Anna stalks Quinton Skinner

10:39pm. August 11, 2009. My mother told me yesterday that she had been reading all of my blogs about the fringe and that they were “scary” and that I “can write better than that.” Sorry, Mom. And fringe readers, it's true: profanity is a very lazy way to express the intensity of a blogger’s feelings. I could have pulled some schmancy metaphors outta my sleeve, or something. I was being crushed with the creativity that was the fringe and couldn’t offer up any creativity myself. Apologies. Enough of that crap. Fringe 2009 was an extremely impressive showing for the Minnesota Fringe Festival. I had an exhaustingly good time, gained some facebook friends and lost some brain cells. Local artists, like 3 Sticks and Noah Bremer and Tamara Ober and so many talented others: THANK YOU. Thank you for making work. I know that making work is hard, and life is hard and we do too many things to try to make it all work and are all stretched too thin. I know that you cannot pay your rent with the work that you are inexplicably compelled to make, and you just sacrifice sleep, pound caffeine, and make it anyway. And I, for one, am grateful. I feel privileged and lucky to be a part of this community, grateful and humbled that so many Minneapolis artists challenge me as an artist and as an audience member. How rich we are! Just not in the monetary sense. Out-of-towners: it was an absolute honor to have you here and you are always welcome back. On our couches, in our theatre venues, in our hearts . . . aww. But truly, we love ya. Some folks especially, like casebolt and smith, need to be brought back here outside of the fringe, by the Southern or the Walker. Just puttin’ that out there, Philip Bither. I had a conversation with a really enthusiastic older woman when I was standing in line to enter the Rarig Proscenium for Untitled Duet with Houseplant. This really enthusiastic older woman said she preferred to see shows that were really “well done” because she is paying money for that kind of product. Her favorite show she had seen in the fringe this year was “flawless.” I don’t know what I really want to say about this; I’m not even sure why I felt compelled to bring it up. I just know that her saying that really stuck with me throughout the week, probably because I understood where she was coming from but, at the same time, was puzzled by it. I did see a few shows in the fringe this year that were extremely “well done,” very slick. And, of course, I was bored out of my mind watching them. I know I like things crude. Instantaneously unfolding. Danger. Like, everything’s not gonna go quite right. Or there’s even a question of where things will actually end up. Like, within the framework of a planned-out show, the thing itself, the show, is breathing and alive. It might even surprise the person who planned it. It might even devour us! I saw a few “well done” shows this year that were suffocated with the amount of intelligent choices made, stiff and stilted from the connect-the-dots rightness of everything. Nothing irrational about them at all. Very . . . right. Like Suzie Q gets straight As. How different we all are as audience members! How can I be bored to tears by the very show that the really enthusiastic older woman loved?! How strange and frustrating and wonderful. Is that what makes the fringe so terrific and tiring? Terrific because there is something just “right” out there for whatever each individual might want from a show, and tiring because we go through so many types of pieces to get to what we’re looking for? The unceasing quest for just the right kind of show that cracks you open, takes out your insides, and cradles them while you learn something more about yourself and our weird funny sad world? For those moments that mean the whole world to you and you can’t quite figure out how to explain why? Ah, so fleeting. Not like a movie you can rewind and analyze. This has got to be a sick addiction, right? That I am a junkie for theatre, and will see absolutely everything in my search for the right high? And when I get it, that euphoric buzzing of everything in my mind and body working together just right, revved up and released at the same time, crying and happy and experiencing myself in a deluge that is not me at my day-job, not me having lunch with a relative, not me sitting at a red stoplight in my car. And then it’s over. And it does stick with me, it really does, but not in any way that is gratifying at all, like, well-fed full-stomach gratifying. I can sort of remember that moment that I was cracked open during that show, but not exactly. I just remember that it was great, not really the details of why it was great. And then--out on the search, all over again! I suppose, if you want to compare, going to shows is a less expensive habit than heroin, but I do see a lot of shows. What is this? We are all nuts. I am too young to figure any of this out. That's enough. Fringe is over anyway, I don’t even know why I posted this. Thanks for reading, friends, and I will see you at shows! Just, when you see me, don’t pull up my sleeves and inspect me for track marks. Does anyone have another hobby I can pick up?❦ 1:23pm. August 9, 2009. What a mess. Sorry I haven’t written in a while; I’ve been blocked, I guess. Mentally constipated. And now my notes are an absolute and complete mess because they’ve gone on and on without being emptied onto a digital page and they are all srunched up upon themselves. I don’t think this is going to be a cohesive blog entry; you know how it goes: thoughtful teaser, perhaps a quote from Nelson Mandela, eloquent point made eloquently, a fine finish that is so inspirational it makes you wanna go out and make a play. No, let me repeat, this entry is NOT that. One of the fringe bloggers on this here online performing arts journal is a Pulitzer Prize-nominated author and it is NOT this guy (points to self). In fact, I think I’ll just bullet a few thoughts I’ve had over the past few days, and you will read them, and when you get to the end you’ll be like, wow, I really didn’t need to read that. 1) It still happens: In a show that is fully produced, alive breathing and in brilliant Technicolor on the stage, in front of paying audience members, someone still made the choice to have performers mime going in and out of invisible doors. They still do. I have seen it in a number of fringe shows this year. 2) I hate the phrase “beyond the pale.” I don’t know why and when somebody uses it in a play I wish they had said something else. 3) Please don’t point the barrel of a gun at an audience, ever, EVER. It doesn’t matter that the gun is fake, not loaded, whatever. Please don’t do it. It will make me instantaneously dislike your show. 4) “Blue Ribbon Burlesque? As in Blue Ribbon, like, biggest pumpkin at the State Fair? Maybe that’s what they mean with that. Perhaps there will be big pumpkins in this show . . .” Blue Ribbon Burlesque was an AWESOME time. I am a fan of burlesque shows and this is probably the best I’ve seen. The host was terrific. They have weeded out the weird sad desperate burlesque performers you get sometimes--there is none of that here. Just rad ladies. They’re doing the encore tonight and, whether you’re a fan of burlesque or if you’ve never been, you will love these rad ladies. However, this is more of an ass show. If you’re looking for boobage, you might as well go see Ariel Pinkerton in The Dumb Waiter. Not much boobage here. But the asses are great. 5) Wow, who knew that when Harold Pinter was writing a play about two hitmen waiting for a job he was actually writing a play that specifically detailed the relationship between me (Ben) and my mother (Gus)? Now there’s a fuckin’ good playwright. This was another production that I am very glad I did not miss in Fringe 2009. 6) Hey, what about this? Fringe 2010: No flyers, no programs. What would this look like? I know what it would NOT look like: the inside of my purse and the floor of my bedroom. Honestly, I’m truly asking you and not making a joke, how can we do this better? I hate flyers and programs but still want all that information. I’m gonna think on it. If you have ideas, let me know. 7) Equal Exchange, you have a customer in me for life. 8) When I do not go to a show that I really want to go to because I feel obligated to go to this other show that I don’t really want to go to but told people I would, I feel like an abortion of an audience member. Today’s last day of fringe. So far, the only shows that filled me with desire to write something that wasn’t completely inane were Scream Blue Murmur and casebolt and smith. I’m seeing some shows today that I am very excited about, including one, Pipa, that I’ve been itching to see since Day One and it just hadn’t worked out in my schedule until today. Yes! I think I will post something tomorrow or Tuesday with post-fringe reflections. And I will attempt to write something worth reading. Pour some ex-lax into my ear, or something.❦ 2:29pm. August 5, 2009. It's time to start making reservations cause this fest is getting frenzied! You know what? Suddenly I have A LOT to write about. Like, a lot. I don’t even know where to start, really. It’s actually quite frustrating to a) work a day job and then b) do a respectable amount of fringeing and then c) party like a rockstar (storyteller!), and then where are the hours in my day to try to write a semi-publishable blog entry? Time, mindspace, sanity? GEEZ, that’s enough of that, why did you let me do that. Whine whine whine blah blah blah. Don’t let me do that again. I bought Liz Casebolt and Joel Smith beers last night at Bedlam. For fellow stalkers out there, Liz Casebolt and Joel Smith . . . (drumroll please) . . . like beer. They’re also the best show in the fringe. And, for my money, people whose career you should follow closely if you’re looking to see what the next big thing in dance will be. And not only are they thoughtful, honest, and spontaneous performers, they are really just terrific people. Like, more Minnesota nice than us jerk Minnesotans. There were two moments during casebolt and smith: Speaking Out! that thrilled me: The beginning section of their second piece, In the Space Provided (actually the whole thing was pretty thrilling but I’ll get to that in a sec). This was a short section in which they only danced, no talking, and were wearing teeny tiny black outfits. For some reason, I could sense from the movement that what they were doing was absolutely CHOCKED-FULL. I mean, BUSTING with emotion, memory, thoughts, images. And their meaning behind everything was flying at me. I was being bombarded with things I could sense were true but didn’t have names for. I had an entire-body reaction to watching them move in this section; I was absolutely on the edge of my seat, body alert and ready (for what?), mind whirring and buzzing out of my head. I wanted to verbally call-out to them! My whole body felt like how you feel when you’re thinking too fast to be able to articulate what you’re thinking about, stuttering and skipping articles. I was quite worked up! Tense! And then, what did they do? They relieved all that tension. They went through and spoke out loud about the movement, recalled childhood memories, explaining where a lot of the gestures came from. As I’m writing this it sounds like the second half of their piece was pedantic but it wasn’t. It was beautiful. It was a relief, for me. It was, like, post-coital. Like I said I was completely worked up from the beginning section, and then my mind and body were put at ease by the second half of the piece. It’s okay, Anna, these were all the things you were trying to name, these are their names. In the Space Provided will stick with me as one of the most satisfying pieces of dance I have ever seen. Their last piece, In Other Words, which I freakin’ LOVED, thrilled me as well, but I’m going to speak less about it. I think. Maybe that was a lie. This is what happened to me when I saw In Other Words: I was watching watching watching, no assumptions, no inferences, no analyzing, just absorbing. I wasn’t even thinking about anything, just absorbing. And then, towards the end of the piece I was hit with a WAVE, a FLOOD of all these extremely personal feelings I have about war and politics--charged emotions, frustration and sorrow and anger and things I don’t allow myself to feel on a day-to-day basis because then I would be so overwhelmed and depressed about the world that I wouldn’t be able to do small things like get up and make toast. And I cried. casebolt and smith did not make an academic piece about war; it was not reading a front-page piece in the NY Times. It was personal. They explored themselves within the situation of what’s happening in the world; they are two people, dancing right there, with a relationship between the two of them. They weren’t teaching us, the audience, about what is happening in the world but they were exploring how they live, Liz and Joel, within a world that has unnecessary war and real death and nasty politics. We are all culpable. But we also need to get up and make toast. How can you be anti-war when you're driving your car to Target to pick up a nail polish color you're interested in wearing? It's all just too much, it makes me wanna cry. casebolt and smith nail it. These guys are the real deal. Try to catch them before the fringe is up. Here, let me look on the fringe website and see what their remaining dates are . . . Thursday Aug 6 at 7pm and Friday Aug 7 at 8:30pm. The Southern. Now you make a dance piece that makes me cry and I'll buy you a beer.❦ 1:21am. August 3, 2009. Am I going to regret using this as the title for my blog? Perhaps. We needed to pick a new permanent blog title and that was the only thing I could think of because I've seen him at, like, every show. But I suppose that I should stress that I am not really stalking Quinton Skinner. To put his family at ease, and all. The weekend is done. Things we’ve learned at the fringe so far: 1) If you’re going to write a “play” that’s really just an hour-long monologue, I will leave my body. The casing of Anna will be in the theatre seat and it may look like I’m watching your show, but I actually won’t be there. 2) Noah Bremer is extremely charming, especially when you’re already drunk. 3) I heart out-of-towners. Especially dance out-of-towners. 4) Quinton Skinner is hot. But I am not stalking him. 5) Intermedia needs to not run their A/C so often. I’m gonna recap my entire weekend. Is that necessary? Who knows. Probably won’t go into great detail about a lot of it because I have a short attention span and, since you’re reading something click click click on the internet, I’m guessing you do too. Isn’t that convenient for both of us? Saturday, 5:30pm at the Southern, The Best Little Crackhouse in Philly “We’re off to Colorado to become sober lesbians.”--from The Best Little Crackhouse in Philly Would a hooker really wear a fanny pack? I think fanny packs are in again because they are being sold at American Apparel, but do hookers follow what’s “in?” I thought hookers kept everything they needed in their tall boots. Perhaps I’m getting too many life lessons from Pretty Woman. Saturday, 7pm at the Southern, Holding Patterns So far, these kids are up against the duo in Slow Jobs: Servicing America for $12 an Hour to win “Most Adorable” of the fringe. Also, goldfish bowl w/fish has come up a couple times now as a prop (also in Noah Bremer’s Untitled Duet with Houseplant). Saturday, 8:30pm at the Southern, The William Williams Effect Solid. Really terrific cast. Especially liked the ending. Sunday, 4pm at Rarig, Slow Jobs: Servicing America for $12 an Hour There’s free iced coffee at Rarig?! God, why did I just spend money to buy a double espresso before I came here? Grrarg. “The term ‘nonprofit’ describes not only the organizations themselves, but also the employee’s salary.”--from Slow Jobs: Servicing America for $12 an Hour Didn’t know anything about this show; thought it was going to be totally different based solely on the title. Thought it was gonna be a serious show. Thought it would give me some insight into why I can’t seem to make any money at anything I do. Why, with all my jobs averaged together, I’ve probably consistently made $7 an hour over the last 7 years. Nope, it’s a storytelling show. And once I adjusted and got into that vibe, it was really great. Really terrific storytellers. And freakin’ adorable! They talk about raw hotdogs and sperm banks! Oh, I just made it sound like those two things go together but they were actually separate stories. I tried to force myself to learn something from this show since I went in thinking it was going to be a serious piece about what’s wrong with America’s workforce, and therefore teach me a lot of serious things. It did not. So I made myself learn that being miserable can teach you a lot about how to be happy, happy in a simple way. Not happy like I’m so rich or I’m so successful or I have what I want, but you learn what outlets you need and what feeds you and how to be content as a human being, as the special human being that is you. Done and done. Sunday, 5:30pm at the Southern, casebolt and smith: Speaking Out! Oh, my heart! I’m actually going to come back to this and write an entire blog entry about this show because it’s the best fucking thing I’ve seen at the fringe so far and I’m going to try to see it for a second time. Whew. Beautiful. Stay tuned for my thoughts, if you care. You probably don’t. That’s fine. Sunday, 7pm at the Mixed Blood, Buyer’s Remorse “I hit him with that truck as an homage to you.”--from Buyer's Remorse Holy shit. I laughed so hard I think I actually said “Brilliant!” out loud more than once, I don’t know, you can ask Matt Sciple cause he was sitting right next to me. Jesus, I loved this show. I don’t doubt that it will end up being my favorite new script I saw at the fringe. Even the BLOCKING was hilarious. There is a death near the end of the play that was executed perfectly; I was sitting right in the front row so close that I could have gotten blood all over me, and it was one of the best and funniest moments I have ever seen on stage. That was just an extremely strong statement, I know. I'm sorry; my astrological sign makes me operate in extremes. Plus, the actor doing the death has been one of my closest friends for a long time so maybe I’m biased. I don’t know. See it for yourself and YOU DECIDE! Sunday, 8:30pm at the Mixed Blood, Curse of Yig Story not really my cuppa tea but I thought it was solid and I was a fan of the performers. Sunday, 10pm at Rarig, Untitled Duet with Houseplant Noah Bremer giving his own hand CPR—got to be a physical highlight of the fringe. Whew, weekend done. You know what? Fringe is FUN! See you tomorrow!❦ 1:25pm. August 1, 2009. WARNING: If you’re a single lady out doing the fringe circuit by your lonesome, the cast of Spermalot: The Musical will all gang up together and HIT ON YOU as a GROUP. Nuff said? Watch your back, ladies. I’m grippin on to my mace. Friday’s schedule: 5:30pm This Show Will Change Your Life at Intermedia 7pm The Morning After the Summer of Love at Intermedia 8:30pm God I am too starving too sit through another show I’m getting a burger instead, at Common Roots 10pm Cherry Cherry Lemon at Intermedia Hmmm, I might as well pitch a tent at Intermedia. Geez, they really do need to turn down their A/C. “Are you ready to smear with Vaseline and jam into the orifice of happiness?” –from This Show Will Change Your Life This show wins the award for “Most Brilliant Segue.” They did a segue that went from talking about anal sex on the first date to talking about David Mann’s grandpa. Brilliant. This Show Will Change Your Life didn’t change my life but it certainly changed my fringe luck! I used to see bad shows and now I see good shows! Thanks guys! AND I got a CRAYON! “Today is not a good day to die.” – from The Morning After the Summer of Love The Morning Afer the Summer of Love, presented by the Irish poets Screaming Blue Murmur, is the reason I go see live performance. I have not felt as buzzingly present in my body during a show since watching Cynthia Hopkins’s last act of The Success of Failure (or, The Failure of Success). I could feel my soul, watching Cynthia bare hers. I felt it during this show. The Morning After the Summer of Love gave me sensory flashbacks: drinking mulled wine at the pub that was near my house when I lived in New Zealand; the red wool blanket that my godmother knit for me. Kittens pouncing on yarn. No, I made that last one up. In all seriousness though, there was an older couple sitting in front of me during the show—midway through the woman laid her head on her partner’s shoulder. I don’t think it’s because she was tired. I think it’s because she was cozy. Screaming Blue Murmur made the room cozy. They fucking emanated love. Theatre can be as much about the constructs of how to tell the story as it is about the story. And that can be great. I get a lot from hearing stories told through different languages—through clowning or dance or the script of a play is all chronologically fucked with or seeing ideas abstracted into performance art. This show, The Morning After the Summer of Love, isn’t any of that; it is simply what it is. Their feelings, put into words, put behind a microphone. Their anger and aching and celebration. Purely that. I’m tellin’ ya I was moved. These folks celebrate pain and they celebrate age and they celebrate experience, good or bad. If you’re an audience member who would rather put a little bit of distance between you and what you see, you like to cross your arms and legs during a show or stay in your mind, all analytical, then this show probably isn’t for you. If you long to feel what your soul feels like in your body, this is it. Okay, that’s enough of that. I need some coffee. I’m thinking about making The William Williams Effect tonight because, let’s face it, Wade Vaughn’s face is just good advertising.❦ 2:22am. July 31, 2009. So it’s 2 in the am. I am shoveling popcorn into my face and I blame my drunkenness on Bedlam’s “Cast Party” night (where I didn’t see a whole lot of casts, I gotta tell ya. I blame the all-too-horrifying reality—-the 9 to 5!). The following contains barely-sensical ruminations on my first fringe night out. Oh, I suppose I should let you know what my schedule was first: 7pm Boobs at Gremlin 8:30 The Problem of the Body: Why is our society ashamed of bodily urges? at Intermedia 10pm Cigarettes for Jesus at Intermedia “If people wouldn’t be afraid to be who they were then maybe this place wouldn’t suck so much.” --from Boobs Okay. Boobs. You know what? I don’t think I had that many thoughts during Boobs. Actually, why don’t I just recount the wind tunnel that was my brain during this show: Pre-show “Wow, the Gremlin lobby sucks. I am not put at ease by this lobby. If fact, everybody’s turned all-around every which-way-anxious like when all three shows at the Guthrie let out for intermission at the same goshdarn time. We’re all cattle, milling into one another, dumb and pleading.” “No one here seems to be here because of the boobs besides me—oh wait, there’s that one humongous lady that is clearly undergoing testosterone therapy that is for sure here because of the boobs.” “Damn, Quinton Skinner is CUTE. Like, really cute. Have I ever even seen him before in person? Hmmm, I don’t think so. Dang.” During the show “Omigod I totally forgot to put a bra on tonight. That’s funny.” . . . (Tumbleweeds roll through my brain) . . . “I just learned from the Boob Facts that mine are above average size. That’s funny.” The End As I was walking to my car, some guy stopped me and asked, “Did you just see the show? How was it?” I shrugged and said, “You don’t get to see any boobs in it.” He gave me this weird look and said, “Well, yeah, I didn’t really expect to get THAT much from the show.” And then I thought, Jesus, Anna, what did you want from this show anyway? Usually I am quite happy when my butt is in a theatre seat. But I am happiest when my theatre makes me think about something. I thought the two well-endowed ladies in this show were very charismatic and engaging. But I also could have been at home watching Sex and the City. At least on Sex and the City I get to see some boobs. I will blog about the other goshdarn shows I saw after I go to my goshdarn 9 to 5 in a few hours.❦ 11:41pm. July 28, 2009. During the Minnesota Fringe Festival, the blood of your ancient Viking ancestor, Bjornvik, is pumping through your veins. Throughout the other 354 days of the year, you may be “nice.” You may not say what’s on your mind. You may pick up a $10 bill from off the ground and yelled “You dropped this!” to the person who accidentally let it go. You are a Minnesotan and you, yes you - sweet lovely polite Leif Erik Eggebraaten – may be beautiful, blond and 6 foot 5, but during the Minnesota Fringe you are a toad. The rampaging, ravaging, raping Bjornvik, your toad Viking ancestor who burned villages and kicked puppies, is a reality and a persuasion in your spirit, blood, and instincts when you participate in the 2009 productions of Boobs, Cigarettes for Jesus, Spermalot: The Musical, Every Pastie Tells a Story, I’d Kick Puppies For You, The Harty Boys in the Case of the Limping Platypus—oh wait, that last one’s a kids’ show. You get the idea. This is what I’m looking forward to: There will be a lot of “Minnesota Nice” shed in the next 11 days. Hopefully the drugs won’t be hidden, skin won’t be covered, there will be skirts on bicycles and more social smokers per capita than there are sheep in New Zealand. The huge greasy mess of flesh that is a fringe show ticket line will wrap its way around corners across the entire city of Minneapolis (and that wee bit of St. Paul). Adrenaline will be pumping from a whole lot of performing, and Jameson and the desire to copulate will be flowing. This is not your day-job. This is August in Minnesota, people, and there’s a whole lotta theatre goin' on. There will be heat. I basically want to see shows that have nudity in them. One may confuse a Minnesotan for a Stepford Wife the rest of the year but--and fortunately, I think--the Minnesota Fringe Festival proves that being born and bred in Minnesota doesn’t make us any less human. See you at Bedlam.❦