No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2002-11-07 - 11:08 p.m.

Rehearsals, my schedule, sanctimonious assholes, and feeling saucy.

So, it turns out that I may not be in the play after all. See, I had to miss the first rehearsal tonight, because I had a rehearsal for some other play. (Actually a staged reading of a musical, but even I don't know what that means, so, just another show.)

Apparently Director Guy doesn't read his email. I told him days ago, because I naturally assumed that *everyone* reads their email *every day*. I'd probably go into insulin shock and slip into a coma if I didn't read mine every day, and I have *four* email accounts. (If you must know, they're for personal, theater-related, D-Land, and "you're going to send me spam but you require an email address anyway" stupidity.)

Anyway, I called the guy tonight and he sounded *pissed*. He asked me for a complete list of my conflicts, and threatened to re-cast the part if there were too many. So I just composed an email that lists every single thing on my schedule between now and Feb 10. Ummm..it's a long list. (Now, if only any of those things would actually pay me money.)

The thing about this is that I have tried a couple of times to convey to the dude that I have a lot going on. Every time, he was too busy to listen to me. Seriously, this play was written by a friend of mine, and for that reason I'd love to be in it. But otherwise, I'm thinking it might be for the best if I'm not. Director Guy is shaping up to be a sanctimonious asshole.

And I've called a personal moratorium on dealing with sanctimonious assholes.


Oh yeah, just cause everyone at D-Land *has* to hear every remotely amorous thought that passes through my head...

At the rehearsal tonight, I met this girl. 22. Cute as hell. Razor wit. And a voice that'd make Aretha Franklin jump back and kiss herself.

And she was middlin' friendly to me.

Really, hardly a blip on the radar screen just yet, but you know, it's my journal, I'll write whatever the hell I want.

Apparently I'm feeling saucy tonight. It's about damn time.

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