Letters to Holly

Friday, February 17


When my wife's little sister flew to South Africa to join the Peace Corps, I felt bad for the kid. I mean, I admired the hell out of her. I don't think I have it in me to give up society, the native tongue, and basic utilities for two years. I is spoiled, and I admit it freely. But I feared she wouldn't have the regular input of stuff -- text, images, info -- that a wired, with-it young woman without which might melt into a panicky unplugged puddle.

When she vamoosed, I decided the best thing I could do is write to her regularly. And not the tiny letters with a small talk/nitty-gritty ratio of 3 to 1. I made what's best described as a journal of personal and world news. Once 30 days' worth of blah-blah was filled up, I mailed it off. That came out to roughly 30 pages of typed text a month. I also included magazines I subscribed to and photos she may not have gotten in the Swaziland Picayune.

I did this for two years. She came back home in November 2005, and I found myself hooked on the journal writing. Also, with her back in the States but much too busy to pore through giant emails, I decided to move from journals to blogging.

So here we are, face to face, a couple of silver spoons.

The most pressing concern is my distorted glasses prescription. I got new frames with new lenses about a month ago, but I believe they nudged my focal point off to the side. I find myself squinting -- almost wincing -- when trying to watch TV, use my computer, or read road signs. And that gives me headaches and makes me cranky with the missus. To give you an idea of what I've become, I present the following artist renderings of what my eyes have become:



Not good.

Monday, I visit the doctor's office and hope and pray they don't charge me to fix their error. Until then, I continue to wear the new frames. My old frames, which work just fine, don't look anywhere as nice as the new frames, and, as far as my appearance and vehicular safety are concerned, I'll drop the fashion when I start crashin'.

The New York Times's Ben Brantley has destroyed the revival of Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park:

THE mistakes begin with the wallpaper. When the curtain rises on the torturous new revival of Neil Simon's "Barefoot in the Park," the play's eager newlywed heroine (portrayed by Amanda Peet) is discovered applying, with laborious comic inefficiency, hypnotically striped paper to the walls of her first apartment. Not to put a damper on a young bride's early adventures in decorating, but instead of gluing on wallpaper, shouldn't she be slapping on paint? Then at least the audience would have the diversion of watching it dry.

You can read the rest here. Free registration may be required.

I mention this because not only have I done community theatre, but I played the male lead in a production of Barefoot. Frankly, the only way you can make the script unfunny is to either hate the material or suffer the moronic directions of someone who's overthinking the play. This is the kind of play that any size theatre can successfully present. All you need is five people, a few doors, a doorbell and a phone. End of list. There's a few lines of singing, but you're supposed to sound drunk out of your gourd when you warble them.

Anyway, my point: Wow. How do you fuck THAT up?

1 comment:

Holly said...

Hey Gregory. Found the blog, and I'm impressed thus far. Looking forward to continuing to keep up to date on your musings and observations...