before it becomes !!resentment!!

listen -

i love you
and you're my friend
so this is important.

i have always, without question, with unfaltering devotion and sincerity
supported you
in all of your endeavors, creative and otherwise
because i respect you as an artist and - more importantly - as a friend.

never have i told you "can't" or "shouldn't" or "don't"
never have i challenged your artistic integrity
never have i patronized your ideas
never have i tried to hold you back or tether you down

so i'm struggling with the fact that you find yourself
incapable of or unwilling to
do the same for me.

is it so ??difficult??
..to recognize that my ideas are just as valid as yours? to make way for someone else's creativity in addition to your own? to support me, your close friend and artistic peer, in my endeavors? to keep your judgmental comments to yourself? to allow me to make my own decisions, cultivate my own visions, without your help? to refrain from patronizing me? to trust me?

because, contrary to what you may think, i'm not stupid. i'm actually very smart. so you telling me that i "can't" do something only makes me more determined to do it. i hope you know that.

you've announced your opinion to me with the intention of "protecting" me from failure. but it isn't about what you perceive as failure, or success. for me, failure is allowing the opinions of skeptics dictate my actions. failure is succumbing to fear. failure is not following through with something i'm passionate about because of what others may think of me.

so if i do this, to my fullest creative potential, in all artistic honesty, and everyone hates it and calls it complete shit, that isn't a failure - to me. because at least i've done it. and shouldn't art strive for that, rather than appeasing the masses (or perhaps a few people)? shouldn't art be about process, not necessarily product? but, i digress.

all i'm asking is that you show me the same respect and support that i've shown you for as long as i've known you. i'm not an underling of yours, i'm not a child - i'm your peer, and i deserve to be treated thusly. i will not tolerate being patronized. and i shouldn't have to justify my artistic decisions to earn your trust. after all, i've trusted you from the beginning, and -- -- --

i shouldn't even be having to address all of this, really.

...but i hope you've listened...

chris brown. rihanna. shit.

so let's get this straight:

chris brown's adolescent punk ass beats on his girlfriend rihanna - beats the SHIT out of her - and then she takes him back.

what.the.fuck.

?

i hate to say it but i think the trauma she suffered to her head has affected her decision-making abilities dramatically.

look, i can comprehend that most abused women take their abusers back after the bruises and dignity have healed.  i can't accept it, but i can comprehend it.  of course they're in a warped state of mind, and of course the prospect of leaving the abuser can seem more threatening than the risk of death at his hands, but it seems uncanny to me that a nation of people pleading for rihanna to leave chris brown won't sway her decision.

she has a responsibility to herself.

and, importantly, a responsibility to the little girls who look up to her.

what happens when some other young, naive girl is faced with such a dilemma and has no example to follow but that of rihanna's because that's all she knows?  what happens when an opportunity for that little girl to become empowered turns into her being overpowered by shame, fear, and isolation caused by her abuser again and again?  all the "sorry's" in the world can't erase the physical, psychological, and emotional damage she'll suffer, no matter how young and "misguided" her abuser.

as far as i'm concerned, there is NO EXCUSE for domestic abuse, emotional or physical.

and chris brown, though a product of unfortunate circumstances, is absolutely not exempt from the punishment he deserves as an abuser.  radio stations have boycotted his music, he's "backed out" of the nickelodeon teen choice awards and his place in the music industry has been dramatically compromised.  frankly, his record label would be smart to drop him.  but they probably won't - he's a money-maker.  and that's fucking sick and sad, but it's the horrible truth.

and to ice the proverbial cake, they've just recorded a duet together.  how precious.

barf.  seriously.  i mean, way to send mixed fucking messages to your public, guys.  i know chris is trying his darnest to cover his girl-beating ass, and rihanna probably feels guilty for all the trouble her poor baby is in, but what the hell?  it's disgusting and infuriating and it almost makes me want to smack the poor girl upside the head to try to knock some sense back into her, because i'm sort of wondering if she's just lost her mind at this point.

he's a CRIMINAL, rihanna.  the "umbrella/cinderella remix" days are long, long gone.  and you need to get yo' ass out of his life before his balls drop, his voice changes, and he really decides to beat on you.  because next time, you won't make it out alive.

and we all know jay-z is hankerin' to blow that punk ass bitch out of the water.

just give him a reason.

who killed jenny schecter?

a question that's been on the minds of L-word fans for months

because (let's be real)

we ALL wanted to do it.

now i'm not saying she was always despicable - she wasn't.  we all remember the early days of jenny, the quirky-edgy-rad-fashionable-tragically beautiful days.  we were small-town midwesterners in a brave new lez world with her, we were tortured souls drinking from her idea well, we were her chain-smokin'/self-mutilatin'/sandra bernhard-lovin' alter ego.  FOR THREE/FOUR (depending on your personal tolerance level) FECKING SEASONS.  

and then she snapped.

once production officially started on "lez/le/les girls" there was no longer any hope for a jenny character turnaround.  at this point, BITCH!jenny was an unstoppable force in self-righteous motion.  so, like any other L-word fan with an asshole-tolerance level on the low scale, i resigned myself to hating the be-otch.  

and i do -

but still -

WHAT the FUCK, ilene?  are you fo realz, girl?  because your big, mystery dinner theatre, whodunit bullshit tagline was "who killed jenny?" and your punk ass STILL.HASN'T.TOLD.US.

first of all, the plot line was an idiotic one, let's be honest.  i get it: showtime needed one more season of lesbian squabblery/sexy drama and you needed to deliver because you pinky swore them cross-your-heart you would.  but instead of what we deserved and expected - more of the same trashiness we looked forward to every sunday - you took a big fat shit on our lesbian parade.  for what sadistic purposes, i'm not sure.  all i know is you're an asshole.

listen, i would have been so perfectly content with one more season of less-than-enthralling plots, high-frequency sex scenes, strangely non-committal work and parenting habits, fashion, and the planet.  that would have been just stellar.  instead, ilene, you decided to throw a wild card at us.  it smelled like poo from the beginning, through the middle, and to the end.  oh wait, i forgot, you don't follow basic storytelling structure.  so i guess it was just shit all along.  

and after all that, after i conceded my frustration with the bullshit that was the jenny death subplot, even after i realized that the shitty writing of season one would be no comparison to the clusterfuck of crap that was this season, even after i STILL didn't get see jennifer beals' nipples, i reluctantly resigned myself to "you know what, at least i'll get to see who killed jenny, 'cus that bitch had.it.comin."  and your lazy ass failed to deliver.  it's obvious you didn't even decide to begin with.  someone should get to take credit for that, ilene, and just because you wrote the pilot six years ago doesn't mean it should be you.  

i mean, shit, i would've accepted "colonel mustard in the conservatory with the lead pipe" if it meant a solid answer to your fucking joke of a question.  listen, television isn't rhetorical, ilene. if you didn't already know that, maybe you should go take a class with sandra bernhard (i mean, charlotte birch...) and she can tell you all about the inner workings of a story with plot.  meanwhile, i'm going to beat myself in the head with my dvds of season one and try to dull the painful memory of the shit pile that was season six.  

so go fuck yourself, ilene.

oh, and just for the record,

i think the pomeranian sounder killed jenny.  that would make about as much logical sense as all of the other ass-shavings you ladled into this season.  jesus.

manifest-oh

Good morning, America, the beautiful. It’s a sunny day in neighborhood.
Now, Would you like:
Gypsy or Cap’n Crunch?
Which kind of sugar do you want:
The kind that rots your teeth, or
The kind that rots your brain?
Come on, kiddo,
Do you want
Patti LuPone
or
The Cap’n
?
Because they both cost the same, honey. They’re both worth the same.
-------


PATTI couldn’t take it anymore. She felt she’d been exploited, damnit.

Stop stop stop stop taking pictures right now You heard the announcement Who do you think you are (Applause) Get out How dare you Who do you think you are Get them out I won’t continue if they’re taking pictures Get them out Three times three times you took a picture You heard the announcement at the beginning You heard the announcement at intermission Who do you think you are Thank you alright, you know what we’re gonna do? (Applause) I have to say this I have to say this We have forgotten our public manners And we have forgotten that we are in a community and this is the theatre And all of you every single one of you except for that person has respect And I and the rest of this company o-preciate it thank you (Applause)

But what she failed to realize was that she was feeding the monster.

-----------

It’s been said before, but..
I’m saying anyway because it isn’t reading loud and clear enough –

Theatre in America is in danger of becoming a caricature of itself, much like Liza Minelli. And if we don’t do something to rejuvenate its vagina, it’s going to rot to its core.

And we need that snatch to be in tip-top shape.
GASP! Am I suggesting that theatre is a woman?
An exploited, chained-to-the-bed woman,
Doesn’t matter.

But she’s dying because she has a horrible series of venereal diseases and we’re doing nothing to eliminate the infection. It’s spreading with unforgiving ferocity and disgusting recklessness. It needs the money.

The details of her condition are as follows:
• Suffers from Heavy fluff. Sickening, pink-and-purple, glitzed-out, fluff on roller skates. Starring Whoopi Goldberg.
• Brains have taken the consistency of grape Jell-O. Grape because it’s the kind that tastes like bad medicine. Because “good morning Baltimore” won’t stop echoing in her brain.
• She has been sleeping with Walt Disney again. He won’t let her abort any of his demented babies. He’s given her genital warts shaped like Zac Effron’s flat-ironed hair-do.
• Her diva wants another Tony award and has been in a snit because of the thing. Standing ovations aren’t enough, have never been enough.
• ASU’s Lyric Opera Theatre exploits her by telling her she’s pretty and then shitting on a picture of her face four times a year.
• She cries herself to sleep at night because of the burning, itching, puss-ridden mess “down there” that says, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina” just to taunt her.
• No one will pay for her medical care. Especially not Bill Maher. Especially not the N.E.A.

-----------------

nobody wants to think anymore because it’s easier to feel and find instant gratification in that moment of wild applause when idina menzel hits her high note I get it.
..but it’s fucked up..
and I’m reminded of when the real rock era ended and n’sync came along and shit on everything the beatles and the stones had put in place and then jacked themselves off to bubble gum and barbie-doll-sized versions of themselves.
because once upon a time, theatre had the ability to change and transform the way people, communities, worlds thought and acted. it had the ability to engage and thrill without having to involve mindless dance routines or contrived music. real theatre has had to go underground to hide from the commerial-broadway-gestapo.

“Apparently, musical theatre is like a prehistoric beast capable of destroying whatever genre it touches (imagine a 200-foot Ethel Merman stomping on Tokyo)… Which reminds me of one of the worst insults I've ever heard hurled at an actor. The target was Broadway star Ann Reinking, who was performing some sort of razzle-dazzle production number on an awards show, and the comment was: "You can see every lesson she's ever had in her life." That's exactly how I feel when I watch musicals: While there may be real passion and humanity up there, it's buried beneath musical theatre's slick, soulless, impeccably groomed, perfectly articulated package” (Fairhurst).

what isn’t making money is wasting it and sell,sell,sell
and can’t we all just enjoy legally blonde?

No
We can’t
We won't

I refuse to be satisfied with the disgusting commercial machine that theatre in
this nation has become. And I refuse to operate its mechanisms or oil its cogs.
Art
was never supposed to be a business, but that’s what it’s become. Because
somewhere long ago, an accountant raped a violinist and the world ended.

And suddenly our voices were not heard.
And suddenly $110 was how much it cost to sell art into slavery.

-------------------------------

Theatre today is a Twinkie-flavored life jacket. It surely won’t sink and it smells good and everyone everyone loves it and it won’t go bad in your cupboard and it tastes like a dollar well spent and it’s cute like a puppy. But what theatre needs to be is the little spark at the top of the match that sets that Twinkie ablaze as everyone watches in horror and fascination and then ponders their own mortality. “[The playing space] is an exercise room, a factory, an examination room, a laboratory.” (Foreman 54).
It should make people want to gouge out their eyeballs
and hyperventilate with joy and shiver in all their private places.

CENSORSHIP CANNOT EXIST!
Because true art is an extension of the soul. And to censor someone’s soul is to commit a heinous crime against that person. Art that doesn’t extend from the soul of the creator, that doesn’t stir and stimulate and wreak havoc on the psyche, won’t feel the pain of censorship and is never at risk for it. But that art isn’t honest. It isn’t the truth that sits in the brightly lit, purple ball of guts inside each of us. “…the texts of my plays became increasingly fragmented in order to echo the truth of psychic life…” (Foreman 62)

---------------------

Here’s the deal:
1. Abolish all theatre fluff. This includes Disney musicals, most all musicals, anything that exists solely to suck people dry. Only theatre that pushes the envelope of conscious convention is allowed to remain in existence. No, Xanadu does not count.
2. Reduce the price of theatre tickets to “donate what you will.” Because everyone deserves and needs to see theatre. And the bourgeoisie is not allowed a monopoly on the arts simply because “it’s trendy.”
3. Turn vacant spaces into studios for communities and ensembles of artists to develop work
4. Find the bridge between theatre, dance, music, media, and other art forms. There should be an artistic coalition. The mediums should combine.
5. Art should be an honest extension and expression of the soul, uncensored and raw for the world to see. Like Richard says, “I thought of writing as evidence of my mental and spiritual state. Above all I tried to be honest about myself by keeping my style uncorrected by my well-schooled intelligence” (Foreman 10).
6. True art is allowed to be, and encouraged to be, ugly
7. True art has the ability to infuriate, enrapture, birth, infect, and intrigue.
8. The audience should be moved in a way unrelated to what they would expect based on the example of Broadway: “Make the audience feel the differences present in the room and those outside of it… Give them the taste of sitting and laughing alone. The feel of a body that laughs in public and then, embarrassed, has to doubt its action. Give them gifts. Pleasures. Laughs. Dances. Bring them ‘together’ again… The watcher’s desire is so often for nakedness, defenselessness. An exposure that does not have a name. Transparency. Something beyond” (Heathfield 215-216).
9. True art is dangerous. It cannot be safe. It cannot be comfortable.
10. We will be bold and unapologetic, whatever the cost
11. We will not fear the negative response of others. Our art is not designed to please or impress them. It merely seeks to ignite and provoke.

“Performance offers once of those planes of ‘unique reality’ where memory and dreams, past and present, the everyday and the once-in-a-lifetime are reconciled and woven together upon a single loom of time…” (Drain 282.)

If the guidelines of this manifesto are ignored, then we are destined, as theatre artists, to become extinct, to die out in the moldy apple that lives on Broadway and 42nd street, dancing until our legs bleed because they’ve put duct tape on our mouths and drugged us into a “Hairspray” coma so we can’t bleed from our hearts anymore even though that sounds cliché.

And we will continue to sell our souls to the commercial Mephistopheles, and no one and nothing will be able to save us from the snide meows of all the Jellicle cats that haunt our vacant, pathetic thoughts.

gay gay gay

i'm presently sitting in my sign language class, for which i get my ass up early 4 days a week because i enjoy sign language, and i've just been reminded why i hate asu people.

once again, the ignorant college male attitude has infiltrated the peaceful quiet of my attention and gone and been an asshole:

"that's so gay"

"yeah dude, that's gay"

"that's way gay"

seriously, though? seriously, are you that immature that you still speak like an adolescent?
really? or have you just never been exposed to the concept of a dictionary, in which the word "gay" doesn't ACTUALLY mean "stupid" and the two are not synonymous.
does it even occur to you that maybe, just maybe, there's someone within a ten-foot vicinity who you might be offending?? or are you too self-concerned and "fuckin' cool" to care?

because when you say "that's gay," gay isn't really what you mean. you don't mean "that's so homosexual relationship" and you don't mean "that's so two women kissing." i'm pretty sure you mean "stupid." and shouldn't you just SAY what you MEAN?

sure, there's no real risk of anything getting lost in translation, and that's because we live in a world where degrading an entire community based on bigotry is socially acceptable. so bothering with silly formalities may not be your style.

but i don't really give a shit.

because when you say "that's gay" it reminds me why i'm not allowed to get married, and why i'll probably never come out to my grandparents, and why discriminating against me is still mostly okay, and why i spend a lot of time feeling hated. and i'm too chicken shit to tell you that it isn't alright to say that because i don't know you, and that makes me feel even worse. but fuck, i shouldn't HAVE to tell you because a black person shouldn't have to tell anyone why saying the N-word is unacceptable and this is just the same thing.

so from now on, i'll judge you. every time you open your mouth to speak, i'll be waiting for you to make an ignorant comment, to offend and further ostracize me. i'll never really have respect for you. and you've only further proven to me that some people are complete and total assholes who don't give two shits about whether or not their words cause harm, that some people will always be ignorant, that some people just.don't.care. and never will.

thanks asu boy, for your continued and astounding idiocy.
you've really brightened my day.



fucktwit.

5.london [the beginning]

[this is slightly dated]

sunday, september 14, 13:07 (they use military time here, just go with it)
weather: happily sunny and temperate (this is rare)
location: bedroom, flat 12, landward flats, westminster, london, uk
mood: relaxed, lethargic, happy

first of all, i miss my friends like hell. i think that needs to be said. i walked by a cafe yesterday called "cafe arizona" and laughed/cried a little, not because i miss az, but because i miss them, duh. i'm in the process of trying to move the atlantic ocean so that az is closer to britain, but so far, no luck. will keep you posted.

so now, with that in mind, here's my [quite lengthy] update on my first week and a half in london, uk:

i arrived at heathrow airport on friday, september 5 feeling quite bedraggled and rather idiotic carrying 2 monstrous bags by myself. it was humbling. and i couldn't help but realize, in my state of pathetic disarray, how american i must've appeared. luckily, i survived that embarrassing experience and made it safely to 14 gloucester gate, regents park - the location of the british american dramatic academy.

upon my arrival at BADA, i was greeted by two fabulously british old(er) folks - one of whom i recognized as ian wooldridge, the dean of the program. the other was carolyn, a very warmhearted woman who i'd like to shrink and put in my pocket. i later realized that she's the program director. also, she's very precious.

i spoke with them for a bit, ian told me he remembered my audition video (and i couldn't help but laugh a little to think that this very proper englishman had seen me do a horrifying rendition of irene cara's "fame." why did they let me in, again?) all in all, talking to them was a welcome relief since i hadn't spoken to anyone with a heart for over 14 hours at that point.

anyway, after our little meet-and-greet, i was taken to my flat at the landward on harrowby street in westminster, about a 10 minute drive from bada. henceforth, i met my flatmates, who, luckily, are quite fabulous (for the most part). more on that later.

our flat is great - very warm, comfortable, and spacious (which was a pleasant surprise). the toilets are tricky. and our washer is also a dryer. but other than that, i really love it. we have great windows, anyway.

BADA: wonderful. very different from asu, for obvious reasons. noteably less movement-based, which i'm undecided about. although we do have a great stage combat class and a pretty swell movement class, it's very academic so far. but i don't feel like that's necessarily a bad thing, especially now. brits teach theatre a whole different way out here, i've come to realize, but it's actually very refreshing. so far, i've learned a great lot about the practical performance of shakespearean work, which means not trying to find subtext, because there isn't any, and really meaning what you say because that's how he wrote it. that's sort of a cheap summary of what i've learned so far, but what we've been working on is dissecting text (for shakespeare, high comedy, dramatic criticism, theatre history, etc.) it's very fascinating, and i sense that i'm going to learn some very valuable things this semester.

the way the program is designed is we are in class mon-fri from 9 am until 6 pm. our schedule is different every day, and on friday afternoons we have master classes (i.e. our class with fiona shaw. i'm hoping to god for a class with alan rickman, but that's tba...). we work this way for 8 weeks, and then for the remaining 5 weeks, instead of class, we do a show. there will be 3 separate shows with casts of about 15 each, since there are approx 45 people in the london theatre programme.

my professors = very brilliant, very british. for instance:
a) sheila, our shakespeare professor, is a renowned british actress (and was also in harry potter 4 as a ministry witch). she's a little insane, but in an endearing way. goes off on very random tangents. reminiscent of mrs. doubtfire. we still take her very seriously. she means business.
b) christopher, our drama crit/history professor. adorable. an older gentleman. quite proper, very well spoken and brilliant. wears cute socks. very witty. even in 2-hour sessions of theatre history with him and 14 students, i remain quite engaged, if that's any indication of his teaching charisma. has made it mandatory we keep theatre journals, so i love him already.
c) mick, our modern physical/clowning professor. very funny, entertaining, silly. an older man who consistently cracks the most darling jokes. carries a children's drum that he beats to start or end games, etc. a kook.
d) natalie, our combat instructor. gorgeous, intimidating, very "girl power." very unlike david barker. a younger woman, incredibly hot. yells at the boys. commands respect and attention. intense like laura croft. insanely sexy. doesn't buy any of the "macho" shit from the bros. did i mention she's a hottie? god i hope she's gay.

that's just a small sampling of some of our professors. as for master classes, we've had one so far - with fiona shaw. she was stupendous, very down-to-earth, funny, a big obama fan. wore yellow clogs. she had an incredible amount to offer about shakespearean performance. i love her.

alright, shifting gears. let's talk about something that's very near and dear to my heart, a vital part of my love of the theatre:

the gays.

ok, first of all, where the deuce are they? so far, we've counted just 5 gays out of roughly 60 students currently at bada (between the shakespeare programme and our programme). 2 men and 3 women (including lindsay and i). there's blake, who's a very energetic but not overwhelming gay. jason, a more reserved but just as fabulous gay. molly, slightly in-your-face but not bombastic gay. and then, lindsay and i. all 5 of us are determined to weed out a few more before the end of the semester. because 5 out of 60 is sad and wrong. and a lot of the dudes here (the straight dudes) are such bros and it's totally disgusting. i mean, most of them are legit, but none of them are as awesome as my asu boys. there's this one guy named greg in my small group (for classes) and he's such. a. douchebag. he puts on this ridiculous macho-guy front, which i think is directly related to the fact that he probably has short-man syndrome. he also thinks he's god's gift to theatre. he's a jackass. and rude. and puts on all these wacko accents when we read plays in class. it's ridonc. i'm trying really hard not to hate him. sigh.

anyhoo, me and some of the rad people went to this fabulous gay bar in lecester square/soho called the g-a-y. they played spice girls songs. it was glorious. but super crowded. we're going to try somewhere more club-like next time so we can dance. i'm determined to get some british action. like, soon.

yesterday i went shopping in oxford circus and spent too much money. i got some ridiculous american apparel clothes - don't judge me, please. also, we went to topshop, which is like the british equivalent of century 21/h and m, i think. it was a clusterfuck, though. also, not cheap. i didn't buy anything from there. it was too scary.

everything here is very expensive. it's killing me.

we haven't gotten the chance to do anything really touristy yet. we did a bus tour, saw buckingham palace, and saw "merry wives of windsor" at the globe, which was phenomenal. but i still wanna see tower of london, tate modern, british museum, etc. so i have a to-do list. keep you posted.


**since i wrote this, many things have occurred. more on that later.**

6.alan rickman

tonight,
in a crisp and cosy pocket of leicester square, london,
i found myself at a crossroads of life.

whilst on my way to "creditors"
(a strindberg piece showing with donmar theatre co.)
i was stopped dead in my tracks:
right before my eyes,
not ten feet away,

was. ALAN. fucking. RICKMAN.



let me explain:
at some point in my life before high school but after age 12,
i found myself curiously obsessed with this man.
i cannot say how or when or why it began,
all i know is this:
it was sick.
and over the course of approximately 7 years,
i painted not one, but two portraits of him,
became infatuated with Colonel Brandon, Metatron, Severus Snape, and many others,
downloaded various sound clips of the "velvet" voice,
searched many a blockbuster for rarities such as "Rasputin" and "Dark Harbor,"
and changed my computer desktop image to a new picture of him every week.
the most monumental statement i can make about this man:
he's the only male alive who i would go straight for.
that's right, folks. he's 63, sexy as hell, and i would switch teams for him.
i'm not ashamed to admit this.

and what's more -
he's taught many a master class at b.a.d.a. before,
and let's just say i've been more-than-pushy towards the b.a.d.a. office staff about getting his fine welsh ass over to regents park to teach us!

thus, you can imagine:
seeing him - FINALLY - was
a BIG MOTHERFUCKING DEAL
in my life.

so standing there tonight, like a deer in the headlights and practically wetting myself,
i was quite quite torn:

do i approach?
what if he's an asshole?
what if he thinks i'm an asshole?
should i interrupt his conversation just to say hello?
am i going to look like a big american idiot?
or will he be flattered and totally cool and personable?
.....
I MUST!

and i did!
i grabbed tess by the hand,
took a deep, deep breath,
and marched forward with all the gusto of an airline stewardess.
at the moment, he was in the middle of what appeared to be quite an animated discussion with two other men (who they were, i have no clue. i only had eyes for mr. rickman) but he looked just as i'd imagine him to (i.e. exactly how he looked on the cover of 'backstage' in august). he had the blonde-ish/brown-ish/gray-ish wispy hair and a delightful grin. he looked older, but not nearly as old as you'd imagine him to look at 63. he was wearing all black (ala severus snape) - slacks, a dress shirt, and a blazer. he was not drinking but i think he'd been earlier. he was warm and lovely and ever-so-sexy. so my heart was beating with all the force of a sledgehammer at this point. i approached with caution, ready for whatever he might throw at me...

the convo went a little something like this:

anne: excuse me? hi! sorry to interrupt your conversation
alan: (turning to face me full on, smiling genuinely and kindly) tha's quite alright
anne: i just had to say hello; i'm a student at b.a.d.a. and, just, a huge fan (very sincere)
alan: oh, thank you. and how do you like b.a.d.a.?
anne: oh god, i love it - it's wonderful!
alan: mmhhmm (a sound of pleased understanding)
anne: and we're going to see "creditors" tonight and i'm so very excited
alan: ah, i do hope you enjoy it
anne: i'm sure we will
alan: (looking at his watch) oh, it's 7:15, you'd better go get your seats
anne: oh yes, yes, we're on our way
alan: alright, do enjoy your time at b.a.d.a.
anne: we will! you should teach a master class!
alan: yes, yes (chuckle) we'll see
anne: i mean, if you can (nervous giggle). but thank you so so very much!
alan: of course - and enjoy my show!
anne: we will, we will!
alan: alright, cheers then
anne: goodnight! (gleeful exclamations)

basically, i've never been so excited to meet anyone in my life.
and the real joy was just how wonderful he was - so kind and appreciative.
the funny thing is, i've had this desperate desire to meet him for so long,
and i sort of had the feeling that it would happen whilst on this trip,
and this week in particular.
i mean, maybe i'm psychic, is what i'm saying...
(only joking)
but seriously,
he's just so phoenomenal,
and if i'd had the opportunity, i would have talked to him at great length about all sorts of things concerning art and theatre and politics and harry potter. it would be the grandest thing of all, i think. but i'm so ecstatic to have met him - and to have had the balls to approach him!! definite pat on the back, there. i'm usually much more of a pansy when it comes to these things. but i knew i'd regret it forever if i didn't sieze my chance right then and there.

so i did it.
and i need to do that more often,
sieze the chance.
it's really quite fulfilling, so..
thanks, alan, for making me grow a pair,
and for being such a beautiful man.

oh, and also,
the show was fantastic.