow. But I took the role that was written for me and my smile. What else could I do? I took the role of gopher. A cleverly written narrator for the story, the one who sets up the rampion issue; with a song. Alone. On stage. Singing. I was put into a fur suit with headpiece and shoved (I mean preset) into a cubbyhole below a trap door. It always seemed like hours until the show would start and I’d get out of the hole. Then I had to sing. And set up the rampion issue. I can’t remember what the rampion issue was; I can’t remember the story, I can’t remember a single lyric. I can remember there always was a cynical eight year old who would heckle the cheap braid we came up with one late late rehearsal night to use as Rapunzel’s hair. “It’s a rope” he mocked.

            Maybe that kid didn’t want to participate in make believe but I did. I played gopher with gusto because I had to believe that next I would play princess.

            Look at my golden hair. Wouldn’t you like to believe that I played Goldilocks?  No. As baby bear, I had considerable attitude and contempt for the miss pretty thing who was cast. One day I had not yet taken my place behind the curtain for act two. Goldilocks warbled and butchered her song and she lost her balance and fell to her knees right where I should have been sitting. I could have been killed. My surly attitude saved my life. There I was in a fur suit still really wanting to play royal but I was becoming a royal pain in the ass.

            Then I got the lead. And not because I pestered for it. I behaved better. In the receiving line every kid wanted to meet baby bear and get a hug. Every kid got a hug from this baby bear. I think I realized that playing anything in front of kids was just great. So maybe I didn’t deserve the lead, but I got it.

            Lights up. I’d be told to take the cow to market and then I’d get tricked into selling the cow for beans, magic beans. I’d have to sing with the cow a goodbye song. “Yes a cow, oh a cow is a friend. Goodbye Lucky.” As the lead I was having a blast playing Jack and I couldn’t wait till the audience saw the beanstalk. I was fully participating in make believe. I had to keep a straight face as I watched a grown man in a cow suit being led off stage by the magic bean guy. A grown man with a cow bell clanking around his neck. Another actor with his own hopes and dreams of playing the dashing prince.

            I wasn’t playing the cow. I’m very grateful for that. I was playing Jack and while it wasn’t pretty it was fun and fulfilling. It wouldn’t matter when a kid would whisper “He’s a girl.” Most kids would go on Jack’s journey and react to the other characters along the way with me. They would react to the giant, an actor just diagnosed as manic depressive who gave an extra deep zip to his fee fii foe fums as his meds kicked in and sometimes really scared us all.

            Or if the magic been guy would relentlessly try out jokes backstage: “If magic beans made you fart would the smell be nice?”

            Or if the cheap beanstalk hardly ever grew; it just squeaked as it rose a mere 15 inches off the stage. It was my job to believe it went way up into the sky. I showed those three year olds a boy climbing the beanstalk.

            I may not have been princess but I could finally royally proclaim “Here I am way up in the sky, I’m Jack.” All because once upon a time I had been hanging around a theatre

Lights up to reveal Connie lying on a bed under the covers. An alarm rings. Dressed in pj’s, Connie rises, picks up a TV NEWS microphone and speaks:

Good morning, this is the traffic report. Stalled traffic patterns this morning are due to heavy alcohol consumption hours earlier. The eastbound route faces major slowdowns due to a semi conscious motorist. The route to the bathroom is bogging down, a wet towel flung on the floor causing many, many delays. The going is very slick and slow. Keep your speeds down at that spot and beware of the overturned pair of men’s shoes from last nights’ one night stand. The main artery to the kitchen area is facing major problems due to a pile up of dirty dishes, scattered laundry, groceries, and unopened bills in a messy pile. Stay away from that route if at all possible. Alternate route to find headache remedy is advised. Southbound lanes are backed up all the way beyond the toaster oven but it looks like clear sailing once you get past the traffic located on the kitchen counter. Who knows where the keys are. Apparently there is an accident, involving spilled coffee and tears of frustration and why me’s, tying up traffic and motivation all over. Westbound lanes to the door are affected. We’ll go live now to the scene.

Lights change as Connie steps four feet away.

It’s a real mess here. There is no question that spilled coffee was indeed involved but who the culprit is is still under investigation. No major injuries have occurred but a 7:21am an eyewitness reported that she saw several huge roaches. As she jumped up to scream her left elbow allegedly knocked over the pot of coffee sitting on the edge of the counter. According to an anonymous witness, who could not get it up, promised to call as he left, the coffee then traveled rapidly to the floor causing the cat to squeal, jump up and knock the remaining counter items to the floor. Chaos ensued. The cat has been meowing non stop and will not shut the fuck up. A car alarm has started up again. Damn. The search for headache remedy has all but been abandoned as the phone rings. Shit. Who knows where the fuck the keys are? There is no word on when this will get cleaned up and when traffic will resume. It could be up to a half hour. This is live from the scene, back to you.

Lights change back as Connie steps back to the bed area.

Thank you. As of this moment speed are way down on the roadways, some 20 minutes going out to the bus stop. Traffic is being detoured around the kitchen onramp and rerouted sideways to the door. Trouble spots to be wary of are at the ringing phone, bathroom door and by the toaster oven. That wraps it up for this morning’s traffic report. I’m reporting live from 23 East 109, Apt 4H. Have a good day.

Lights out as Connie flops back onto the bed.

CONNIE: (Looking at audience and holding a script):

Oh well, hello. My name is Emma Thompson and I’m to read a bit from my latest screenplay adaptation.

Scene One, Exterior, Daytime.

The camera pans around an entirely green pasture and points slowly up a steep hill. It catches in its frame a young boy, whose adolescent body trembles in the morning dew. He frolics about and grabs hold of the hand of a lovely young woman, equal in age, but stronger, much more intelligent, and a bit preoccupied with the heavy emotional issues she, of course being female in these times, must endure.

Jack says: ‘Oh Jill, how incredibly lucky I am to have you fetch a pail of water with me.’

Jill says: ‘Now Jack, really, we both know Mummy has sent me up the hill to get the job done correctly and you are just to help carry the bloody pail.’

Scene Two, Close up of Jack’s face.

The camera catches the slightly confused look on Jack’s face, almost as if he suddenly realizes that Jill thinks he is stupid, utterly worthless, and every bit a piece of rubbish that all men are.

Scene Three. Close up of their shoes.

They begin walking up the hill as the camera whirls around them, catching the worried look on Jack’s face and the look of determination on Jill’s strong face. Suddenly Jill begins to run, grabbing hold of the pail.

She shouts out laughing: ‘Ha ha you can’t catch me Jack; I’m on my way to fetch the pail of water all by myself.’

Jack pants as he tries to keep up: ‘Oh no, you mustn’t, Mummy asked me to fetch the pail of water.’

Jill stops and announces: ‘She did not.’

Jack: ‘Did too.’

Jill: ‘Did not.’

Jack: ‘Did too.’

‘Did not.’  ‘Did too.’

With that, Jill grabs the pail and smacks Jack over the head with it, breaking his crown.

Scene Four. Close up of triumph on Jill’s face.

Jill happily skips up the rest of the hill to etch a pail of water, without Jack, without the help of an overbearing young man, but man no less, who actually has the unmitigated gall to think we women are all helpless, unable to fetch our own bloody water, or adapt our own screenplays which win us academy awards, thank you very much Mr. Branaugh.