And now, a gorgeous piece by a Ms. Alli O., who I had the pleasure of meeting in Idaho, along with some other kick ass women writers. Enjoy her "Hopelist"
Hopelist
I hold this little one in my arms,
Warm and soft and laughing
And I tell her my hopes:
That her tomorrows shine like her eyes
That her hair dances on alpine breeze
That she holds daily dialogue with trees
And that she spends as much time outside as in.
I hope that she tells a good joke
That she appreciates fine whiskey and cheap beer
That she listens to herself
And that she always chooses hearts over diamonds.
I hope that she lives by the sun
That she believes in magic
That she sees every stranger as her next best friend
Hello! "Rose Russo" here. I have a project by an extremely talented actress/writer, Kate B. Feedback is welcome!
The Rookie
By Kate B.
Sarah- Hey, Doc. Wait. Who are you? You a new Doc? Don’t think I’ve seen you around here.
Doc- Uh, no. Sarah, you don’t recognize me?
Sarah- No, but then my memory isn’t always solid. Kind of swiss cheesy. So I know you?
Doc- Yeah. Uh-
Sarah- How long have I been seeing you? You’re not my primary. That’s Stevens. Unless you are Stevens and I’ve just made you a lot cuter in my brain in order to stand you, or Stevens has always looked like you and I’ve made him bald and overweight in my head for some reason. I don’t think I’m that delusional.
Doc- No, I’m not Stevens.
Sarah- Well good. I would have hated to say that to his face.
Doc- Yeah?
Sarah- No, not really. I tell him all the time. I’m rather up front. So what are you here to talk to me about?
Doc- You.
Sarah- Ah. Come on Doc. Gonna have to do better than that. I know what you’re here about.
Doc- Yeah?
Sarah- Oh yeah.
Doc- What?
Sarah- Zack. He’s all anyone wants to talk about.
Doc- Is he?
Sarah- That’s gonna get old fast, Doc. Every once in a while one of your sentences should be a sentence and not a question. Just to make sure you’re a person and not a parrot.
Doc- Well. I am certainly not a parrot, though I do have a tendency to be colorful.
Sarah- Nice. Green. Parrots are green. Does that mean you’re new? They send in the rookie to chat with the crazy girl to cut his teeth?
Doc- I have all my teeth, thank you. And I think it was your sister that use to bite you, never a doctor.
Sarah- No, you’re right. The only harm a physician has done me has been to be insufferably boring. If you want to talk about me, you want to talk about Zack. Agreed?
Doc- Agreed.
Sarah- How read up on me, are you? Hm? What do you know?
Doc- I know you’re incredibly smart.
Sarah- Huh.
Doc- I know you were abandoned by your father, aggressively attacked by your sister to the point of hospitalization on at least three occasions, and that your mother was an alcoholic and severe manic depressive that refused any real medication.
Sarah- Ahah. Nowadays they call them bipolar. My grandmother called her sad.
Doc- And you call her a moron.
Sarah- Moron mom. Sounds funny, doesn’t it.
Doc- Nice assonance, yes.
Sarah- Don’t try to butter me up wit’ all dem ten cent words, Doc.
Doc- I like that word a lot, too.
Sarah- It’s a waste of fucking time, that word. A word describing words, pretty fucking useless. If you ask me.
Doc- I didn’t. I didn’t ask you.
Sarah- Good. Nice. How’s it going?
Doc- Our chat? I think we’re still sizing each other up. How am I doing?
Sarah- You’re passing.
Doc- Good. I’d hate to disappoint you.
Sarah- You could never disappoint me. (pause) Cute as you are, and you know what an assonance is? How am I?
Doc- How are you doing?
Sarah- That’s not what I asked.
Doc- How are you?
Sarah- Yeah. I want to see if you can guess.
Doc- I would guess you’re very sad.
Sarah- Ern!! (loud noise indicating he’s wrong)
Doc- Okay. Sad would be the wrong word. Oppressively alone.
Sarah- Nice. What do you want to know, rookie?
Doc- I want to know. I want to know your favorite memory.
Sarah- Nice. Easy. Zack.
Doc- Anything specific?
Sarah- The color of his hair. The bridge of his nose. His two front teeth. His smell.
Doc- What color were his eyes?
Sarah- Blue. Brown. Grey.
Doc- You don’t know?
Sarah- I know. They were the same as yours. Or maybe I’m just saying that cause you’re here.
Doc- You think so?
Sarah- What’s that- Projection. I don’t want to really think about him, so I’m filling in bits of you. You’re easier to take.
Doc- Why?
Sarah- Cause you’re here. And he’s not.
Doc- Where is he?
Sarah- Dead.
Doc- How’d he die?
Sarah- Come on, Doc. Questions, questions. Don’t be green.
Doc- Sorry. I just. You know. Nervous.
Sarah- Why nervous, kid?
Doc- Cause you called me cute. Always flusters me.
Sarah- Ah. That’s sweet. Doesn’t your girlfriend tell you you’re attractive. If she doesn’t, you need a new one. I’d make a pass, but, you know…
Doc- Well, I haven’t talked to her in a while. Work. It’s a killer.
Sarah- Oh, no, greenhorn. You can’t let work get in your way of love. You love her?
Doc- Tremendously.
Sarah- I believe you.
Doc- Good, cause it’s true.
Sarah- Zack and I had that problem, almost. When I was a cellist for the symphony. I was always practicing and he got really jealous, and the pads of my fingers would get really sore, so there were certain things I couldn’t do-
Doc- What symphony?
Sarah- Goodness, Doc. You didn’t read that in my report. I’m a real workaholic. I’ve been a cellist, composer, novelist, playwright, history teacher, and a nurse.
Doc- Wow. Picked that up from your mom, didn’t you?
Sarah- The story telling? Yeah. I’m not a compulsive liar though, cause I actually believe what I’m saying. I have to break down things to make sure they’re true or not. That’s schizophrenia, for you. But I know I was never a cellist. I just wanted you to feel like my advice was valid.
Doc- I think you’re very valid.
Sarah- Aww, shucks, Doc.
Doc- Can I ask you a question?
Sarah- Shoot.
Doc- How do you think Zack died?
Sarah- How do I think? Don’t be condescending. Like, what. He never existed? He was real, Doc. Know how I know?
Doc- How?
Sarah- He was the first person I ever had really good sex with. I mean, really good. And if he didn’t exist, then I was just fooling around with myself, and well, I don’t like myself that much.
Doc- Ah. Makes sense.
Sarah- That’s the danger.
Doc- How do you know Zack is dead?
Sarah- That’s the only possible explanation for him not being with me. We were inseparable.
Doc- Do you know how he died?
Sarah- I killed him. I’m sure this is all in my report.
Doc- How did you kill him?
Sarah- Pills. Water.
Doc- Why?
Sarah- Well, I guess I’ve had a long complicated relationship with pills, what with my mother’s distrust of them. Her rants and raves and tornadoes of destruction. And water? That’s how you make them go down, right? You don’t want that gross taste in your mouth.
Doc- Your sister almost drowned you once, didn’t she?
Sarah- Did, Doc. Did. They had to perform CPR. Cracked my sternum. Hurt a lot. But it was necessary. I was eight.
Doc- Why did you kill him?
Sarah- Bugs. To get rid of the bugs.
Doc- The pills were to get rid of the bugs?
Sarah- Yeah. They fix a lot.
Doc- You don’t take them.
Sarah- Can’t. Family tradition.
Doc- But you made him.
Sarah- I was always the dominant personality. You see, Zack was highly suggestible. You tell him something enough, and he’d believe it, eventually.
Doc- Anyone?
Sarah- Mostly. But me especially. I could get him to think anything.
Doc- I wouldn’t think if you loved him, you would do anything mean.
Sarah- Not intentionally. But Doc. Sometimes I really think things.
Doc- Like bugs.
Sarah- I thought he had bugs. I felt them on my skin. And we’re inseparable.
Doc- So, if you had them. He did.
Sarah- Right.
Doc- So you gave him the pills to get rid of the bugs.
Sarah- Right. (Sarah launches herself on top of a chair and grabs Doc. She puts one hand over his mouth) And I held him just like this, Doc. So he couldn’t spit them out. He was going to take them. He wasn’t going to have was I had. I wasn’t going to give him bugs. He was too good for this. But he didn’t fight back. He just laid there. He trusted me. And he wasn’t swallowing. He was remembering all the stupid rants and raves and tornadoes of destruction because of the pills-
Doc- Sarah, wait-
Sarah- So I got water, and I poured it down his throat. He choked on it. So much water. More and more. Too much for his mouth. I couldn’t hear him anymore, but I wasn’t sure he’d swallowed them, so, more pills. I let go of him. He didn’t move. He’s dead, Doc. I killed him. If I didn’t drowned him, the pills really were dirty like mom always said, or there were bugs. But I’m smart enough to figure it was probably me. (she lets him go)
Doc- Sounds like a wimp.
Sarah- Just trusting.
Doc- He laid there while you drowned him. Did you bring a hose over? You said more and more water. Did you prepare ahead of time? Did you tell him to hold still while you continued to drown him? Was he stupid?
Sarah- No. He was brilliant. Incredibly smart. It follows our disorder.
Doc- Our disorder. So what. How’d you do it?
Sarah- Come on, Doc. Too many questions.
Doc- Tell me, Sarah. He had to have been tied up. Or someone else helped you. Or he was a bumbling weak idiot that only liked you cause you told him what to do.
Sarah- He said he liked me cause I was smart. And funny. He said I was sweet.
Doc- Sweet people don’t drown other people, Sarah.
Sarah- They do to save them.
Doc- Oh I understand. You got tired of having this little simp follow you around. How unattractive was he, huh? How bad in bed? Was the first to get it up with a skitso bag like you in the room?
Sarah- Don’t provoke a violent schizophrenic, Doc.
Doc- How did you do it, Sarah? Break it down. Tell me.
Sarah- I had the bottles. He was saying he had bugs.
Doc- You said you felt them.
Sarah- I did. We did.
Doc- Yes. So what did you do?
Sarah- He needed to take the pills.
Doc- What about you? Why didn’t you take them? Same problem, same pills.
Sarah- I couldn’t. I was scared. Family tradition.
Doc- Sarah. Your mom wouldn’t take her pills because she was paranoid and selfish. It made her feel good to be in that tornado.
Sarah- You’re not telling me anything I haven’t said before, Doc. Moron, she may have been, she was still my mom. You listen to your mother when you’re six. Your mom probably told you to study hard, and look at you. My mom told me that pills killed your soul and made people leave you. I couldn’t take the damn things, until he did.
Doc- And he did. Didn’t he.
Sarah- Yeah. He took them.
Doc- And?
Sarah- This isn’t like Alice in Wonderland, Doc. You don’t eat the mushroom and suddenly become thirty feet tall if you just believe.
Doc- I do know how medication works. I meant, then what happened. Did you take them?
Sarah- There wasn’t any water. We’d run off away from the docs again. But everyone knew we were okay, together. We were so good at keeping each other together. If anything got scary the other one was there to help break it down. Except these bugs. I felt them.
Doc- You were outside?
Sarah- Yeah?
Doc- Then they were just bugs.
Sarah- No. Zack, he felt them under his skin.
Doc- Cause he was having an episode. What’s that called?
Sarah- A tactile hallucination.
Doc- Right. You’re so good at that.
Sarah- He needed the pills. To calm down.
Doc- There wasn’t any water.
Sarah- No. He kept gagging. Have you seen those things?
Doc- Yeah, they’re huge. You had to keep his mouth shut, so he could swallow.
Sarah- He laid down. We tried again. He held on to my arms so he’d keep from clawing at his arms.
Doc- And he swallowed?
Sarah- Yeah.
Doc- And?
Sarah- And I told him I loved him.
Doc- And then?
Sarah- And then he calmed down. His eyes kind of went funny. And then he fell asleep. I got the nurses. They took him in. I wrote him. Told him he had to keep taking the pills. That I was going to, too. That he was gonna be fine. And that he should come find me when he got out.
Doc- Did you take them?
Sarah- No. I couldn’t. You listen to your mother when you’re six.
Hello! "Rose Russo" here. (yes it's a pen name). I just received a promising new piece by Andrew S. It's a monologue from his hot new play "Kill All the Brutes". Enjoy, and if you have any questions or want to know more or have ideas for this monologue, feel free to submit at rkinne@vandals.uidaho.edu.
KILL ALL THE BRUTES
(1.)
(A pinspot opens on JAKE, a punk. His bright pink liberty spikes shoot from the top of his skull. He’s plainly dressed in fatigue pants, combat boots and a white tee.)
JAKE
The moment you know they have you.
(A RECRUITER appears)
It’s not when you sit in the office signing your life to a piece of paper. The smiling man offers you the pen, claiming this is the best family you’ll ever now.
(pause)
It’s not when you sit on a bus, with a ticket they paid for, driving through the great nothing that is middle America. A steady ready death march going night and day with sad faces staring out windowsills -watching wheat field after cow pasture-losing count of all the states you barrel through.
(A SERGEANT appears)
And its not when Sargeant Spits Too Much is barking at you to get your “faggot ass off the bus.” To “file up”. “stand straight.” “arms at your side”. You look down the line and you see some porcelain toys already to crack. But that isn’t the moment.
(pause)
The moment you know they have you, is when you’re sitting in a chair. The chair.
(A BARBER appears)
He tells you to sit. He tells you not to move, which for a punk is damn near impossible. They love the kids who love their hair. Fucking sadists the way they are, they click the trimmers and they smile. Approaching you like some B-Movie Dracula, trimmer at the ready. You’re clenching the armrests,
And now, a tailor made monologue by Dave Eames Harlan, who quite possibly, is the best writer for women out there. No one gets it like this man. I tip my hat to you sir.
WOMAN
"Keep your pants on." Seriously. He said that to me.
SERIOUSLY?! I'm used to them - boys, men, dates - wanting
them to come off. Not that I WANTED him to bed me.
Necessarily. Yet. "Bed me." God. That's another turn of
phrase. I thought it was a good first date though. At first.
He opened the cab door for me. Touched my elbow lightly -
guiding me perhaps. Not helping exactly. But there TO help
should it be needed. I wondered if he was looking at my
legs. The skirt did show them to advantage. "Show them to
advantage." What am I from the fifties? I suspected, though,
he was looking at my legs.
(Beat)
That's not vanity. That's knowledge of human nature. HuMAN
nature. I've seen 'em all: Boys who thought they were men;
Men who acted like boys; Boys who didn't care if they were
nothing but boys (They can be fun in the right
circumstances.) But this man was a man. Old...er. Let's say
late thirties - chronologically. Maybe a Highlander-era Sean
Connery in attitude. So yeah, he handed me into the cab. He
offered his hand to me as I was getting out. He deftly
danced around me to get the restaurant door. He even held my
chair and... scooted me to the table. It was nice. Sweet.
Dare I say romantic? But I was beginning to wonder if it, if
he, was too much when he ordered for me. What am I, 10?
(Pause.)
I half-expected him to take my Ossobucco alla Milanese and
mince it it into tiny, little easily chewable chunks while
making little mewing noises. But he didn't and dinner was
tasty. I, again, thought there might be... possibilities.
(Reflective pause.)
Then? Then he ordered a desert wine. I made the mistake of
saying I'd never had a desert wine. The waitron poured. I
took the glass. I lifted it. And... wait for it... he put
his hand over my glass. "uh uh. Patience," He said. "You
have to wait. You need to let it breathe." I thought -
loudly - "I'm a writer. I'm educated. I have a terminal
degree! I can freaking decide when I want to drink a glass
of wine" as he went on to explain about tannins and legs and
sugar content and... oxidation. "I'd really just like to
drink it." And that's when he said it with a smile and a
wink and a chuckle in a singsongy kindergarten teacher
voice: "keep your pants on." I wanted to punch him.
(This might take some time.)
So yeah, that's why I probably shouldn't have slept with
him.
(Beat. A breath. A memory.)
He's got great eyes. I think it was the wink that did it. I
"Rose Russo here. Yes, it's a pen name. Soon it will be a famous, household name. Until then, I will try to change the world one piece of theatre at a time by creating a blog called
LetterzFromRose. (Title Page)
Season Two: Making the world better...one piece of theatre at a time.
The first piece I have today are two comedic monologues, male and female. The female's is a continuation of a monologue you might have read in Season One and the male is a favorite character of mine:
Don't Drink and Climb by "Rose Russo" (pen name)
(Louise stands up )
Louise
Well...first of all, I'd like to thank all the lovely people who traveled so very far out of town to be here, including my date, Mr. Chelsea all the way from...the hotel. Right.
I've known Mike Chelsie ever since I moved here. We bonded over our mutual hatred of cheerleaders and drooled over the hot seniors. We were hiking the Cascades two years ago when Mike told me there was "someone special" that I just HAD to meet...and here we are.
I always knew Mike was gay. It was pretty obvious: when I first met him I was instantly attracted to him. Ha. Ha. No, seriously, I couldn't take my eyes off his face. My Auntie Katy always said (adopts a throaty accent) "Louise, gay men are like mirages: you crawl on your knees for ten years but you'll never quench your thirst". Still, in this age and time, one is never really sure: Is he gay, or just raised by women? Bisexual, or republican? Some people never figure it out.
Not Mike. He knew exactly what he wanted when he saw Drew across the street in Capitol Hill. He told me about that first night, in vivid detail. Ha. Ha. No seriously, I can't get the images out of my head. Ha. Ha.
And when I met Drew, I knew they were perfect for each other. I couldn't really see him all that well, what with the lighting in the "Spankin' Monkey" Nightclub, but what I could see was...love. So I would like to raise my glass to Drew and Mike Chelsie: May your love always be brand spanking new.
(Lights up. Brody stands holding a flute of champange)
Brody
Hey. So, hello, can we get the DJ to turn on the...thank you. Well. Drew and Mike, never thought we'd be here, huh? Congrats you two! I mean, I remember when Drew was my best man and hell, if I was allowed to marry that then you two certainly should have the right to...(visibly shudders).
I'm sorry, this shouldn't be about me or my former legal marriage. It's about you two and your barely acceptable partnership. I know you guys won't make my mistakes: Drew isn't marrying a former student of his, and we can all safely assume Mike didn't get pregnant on purpose.
Did I say "my mistakes?" I really meant the royal "me". I mean "we". The Royal "We". "Our mistakes." I know you guys won't make our mistakes. I guess I'm speaking on behalf of straight people right now. Family. Friends. Friends of family. I'm sorry, I'm getting off track. What I'm trying to say is that already this marriage has a better chance than most straight couples I know! And by "know", I mean "friends", "family", and above all, "not me".
(Brody drinks his entire flute of champagne).
I'm sorry, I was supposed to give a toast before doing that. TO Drew and Mike! May Mike never withhold sex as punishment! May Drew realize that after two years you are entitled to a blow job! May they both be really miserable like the rest of us have been for centuries!
(Brody holds his empty glass, tries to sip from it, remembers it's gone. Awkward...)
So, if this is a first time for you, here's what you missed on "Letterz From Rose"
Season ONE: "Rose Russo" (Yes, it's a pen name) moved to New York and began working in a theatre field. There has been success in the work force. The goal is to find success in the work force and in the creative world as a writer. It's a slow first season.
SEASON ONE FINALE: "Rose Russo" creates an online blog to post her theatre work. Hopefully, her theatre friends will post stuff here too.
So far "Rose Russo" is the only person getting feedback.
BUT! Big plans are in order for Season Two. We shall see what develops.
STAY TUNED FOR SEASON TWO: LETTERZFROMROSE: Changing the world, one piece of theatre at a time.
"Rose Russo" here. Time to reflect on a fun first season of blogging. I hope you enjoyed the Season One of theatre work, including my favorites "Kissing", Andrew S.'s jail scene, "Smoking Beauty", and the Season Finale, "Don't Drink and Climb" followed by a preview for Season Two, "40 Year Old Version".
I've finally decided what I want this blog to become. THEATRE!! Duh! If you want a monologue, if you want a scene, if you need help with a scene, if you want to write a scene DO THE FOLLOWING:
Hello! I have today a woman and a man's role. You can adjust their ages, but don't try it if you are 10. It will not compute. THANKS!!! FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED!
Don't Drink and Climb by "Rose Russo" (pen name)
(Louise stands up and knocks on a door to a hotel. It opens. She looks surprised, almost like she forgot why she came. Then she remembers and puts on her high heels)
Good afternoon Mr. Chelsea*, I do hope you are well. I am here to enquire about your whereabouts for this coming evening. As you all know, summer time is upon us and hormones are a 'flourishing. Soon bridesmaids everywhere will be making tons of mistakes. My best friend from grammar school, Chelsie* actually, is tying the knot in about...90 minutes. Well, she's just doing pictures, but we can start without you. No. Wait. Let me start again. I'm 38 Mr. Chelsea*. I know we just met at the "Wine Tasting and Mountain Climbing" Workshop in the REI Mall, but I felt a connection. Plus you said you were just visiting Seattle for the weekend and had no major plans. I can offer you either the surf n' turf combo, or the teriyaki chicken for dinner tonight? I know it's a little trite to say this, but I do believe I am the only single woman in the greater Puget Sound area. Good looking men flee from me. Disgusting ones gravitate toward me. I think I must have a terrible odor, but I can't tell. I might be immune. What I guess I'm trying to say is, if you can't be my date to this wedding, I understand, but you could at least smell my hair before you go?
The 40 Year Old Version.
(Lights up. Thin, attractive man in his early 40's. He is in a extremely organized office. Bob Dylan plays in the background. He is tense. He looks at his phone. He picks it up)
+ Brody
Please. Please just work with me. You're most excellent at putting me through to Jim when I'm about to run for the bathroom. You've never failed at getting Marcia on the line (visibly shudders at her name). I know you have the technology. The Power. You got the finest electricity this side of Tacoma for an hour straight. Do you not like her? Were you not impressed by her "accidental" brush against my leg at lunch? I'll put you in the appropriate pocket next time, I swear. Her touch is quite lovely. It's also few and far between, and I'll have none of this refusal to put her through! I know she's trying to call me now, dammnit, and you could be ruining everything because you're too proud to realize that it's ME she wants, not YOU. SHE already HAS a cell phone. It's pink and I'm sure it never looses reception due to where she's standing. Or sitting. Or standing. I mean, what is this?!
(He stands)
Half a bar.
(He sits)
Quarter bar.
(He stands)
And now no bars!
(He tries to sit and stand at the same time, resulting in a little dance)
Is this what you want? A final exhibition of a man's failure is a POLKA?! I was already behind the times, when I was young we would ask the girls in school if they'd like to, what was the exact phrase....ah yes. "Go with me". Her answer felt like a rock punched through my left lung.
To be rejected is considered success, even for a moment, however brief. To be ignored, not to be considered...it's like a thousand little rocks in my lungs.
(He collaspses on the desk)
(The phone rings)
THE END
BOTH BY "ROSE RUSSO" YES, IT'S MY PEN NAME. Me gusto!
Once again ladies and gentleman, I give you the entertaining writing styles of Reid Wright and his college essay, "The Machine"
Many cooks came and went from the Metate room; sparking and fading in my memory. But there were four who stayed – standing like pillars - through the worst of times.
Lorenzo Whitehorse - The souse chef - was the big dog in the kitchen. He was 400lbs of barking Indian. He always seemed to be grumpy, and his booming voice could be heard shouting orders and curses through the solid brick wall in the customer’s bathroom.
“What the hell? Godamnit! Get your shit out of my face!” he would shout at the servers. Every once in awhile, he would flash a Cheshire grin to let us know it was all an act. Most of the time, it was.
Ben was a short, stocky, Navajo who was a little older and always had a kind grandfather smile. Ben was quiet in the way Lorenzo was not. I worked with him a year before he said a single word to me. When he did speak, it was in quiet mumbles that I usually couldn’t make out.
Brandon was the executive chef in charge. He was the glue that held us all together and kept us from getting sloppy. He was a big pale guy with glasses. A former Opera singer, Brandon would occasionally sing along operatically to ACDC on the radio.
Before we opened for dinner every night, Brandon would hold a staff meeting, which he would always end with the line: “Have fun, make money.” I have learned a little something from every single cook I have worked with, but most of it, I learned from Brandon.
People often ask me what the difference is between a cook and a chef. Chefs have been to culinary school. This doesn’t necessarily mean that chefs are better. I have known experienced cooks who could make food better and faster than most chefs. Graduating culinary school usually (but not always) gets you more money and better jobs. You can usually pick out a chef in a crowd of white coats because they use a lot of French vocabulary and they have a $1000 knife set rolled in a fancy case.
At first I was given odd and end jobs that a trained monkey could do. Mostly it was knife work. I was given several cases of vegetables to slice, chop, dice and julienne. I had a plastic bin the size of a bathtub and a four gallon bucket to fill up in three hours.
These days, most new cooks are given tightly woven fiber gloves to prevent them from cutting themselves. I had no such protection. Many times my blade would slip and I would feel the bitter kiss of laceration. I would often be seen wearing a latex glove stuffed with paper towel to soak up the blood. I still have the scars.
My hands learned a little from each cut. Now when the blade gets close to cutting me, I feel a tingling sensation, and pull away.
I worked my way up in rank quickly. I worked with Toby making deserts and appetizers. In retrospect, it was one of the most fun cooking jobs I ever had. Deserts are very artistic, and Brandon gave us free reign to do whatever we wanted with them. “People eat food with their eyes.” He used to say.
Once I had this mastered, Brandon started training me on “The Line”.
To us, there’s really just two kinds of cooks: Line cooks, and the rest. I read somewhere that fighter pilots, L.A. cops, and line cooks had the highest heart rates of any occupation.
For example, pretend you’re a broiler cook. A commercial broiler is much more potent than any backyard grill, and food cooks much faster.
Standing in front of this broiler it is about 110-120 degrees. You have 16 pieces of meat on the broiler. Each one is a different cut and a different temperature. You have to keep track of each one and which table it goes to. There an buzzer going off on the other side of the kitchen. Tickets are printing incessantly, needing to be read and called out to the other cooks. Your microwave beeper is going off. A pot is boiling over on the stove, servers are yelling at you, you’re out of sauce, you’re being elbowed by another cook trying to get something, there is a fire in your catch tray, and you have to piss like a pregnant woman. What do you do?
"Love Loss, and What I Wore" and "The Screwtape Letters" June 21st.
On one floor you have female empowerment, sexual freedom, third wave feminism, and fabulous fashion. On the other you have the deepest darkest dankest office in Hell, complete with a demon secretary called Toadpipe. So really, there's not a lot of variety here, but oh well! We'll just press on with the reviews: =)
West Side Theatre, 43rd between 9th and 10th Ave is not only my night job, it's my source of Friday night entertainment. If you get there early, you can walk uptown and visit countless hip bars, sidewalk cafes, fashion boutiques, and all for the cost of a taxi that it would have taken if you wanted A/C. Be advised, cab drivers sometimes like to find streets they know have tons of traffic. If you are close to Times Square, do not even bother. You'll get there faster if you walk and take in the very pretty Italian busboys.
The West Side Theater, like many in the area, used to be a church, with two spacious floors and two miniature lobbies. You might want to get your tickets sooner than later and then wait outside until the house opens. Unless you like crowds and people watching. If you want to bask in Vagina Monologue-esque hilarity, stay downstairs and watch "Love Loss, and What I Wore". Written by Nora Ephron and featuring talents such as Diane Neal (Law and Order, very talented comedic actress), Cobie Smulders (How I Met your Mother, they love her in NY), Rachel Harris (who is funnier in real life than any of her VH1 appearances. Really really pretty too) and my favorite so far, Sherrie Shepherd. You can catch her on The View or 30 Rock and she is truly an underrated actress.
If, like me, you enjoy something a little more "robust" you may want to take an upstairs trip to "The Screwtape Letters" written by the man himself, C.S. Lewis.. For those interested in simple words and who don't like to think too hard, this show is not for you.
"Screwtape" expertly (not figuratively, he originated the role in NY, DC, etc) played by Max Mclean is the best Anti Church sermon I've ever been to. It actually makes me want to fully convert to Christianity afterwords if I didn't loathe organized religion so much. The idea is simple: "Screwtape" a well seasoned veteran of soul collecting, is instructing a recent Graduate from the Tempters Training College via letters to and from Earth and Hell.
Mclean is the 2009 recipient of Chicago’s Jeff Award for Outstanding Solo Performance and it shows. DO NOT MISS HIM because you weren't up for it. It's worth it.
My favorite lines included "When he gets to his pew he looks around at his neighbors, that will be the ideal time to influence him if you can. If any of them wear old clothes, or sing out of tune, or have double chins, your patient, thanks to Our Father Below, is a fool and will believe their religion is ridiculous compared to his!"
Touche, Carroll.
Each show is short, sweet and succulent. "Love Loss" is 90 minutes and "Screwtape" is less, so you can enjoy a nice glass of something good before heading home and basking in the city that doesn't sleep.
LOVE LOSS FINAL GRADE: A- SCREWTAPE LETTERS: A++
~Rose Russo.
(Like what you read? Tell me! I eat compliments like candy and I always say thank you)
(Lights up. Beauty sits down in a secret location in the woods)
(She hums opera and takes in nature)
(She is a love child who has just watched the Disney movie Sleeping Beauty. It's the 1960's and she dresses in attractive rags and has never cut her hair)
(She sits and sings the last line of Aurora's first song while taking out a lighter)
"And bring back a love song to me"
(Beat)
Oh my. (Laughs at an inside joke) Why must they always treat me like an infant?! And SHE'S no better (talking about Flora) "Don't go too far! Don't talk to strangers!" She'd love it if I was some introverted forest bumpkin. (Mumbles) Paranoid woodland dwellers....(mutters as she takes out a small purse, smiles and begins to talk to it. She's a very lonely girl)
But she can't watch me forever. In fact, I already met someone! Yes, I did, and he's a total prince. We take long walks, talk all night, and one night he walked me home, pulled me into a hug...and then...yeah I stopped daydreaming.
(Beauty takes out a cigarette/joint, whichever the actress prefers lights it and takes a very long drag)
(She MUST hold the smoke in her mouth through the following)
Yes, it's only a delusion of grandeur.
(Exhale)
BUT! They say if you hallucinate the same thing over and over again, it's bound to come true!
(Another very long and longing drag. She's not a novice here)
(Holds smoke)
And I've tripped over him so many times...
(As she hums the last line of "Once Upon A Dream" she makes it to the end before submitting to a coughing fit)
(She smiles and giggles. That's all we'll get from her for a while)
The Peccadillo Theatre Company presented Lillian Hellman's "Another Part of the Forest" last night at the St. Clements Theatre.
Ms. Hellman is mostly known for being a bad ass woman writer. She's written The Children's Hour, The Little Foxes, Toys in the Attic, and her play Children's Hour was made into an awesome movie starring Audrey Hepburn and Shirley Mcclaine.
As soon as I walked into the theatre I suddenly became transported to 1880 Alabama. The house is painted a fresh white, the terrace is elaborate and rich looking, and the outside patio is fit for Scarlett O' Hara. The warm lighting in the background looks like an early rising sun, and you can tell it's going to be a hot day in the south.
The show begins and my first thought is "Fantastic dialect work". You get it all: The slow drawl of the rich business man, the high pitch whine of a Southern Belle, the deep reassuring tones of the slaves fill your ears and make you want to grab a glass of sweet mint tea and jaw with the family for a spell.
Dan Wackerman's blocking is natural while observing all the proper mannerisms for Alabama in 1880.
The ACTING!!!!
*Sherman Howard, fresh off his previous run of Miller's "All My Sons" Broadway production, is the standout in his role of Marcus Hubbard. He is humorous and charismatic in one second, and a red-faced murderous bastard in the next. You both want to bed him and punch him in the face for his treatment towards his wife Lavinia.
*Elizabeth Norment is exceptional this week as the abused dog of a wife. She's done work on the West coast too! You might have recognized her work at OSF in Ashland. She is a great example of a tragically flawed character.
*The children are of the same mold. Regina's mutual lust for her father and spoiled demeanor is perfectly protrayed by one Stephanie Wright Thompson. She is remarkable in presence and I know I liked her because I was coveting her spot on stage.
*The breakthrough performance of the night goes to Ben Curtis as Oscar Hubbard, the youngest brother.
*My one problem with the play? Length. It's two hours and forty minutes (with a ten minute intermission), so if you live in Middle Village, you will be home late. It's totally worth it though.
First time reader here. I love reading these blogs, but I'm confused. Who is Rose Russo? Does she write all of this stuff, or is she plagiarizing her little heart out? And who, exactly are you?
Confused,
Sincerely
Dear Since,
A very good question. To which I will answer with a Mission Statement: In college they tell you it's important to have these, especially since I need to tell something to my future sponsors.
Mission Statement: The purpose of this website is to make the world a better place, one piece of writing at a time. Our objectives are to experiment new writing styles, introduce new writers in the world, and help them through their craft.
Everyone is a writer. A writer is someone who writes. Write me something, and make the world a better place because of it.
Send your submissions to rkinne@vandals.uidaho.edu.
Thank you!!
Alice*
*Alice is strictly for your entertainment purposes only. Email your questions about life, love and cheese preference at rkinne@vandals.uidaho.edu
This week we have another delightful and hilarious piece by Reid Wright entitled "The Machine". Enjoy:
The Machine
I meander to work in a slouch with my head lowered, avoiding eye contact with passing strangers and trying to stay on my side of the sidewalk. I hide under my hood as I walk into the building, saying ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’, holding open the door for someone. I sneak to the locker room, where I undergo my metamorphosis.
As I button up my chef’s coat from bottom to top, my posture straightens, my gut sucks in and my chest sticks out. My shoulders broaden to fill their new container. As I roll up my sleeves, my forearms bulge and tendons tighten against the material. I remove my glasses and strap on my chef’s hat, tilting it smartly to the right like a beret. Lifting my head, my eyes narrow. No longer myself, I have become my alter-ego – The Machine.
The Machine bursts out of the locker room, storming down the hall, his hawk eyes darting about with gigawatt laser intensity, scanning the situation for potential hazards.
The Executive Chef pipes up cheerily from her office as he passes: “Oh hi, how are you today?”
The Machine gives her a dismissive wave over the shoulder as he marches on.
“Oh and about dinner tonight…” she titters on, but he is already gone.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, The Machine halts.
Andrew is bent over the counter looking up at him; frozen in an attempt to wrap his own head in plastic wrap. This behavior does not compute. The Machine marches on.
The cooks had lazily gathered, and were exchanging jokes when he marched up
“Listen up men” The Machine barks in a grizzled voice. “We got a tough dinner and not a lot of time, so let’s move some food.”
The cooks scatter and The Machine begins to sling food, shooting splashes of seasonings, twirling knives and spatulas, and stomping around in an inhuman ultra-efficient mechanical ballet.
A bold young cook named Spencer approaches The Machine with a new test.
“Were taking a survey.” Spencer says with a sly smile. “Would you have sex with a dolphin?”
“Sure.” He replies after a brief computation. “As long as it’s ok with the dolphin.”
“Wow” Spencer says, impressed.
Respect. It’s all about Respect.
But where did this insidious creature come from? What forgotten broiling pit of hell would forge this dolphin fucking device? What kind of manic depraved demons would do such a thing?
I had just turned sixteen and I needed a summer job to pay off that car stereo. My Dad had a friend who landed me a job dishwashing at a pretentious restaurant called “The Metate Room”.
Sure what the hell, I thought, if I don’t like it I can always leave right?
When I had in eaten restaurants I had always imagined that behind those swinging doors that lead into the kitchen, there was a happy fat Italian guy in a mushroom hat lovingly cooking each order of food one at a time.
The kitchen was a sterile cave with tile floors and stainless steel walls and surfaces. Scary and rude people ricochet around like particles waiting to collide. Classic rock blasted through a small stereo, and there was constant shouting and swearing.
My little walled off corner of this subterranean world was called the “Dish Pit.” Although it wasn’t really a pit, it was more like an isolation chamber. There was a small opening through which people fed me their dishes.
About nine feet up on the back wall there was a small window. It was the only one in the kitchen. A thin sliver of natural light sometimes came through, to tease the prisoners of this sweltering inferno by reminding them that there was a free and spacious world outside.
My first few days I was slow and dainty with my work, careful to scrub and spray each dish. I was disgusted by the food sludge that accumulated and had a difficult time not getting nauseous.
“Just go faster man.” Said the guy I was working with. Dishes would pile up, they never seemed to stop coming. The people who brought them said nothing to me. I would go home around midnight soaking wet and exhausted.
I did this all summer. When school started up again, I came in after school and washed dishes until midnight or 1am. This got to be a bum deal when I had school again the next morning at 8.
I got to be so sleep deprived that one night driving home I mistook a cow for a dumpster. I remember my exact train of thought in that moment: Dumpster…Dumpster…Dumpster…Bovine…Oh shit. Luckily I swerved and missed the cow. Another night, my car was assaulted by a cloud of moths gleamed in my headlights. They turned into snowflakes. It was July.
The only way for me to get home sooner – I reasoned - was to work faster. So I got high on coffee and coke and went turbo. I had no strategy; I just worked as fast as I could.
My haste was eventually noticed by Brandon - the chef - who mistook my actions for loyalty and a good work ethic. He wanted to train me as a prep cook, which I found laughable considering I couldn’t cook anything that didn’t have directions on the box.
Working the dish pit had been my baptism in filth, my cleansing of ideals that could only survive outside the kitchen; like purity, hope, and the assumption that underneath it all, there was someone holding a safety net for your health and sanity.
I could now be accepted into the heart of the kitchen, which is kept beating by cast-away derelicts in white coats. I was about to join the world of the cooks.
I'm really confused. I don't get this sexting thing. My boyfriend keeps asking me to do it and I'm really embarrassed. I mean, I read US Weekly Religiously! Seriously, I used to cut out articles and fold them like a bookmark in my Bible so I could have something to do during mass. But my point is, I've seen the repercussions of sending dirty messages via a personal messaging device: Tiger Woods! Jessie James! Almost the entire cast of High School Musical. I don't want to encourage this kind of behavior in my boyfriend. I've been training him for 3 years now, and this kind of thing can ruin so much progress. What can I do to get him to think it's his idea to stop this nonsense?
~Manipulating With Love.
Dear Nip Lover,
Well, first of all, I have no idea what sexting really means. I know that sexting, according to the ever reliable wikipedia web site ( because what better place to research a made up word?) is known as "the act of sending sexually explicit messages or photographs, primarily between mobile phones" so I suppose if you're a conservative girl in bed to begin with this might not be your cup of tea. Or, as my grandmother always said "Don't put in a letter what you wouldn't want on the front page of the newspaper or one of those Me-Pod casts or Pod People Space accounts. Get nanu his cough medicine now".
Got a question? Ask Alice @ misbehavingdonkey@yahoo.com. Subject title "Ask Alice"
The hallway is cramped with people. They are tall and gorgeous; the air is rent with blasts of Bulgari perfume and stiletto heels click the floor like empty bullet shells. Laminated resumes and head shots are blinding in the florescent lights. A well muscled, perfectly coiffed man sits behind a large sign that screams "CHELSEA STUDIOS" and a schedule of events. The one we're looking for is under Saturday's schedule: "Macrocrisis: Audtions 11-2pm. Rm. 216". The delicious looking man looks up at you and smiles; girls nearby give him pained, regretful looks. At this moment they would reconsider their entire lifestyle in exchange for his current sexual preference. Room 216 is a ballet studio with an aging and stooped heater hacking and coughing in the corner. Three long folding tables link hot dog style across the room. It's a dream locale for an actor. From where you are standing, you can see your entire profile in your peripheral vision. Posture! Dear lord, if your professor from your Basic Movement class taught you anything... Three people sit behind these tables. One sits to the far right and holds a copy of the script. To his/her left is a mini CD/MP3 player. S/he immediately poses no threat. People who look like they have things to do are very rarely the ones you need to impress. The other, over on the far left, poses the largest threat of all. This is your Hitler, ladies and gentlemen. Do not show any fear. Ignore her but acknowledge her presence. Respect her but hate her with a fire with a thousand suns. Her name is Accompanist. It matters very little who she is as a person. She could save your life on the street and it would make no difference. She has the power to ruin you on accident. Gandhi would fight her. The remaining one in the middle is a perfect balance between the Intern and Accompanist. It is the director/choreographer. She is studying the arm you used to push open the door. She looks at your body to see if it matches her ideas for the male ingenue; she searches for a toned, athletic dancer's body. You have to show no fear. You are their long lost best friends. You greet them almost sheepishly, like you're saying "Hey, I know I'm already cast and we'll have some great moments together, but let's just do the formality thing for practice." If you are in high school you will say "Good morning" even thought it's 2:25. "My name is Josie Newbie and I'll be doing a monologue from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Following my monologue I will be performing six bars of "Part of Your World" from "The Little Mermaid" in b flat. Thank you very much and I hope you enjoy the show." If you have graduated from college and took a few acting classes you will say "Hello. My name is Josephine M. Newbie and I have a monologue of Romeo and Juliet followed by a song from South Pacific. Thank you". If you are still paying for your student loans from your theatre major and have been to a few auditions before you will say "Well, alright! I'm Jo Newbie and this is the Nurse from Romeo and Juliet, followed by a song from the Tony award winning "Little Mermaid". They ask you to read a scene along with Intern, and s/he knows the part better than you. This is where s/he shifts into an partner. Skip ahead and memorize your lines. Study your new partner and try to connect with this new amazing person in this moment in time. Make it private and special, but cheat out and let everyone see your good angle. The director/choreographer is watching. You tighten your abs and try to bring a part of you into what you're saying. You have no idea what you're saying, as you're reading this for the first time, but you must read out loud like it's the best page from your diary. Just as you're wondering how to create some kind of truth or brilliance, they've already checked their notes and are politely waiting for the last word to be said. "Okay thank you! That was great" Aaaaaaannnnd we're friends again! You try to do something memorable that won't waste any more of their time. You really hope you don't have a wedgie as you turn to leave. You wonder how to walk out of the room. Strut like John Travolta? Saunter like Madonna? Trip like yourself? Yes! That's the one your legs decide on. Excellent choice. The door is bulging with impatient actors on the other side. They flop around in a single file like fish in the Puget Sound. You burst out of the hallway like it's a broken dam and join the river of people in the streets ahead.
For those of you who don't know, the Irene Ryan competition is a chance for aspiring college actors to receive scholarship money and other benefits of glory. The competitors must perform a six minute showcase of their work, including two scenes with a partner and a closing monologue. If you would like to read some scenes of mine that have made to the final round, here they are, as well as a scene that never aired but would have KILLED had they made it to the next round.
Kevin and Karen (Romantic Discharge)
A Scene by Rose Russo
Characters
Karen, a patient
Kevin, a doctor
(Director’s Note: As the play continues, Karen gradually itches less, as if her confessions are healing her. Just a thought)
Setting
Doctor’s office. Karen is sitting on the table, wearing a paper gown and feeling like a slab of meat. She squirms a bit on the table, and we soon discover that she is trying to scratch herself on the table. Finally she can’t take it anymore and gives in to the itching. Just as she is in mid scratch of a certain anatomical part, Kevin knocks and, without waiting for an answer, enters. He is looking at clipboard.
Kevin
Okay, so we have symptoms of redness, itching, and some thick discharge---Karen.
Karen
Kevin.
(The Mother of All Awkward Pauses)
Kevin
Well, isn’t this-
Karen
How ‘bout that-
Kevin
-Interesting
Karen
-Huh.
Karen
(burst of energy) SO…how have you been? It’s been what—
Kevin
Two, almost three—
Karen
--A while
Kevin
I’m doing great. I thought you moved to Idaho?
Karen
I'm seeing mom this weekend. Idaho's fantastic.Really, really good. Kinda smells like cows.
Kevin
Ah. Yeah, well, that’ll happen…
Karen
So…you’re working at Harborview now? When did that happen?
Kevin
Oh…About a year ago, next Tuesday.The commute is a lot easier than Highline Med.
Karen
Ah. Well.Congratulations. That’s great.
Kevin
It is. It really is. Great.
Karen
Great.
Kevin
Well. I’m glad to hear that things are going well for you.
Karen
They are. They really are. Well, you know, except for… (gestures towards vagina)
Kevin
Oh right, yes. (Insincere laughter) Ha ha ha. Yes.
Karen
Ha ha ha. Yep.
(Extremely awkward laughter. They both sigh out a last laugh.A Head Bobbing Pause)
Karen
Yeah. So. I wasn’t feeling well a few weeks ago. No. Wait. Not (gestures towards vagina) this bad, I actually felt really sick. Like up here.So I went in to a walk in clinic, in Idaho, land of smelly cows…but I didn’t have any ex-boyfriends working there, so I guess they aren’t all that good, ha ha ha…they said that I had strep throat, take these pills, blah blah blah. After a few days I felt better, but I started experiencing some…side effects? You know, uh, itching, burning, some redness, I felt really tight… (Stops, looks at Kevin) Well, you know what it’s like, you’ve been down there. (Pause) I mean, no that didn’t come out right, I meant that you’re familiar with that area, not just mine, heck you’ve probably seen a million vaginas, right? It’s like one of those old McDonald’s ads: Now serving over a million and counting. Burgers. Not vaginas. So anyway, I thought I’d better go check it out, and uh…yeah. That’s what happened, and now I’m here.
Kevin
I see.
Karen
Uh huh.
Kevin
Okay great.
Karen
Great.
Kevin
Gr--Good. Well, let’s get started…
(Kevin sits down with clipboard. Karen crosses her legs, trying to look dignified in a paper gown)
(scene)
A Conversation About Chris…by Rose Russo
(Greg and Chris, are sitting in Greg’s place, staring at Trey’s phone)
Greg:When you do think it’s going to…
Trey:Well, you can’t rush this kind of thing.You know what they say, a watched clock never boils…or a pot never ticks if you keep staring at it.
Greg:Yeah.That sounds about right.
Trey: Yeah.
Greg:Yeah.
Trey: Yeah.
Greg:So…how’s Chris?
Trey: How’s…why. Chris? Why why would you ask that?
Greg: I dunno…idle chit chat, make the time go by until it finally…
Trey: Idle chit chat?You call that “idle chit chat”?
Greg: Yeah, sure, it’s like asking hey, how’s your job going, or…what’s your couch up to…or…
Trey:Then ask those questions! God, you might as well as me if…
Greg:…Small talk.
Trey: …If…if like, my brain tumor’s doing well.
Greg:You have a tumor?
Trey: It’s metaphorical.
Greg: God, is that stage four?
Trey: It’s a literary term!
Greg: Oh.Ohhhhhh.
Trey: Shit head.
Greg:This thing is never going to--
Trey: If you keep talking about it, yeah. It won’t.
Greg:Well, that’s why I brought up Chris.It’s a pretty good conversation!
Trey: What happened to asking about my couch and job and all that other stuff?
Greg:Okay.How’s the job going?
Trey: … ’s fine
Greg: Okay.What‘s your couch up to.
Trey: Not a whole lot.
Greg: Ah.
Trey: Put a new little…like blanket thing over the back of it.
Greg: Looks good.
Trey: Yeah.Not bad.
Greg: Yeah.
(pause)
Trey:(giving in) Yeah, okay. Fine.
Greg:So how’s Chris?
Trey:Like a brain tumor.
Greg:Ah.
Trey:I don’t what’s going on.
Greg:Well, didn’t you say you guys were texting a lot lately?That’s a good sign.
Trey:It’s chicken shit means of conversation.Commitment phobes love texting.
Greg:It’s a start.
Trey:It’s filled with speculation. “It was gr8t to see you” Everything but the great is spelled correctly.Did she put the number 8 instead of “ea” because she’s telling me it wasn’t great to see me, or it is sheer lazyness?And if so, do I want to relentlessly pursue someone who doesn’t want to take the time to fully spell a five letter word for me?Or…on the other hand, was it unbridled eagerness? Maybe Chris wanted me to get the message as quickly as possible so I would know what it was truly great to see me…or not?
Greg:See?This is good conversation!
Trey:I hate my life.
Greg:Okay….maybe the 8 for the “ea” substitution was put there so it looks like she’s being casual, but she really was excited and happy to see you, but doesn’t want to appear too eager. The big question is…did she leave any punctuation?
Trey:What does that have to do with anything?
Greg:Well, think about it.There’s a huge difference between a period and an exclamation point.If it’s a period than she’s just being cordial.It’s like she’s saying I’m putting a period on this relationship….or she’s saying “I don’t like you. Period” right?But if its’ an exclamation, then she’s gotta be honest.You don’t just put an exclamation down for no reason.You gotta find the function on the “symbols” screen, you gotta move the exclamation so it’s right next to your last word.That’s like saying she wants at least a two month commitment right there.
Trey:Where’s my phone?
Greg:I’m telling ya, it’s all in the punctuation.
Trey:Damn it, where’s my phone?
(Trey finds his phone and turns it on.Both guys look at the screen and wait for the phone to start.The phone plays a cute little jingle.Both guys bob their heads to the music)
Greg:Okay, go check.
Trey:Alright, I don’t remember if there was a period or exclamation.
Greg:So check.
Trey:What if she didn’t leave any punctuation?What does that mean?
Greg:Just check.
Trey:Oh god, if there’s no punctuation, I’m going to kill myself
Greg:Would you just fucking check?
Trey:Okay…here goes…messages…inbox…oh wait someone’s calling me.
Trey:It’s Chris.
Greg:Trey!
Trey: Shit!
Greg:Answer it!
Trey:SHIT!
Greg: What?
Trey:I’m not ready for voice on voice contact!It’s only been three days!
Greg:She’s going to hang up!
Trey:I didn’t check to see if she left punctuation!
Greg:Screw punctuation!It doesn’t matter anymore!Forget the fossils!The dinosaur is actually calling!
Trey:I can’t!
Greg:Well then I’ll do it.Give me the phone.
Trey: No!
Greg: Dammit Trey! Give me the phone!
Trey: NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
(Greg snatches the phone.Trey snatches it back. They struggle. The phone flies out of their hands. They look at the phone. It’s stopped ringing.Trey picks it up)
Trey:She hung up.
Greg:You think she’ll leave a message?
Trey:It’s not looking like it.
Greg:Well, it’ll pop up soon.
Trey:Maybe she’s leaving a long message.
Greg:It should be popping up soon.
Trey:She’s pouring her soul out to me right now.I have her soul in my phone.I know it.
Greg:Nothing’s happening.
Trey:It will.
Greg:When you do think it’s going to…
Trey:Well, you can’t rush this kind of thing.You know what they say, a watched clock never boils…or a pot never ticks if you keep staring…
Greg:Yeah.That sounds about right.
Trey: Yeah.
Greg:Yeah.
Trey: Yeah.
(scene)
Never Before Seen Scene!
Spokes in the Wheel of Love, by Rose Russo
Scarlet
Hi Jeff.
Jeff
Scarlett?What are you--
Scarlet
Nu-uh! No!Don’t say that.
Jeff
Don’t say what?
Scarlett
Just…don’t speak right now.
Jeff
Okay…
(awkward pause)
Scarlett
So…how’s it going? Are ya busy?
Jeff
It’s five o’clock in the morning.
Scarlett
Ah, so, you’re not really doing anything right now.
Jeff
It’s five o’clock in the morning.
Scarlett
Well I just figured you’d be just “swamped” or things would be “really crazy right now”, or whatever excuse you men like to use.
Jeff
What are you talking about? Do you have a gun?
Scarlet
Why aren’t you outside my house right now?
Jeff
What?
Scarlet
Is that all you can say? “What?” “What?”
Jeff
Well…wait what? Yes. What?
Scarlett
I’ve been reading this book, “Spokes in the Wheel of Love”….
Jeff
Okay, Scarlett….What are you doing here—
Scarlet
NO! You don't get to say my lines!
Jeff
Your line?
Scarlet
I’m supposed to say that to you.“Where have you been Jeff? It’s been so long” and your line is “I know, I was an asshole, I’ve made a huge mistake, I should have called you, I don’t know what I was thinking”.
Jeff
I’m supposed to say I’m an asshole?
Scarlett
It’s all in chapter two, “The Bike Trail to Commitment”.You’re afraid of a successful relationship. I mean, we had a great second date. I met your friends, they clearly approved, I wore my casual yet dressy outfit, we had some drinks, we kissed outside the bar, and you said you’d call. We were on the right track! Everything was moving along just swimmingly!But you had to throw a monkey wrench in the spokes of love, didn’t you there Jeffy? You had to not call the next day.Or the day after that.Or the day after that.Protocol is very clear Jeff.After a successful second date the time gap between calling is supposed to decrease. Decrease, Jeff, not increase.
Jeff
It’s only been--
Scarlett
It’s been two weeks Jeff. Two weeks. In Chapter Three “Rocks, Small Animals, and other Obstacles in The Bike Trail to Commitment”, if
(and here she whips out a highly over-read and abused chapter book),
Scarlett
wait, ah, “if he doesn’t call back after a week, then the next step is a bold declaration of his feelings, usually an unannounced arrival at your doorstep”. Do you know how many times I’ve been available in the past week?A lot. Sometimes I come home multiple times a day. If I come home at least twice a day for the past two weeks…and there’s seven days a week… I can’t do math, so we’ll just say I’ve come home more than ten times in the last two weeks Jeff. And you haven’t been there. Once. Not once! In all of those ten times you haven’t been there once.That is not good math. Why aren’t you outside my house right now?Why don’t you miss me? Aren’t you in pain?
Jeff
I’m definitely experiencing some pain right now.
Scarlet
Well then it’s your turn! Get going. Stand outside my door!Just remove the monkey wrench from spokes of love, avoid the road kill of uncertainty, and keep pushing on the pedals of true feelings down the trail of commitment!
(scene)
Thoughts? Comments? I'd love to get some feedback before sending this to Tina Fey and the entire writer's crew of SNL....
