Mar. 17, 2003 - 12:02 a.m.
Dear Meghan:
A great influx of delightful weather surged into the Chicagoland area over the weekend – so I spent a great chunk of it out and about, foot-loose and destination-free. Today found us wandering around and finding great delight in locating a huge pile of snow, which had eluded the sun and heat. We nearly had a snowball fight – as what are the odds of having a snowball fight when it is 70 degrees – but we opted instead for ice cream and used CD shops.
The only item on my to-do list was a recording session with the Clowns on Saturday afternoon in order to tape some audio bits and pieces for the upcoming show. It went down smashingly, although Rob – who had been drinking since 10am in honor of some obscure Irish saint – basically went down smashed. After taping the six or seven audio inserts, we thought we’d take a stab at recording some scenes from the third and current shows with an eye towards putting these new tracks on a compact disc. We recorded a scene from our Christmas show which is called “The First Session”, which is nicknamed “Tits in a Jar”, due to the fact that the husband (Robert) in the scene has kept the extra tissue from a breast reduction of his wife’s (Lauren) operation and carries them around all the time. It’s a very surreal scene, as you might imagine. The first take was sluggish, so I suggested another. Half way through Take 2, Robert improvised the line, “I don’t feel well.” A moment later, he got up and staggered into my bathroom. On the finished tape, behind the awkward silence of the Clowns, way in the background, you can hear the sound of Robert vomiting everything he had consumed that day. That brought to a sudden halt any chance of recording anything else. So some of us retired to dinner at Café 28, a spectacular Cuban restaurant near my new abode, and Lauren gave Robert a ride home.
Prior to splitting, we did a brief photo session outside, now that the weather was cooperative. Robert, drunken sod that he was, wrapped himself in an American flag and dropped his trousers to his ankles. It’s a risky business, this comedy thing. At first I was determined not to do anything with those pictures, until the fairly disturbing catch phrase entered my mind: “these colors do not stain!” I spent a good chunk of Sunday putting together a poster and postcards.
I unfortunately forgot to inform you I’d be in on Saturday, and found myself trolling the chat rooms looking for you. As you might be able to surmise, I did not locate you. Instead, I got pulled into a fairly bitter debate on the war. Though I tried to be concise, I could not avoid having epitaphs of “muslim”, “fag” and “homo” hurled my way by those who seemingly believe in freedom of speech. The debate went on for some time until, in a rare moment of intellectual barbarism, I completely lost it, and fired the most amazing litany in my psychological arsenal I have used in some time. Anger is the new black, it seems.
It will perhaps please you to learn that I did not side with either the war-mongers or peaceniks that inhabited the room. I, too, find the peace movement to be as blind as their murderous counterparts – though I innately believe those who want peace to at least have one organ – their heart – in the right place. The peacniks – the ‘no blood for oil’ folks – are as enveloped in catchphrases as the ‘these colors don’t run’ folks.
Meanwhile, nearly under the radar, dilation and extraction procedures designed to save a woman’s life when a fetus dies or a birth goes terribly wrong – called partial birth abortions by those who favor such catchy phrases – are near being banned. Because I have prided myself on being a feminist, I did substantial reading into the ‘event’ when Clinton addressed it a few year back. The pro-choice movement fumbled the ball then, so it’s no surprise that the pro-lifers intercepted and ran to the other goal when the opportunity presented itself. But to do it now, when so many concerns about life and liberty are being raised, smacks of smarmy opportunism.
But it was a glorious day today.
Wistfully,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
