praise them in the highest

Pig Iron, that is. Looks like they're hiring me as dramaturg for their Live Arts festival commissioned production: ISABELLA, aka Measure for Measure in a morgue. I will see dead people. Huzzah with a cherry on top.

I've moved my Israel return flight to accommodate the rehearsal schedule. Damn, no time to visit Nablus and the international human rights workers. I've started looking at my SP schedule with misty eyes; jumping into that will wait until September. Or, rather, I'll do my training and work the minimum hours to stay involved.

And we're looking for new roommates, and I saw a good show (
The Four of Us, by Itamar Moses), and there are all kinds of meetings and things dashing about. I'm teaching a clown workshop for non-actors, focused on presentation skills, for the next couple of weeks. That's sort of embarrassing because I don't think I'm qualified, but I planned it, and it will be fun. It's hazy hot and humid. I want some ice cream. Need to get some stuff done on the writing project. Ho hum.

On another note: outrage: the Gaza situation. Israeli Foreign Ministry spokesman Mark Regev (always spouting criminally ridiculous lies on BBC in his charming accent) says "it is not our intention to sit idly by during a human rights crisis in Gaza." Of course not, you effing salesman, you don't sit idly by, your government creates and aggravates the human rights crises in Gaza.


why blog?

not because I got an interesting new job (standardized patient)

not because I started writing a guide (scroll down) to the Israel-Palestine conflict

not because I saw the last episode of the Sopranos without ever seeing it before

not because I went to Boston and heard crazy news (George is engaged!) or saw wonderful people (happy birthday, Mom, enjoy that extra cheesecake)

not because I went to New York and heard crazy news (oh Louisa!) or saw wonderful people (all yall)

not because we had a great meeting with synagogue folks to theorize prayer

not because of all the random articles online that I bookmark in order to remember to share

...no, I save my writing for petty ludicrous hijinx:

Yesterday I flew from Boston to Philly. I packed a big backpack just about solid with books and clothes from the mothership (Forest Street) and my usual courier with the current book and calendar and water and (gasp) mesh pouch of sundry hygiene items. Nothing over 3oz, 4 tiny bottles total. I get to the TSA gauntlet, and feign naivete when the 7-foot-tall inquisitor guy asks me if I have a Ziploc baggie. In my mind, this should be appropriately copyright-tagged: "Ziploc brand resealable plastic storage bag."

I have no baggie. He says I can dump my stuff (perfume! no.) or go out to the newsstand, where they sell "Ziploc baggies" for 35 cents. I note the lack of people in line, exit the TSA danger zone, buy my baggie. My mother laughs at me. I reload, stowing the hazardous teeny-Tom's-of-Maine in a few microns of crisp plastic, sealing up those menacing eyedrops, and hustle through the gauntlet. Mr Inquisitor ignores me, now "wanding" a hapless teenage droneboy with a suitcaseful of trashy Tom Clancys and nondescript garb.

Sparing you the details of a plane-hop (though it must be asked, what makes these pretzels 'gourmet'?) and train-slog homewards, I arrive at my front porch in West Philly, fumble archetypically with my keys, and realize:

On the keychain is my 2" folding pocketknife, slim, classy, and razor-sharp. That little beauty went through a scanner twice without notice, and, as Laurel commented, "could definitely kill someone."