The Shittiest Day in I Cannot Remember When...

In 1987 I came across this beautifully illustrated children's book written by Judith Viorst and illustrated by Ray Cruz called, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." (ISBN-13: 978-068971173) I was 22 when I discovered the book. I do not recall how I came across it, but over the past 20 years, whenever a Cascade of Crumminess tumbles over my day, I see the cover of the book in my mind, and hear echoes of the first few lines of text, "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.."

This day was one of those Terrible, Horribles...

Imprimis:

I started out today researching an article on "green concessions" packaging for Boxoffice...then covered a shift at the computer lab for Denny (I dropped him at the airport Thursday for his return to Hawaii...poor bastard will be there until August).

A student asked for my feedback on his packing graphics for Design 6, I offered to show him my own from my on line portfolio. He looked at it and said, "Oh my God, when you're rich and famous can I PLEASE REDESIGN your website for you?" I didn't appreciate his tone. He later says to me, "You always seems so irritable." I mumble a mock compliment regarding his admirable lack of inhibition.

...he thinks I said, "ignition."

After my shift at the lab, I rush from Shoreline to First Hill for an American Radio Theater recording session. I remember to bring disc recordings of my audio play, WHEN THE WORLD SCREAMED, for any actors in the company who've not received their complimentary copies. One actor reads over the CD insert I've designed, looks over my graphics and adapter's notes, and immediately points out a type-o that no one over the last five months has caught, including me. The Artistic Director points out the inherent inconvenience of my design being that it's fourteen inches long. Evidently purchasing 11x17 size sheets of paper is a hardship for her. I feel she is insinuating I redesign the insert.

We rush through recording 80+ pages of transcript from the Artistic Director's latest project, NAMING NAMES which deals with the McCarthy Era Hollywood Blacklist. As per usual, we have no rehearsal, no read through, not even a discussion of the subject matter. As is often of late, I feel a creeping agitation over this lack of preparedness and how it just seems to compound the inconsistency of acting and directing experience in the group.

Near the second to the last page of the piece, a newer male member reads from a scene between an FBI agent and a blacklisted actor. The question pertains to the relationship the actor shares with his girlfriend. The FBI agent asks, "Did you perform 'coon-uh-ling-Goos' on your girlfriend?" I just about rip open a bowel trying to contain myself. I do my best to keep quiet. The digital disc is still recording.

This performer's wife is in the room. They're over 50.

Cunnilingus. Say it out loud--it sounds just like it looks, for god's sake. Sad. I guess he doesn't know what it looks like.

Earlier in the recording session, the Artistic Director attempted to deliver a line in Spanish and mangles it badly. I ask if I can give it a shot. I've barely mouthed two words, when another member of the group with not a fraction of my action experience (but prides himself on being a top-notch mimic) hovers over my shoulder, feeling obliged to coach me on my efforts at pronunciation. I've had two years of Spanish in high school, another two in college. I feel the heat rising, so I cup my hand over the mic and firmly say to the Mimic, "Thank you." He doesn't get my tone, and proceeds with his efforts to coach me. I ask him if he'd rather do it and I sit down. It takes him about 9 takes for a line of dialog made up of 6 words. He doesn't understand why I'm irritated.

Afterwards, Margery, in whose house we meet, insists I take home a Tupperware of some fresh fruit she has been storing. She's fearful it will spoil and (besides) the raspberberries will be coming in before summer's end, and she needs to make room. I accept, and stick the container in my bag. I forget about it. I have to drive the Mimic home. At some point in the evening, he hurt his voice while attempting to create as much vocal variety for each of his characters. He coughs dramatically, and speaks in a choked voice as though he's trying to hold a wad of mashed potatoes in the cleft below his uvula. It is the most quiet ride home I have ever shared with him. For a moment, I feel blessed.

I drop off the Mimic, and a few minutes later I pull into my apartment parking lot and see the OIL light on the dash has become a steady red glow. That's a bad sign, it means the well has hit bottom. I'm frustrated, I'm well aware this rattle-trap burns oil like no tomorrow, but I just added two quarts on Saturday afternoon. I get out and walk around the front of the car. Black runnels of oil drip over the grill and there is a fine patina of black ooze on the hood. For the second time since buying this car, I have neglected to properly seal the oil cap. I lift the hood and see the cap is long gone and everything underneath has been spattered in black ooze. I drop the hood and decide to deal with it first thing in the morning.

"oh, yes, there will be blood..."

I get into my apartment and set my shoulder bag on the kitchen counter. It leaves a wet smear when I shift it the right. I've forgotten about the Tupperware container of fruit. Liquid has poured all over the inside of the bag. My date Planner, Phone Book, Note pad, sketch book, small-scale portfolio, an issue of The Fortean Times, and two comic books are soaked and now ruined.

Its late but I disregard the neighbors and yell, "What else you got for me, huh? Come on, I KNOW you're just getting warmed up!" I yell to no one in particular, not even the cat.

I open up my email and see a message from the Golden Eyed Woman I took to see a play on Saturday night. We're very different, but think she's incredibly striking and more than just a wee bit intriguing. She writes, "My dad was a logger as well as an engineer. I have a predisposition for smart rough mechanic-types. These days I seem to specialize in male friends. Really sweet, good, dear ones, who I want to hug, and dance with, or do Tai Chi and Chi Gong with and joke a lot and am among the persons wondering why it isn't a romance. But it isn't. None of them really are. So I feel like saying, be my friend, but please, don't go getting romantical on me, okay?"

I hesitate in emailing her back with a link to the Wikipedia definition for "Fag Hag." However, I do spend a few vain moments trying to locate online resources for women of that particular inclination.

...and thank god I've finally met a woman with the good sense to admit outright that, YES, she's actually looking for nothing more than a replacement for her father. Because, Jesus-shit, I really wish the last five or six women I've dated had been capable of extending me that courtesy.

It's 2:30am on June 10th and my shittiest day in I cannot remember when is now two and a half hours over.
I hope.