I spent the morning working on a scholarly essay for The Fatty Arbuckle Incident (it's a joke that doesn't bear explaining, I'm afraid). I wrote about thirteen pages of legal pad on the topic of saints and desperation. It still needs editing, but I hope to get some feedback from my co-editor. Thus far, there are only two postings, both from me, but I am sure she will pick up the slack soon. Besides, my wrist hurts.
I've finished the sleeve redux. I've given up on being a one-woman knitting machine. So now, I am slumped in front of my laptop listening to some Nina Simone. I love her interpretation of "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair". Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age. I've loved a couple of brunets in my time. I'm also a big sucker for Astrid Gilberto, but that's probably something else.
I helped Lewis strip a door at the studio. It was good vocational therapy. It's funny considering that our production company encompasses so many things, from sound to furniture refinishing. We'd make an excellent foil to Martha Stewart, that's certain. I'd really look like I enjoyed beating things with whips and chains, instead of pretending not to! It was nice, though, to just sit on the floor and scrape away with my little razor blade. It was the first time in ages that I was content.
Now that I've got my cushy gig, I've got to start looking for the next one. I think something light-hearted like Hello, Dolly! would be a good sorbet to this experience. Well, obviously not Hello, Dolly!, since one should avoid shows with exclamation points in the title. They're almost all crap, with the exception of Ah, Wilderness! and Oklahoma! Any show that feels the need to shout on the marquee obviously has problems.