blogging

Caution: Slippery

Pretty, isn’t it?

Even lovelier close up.

Now let’s change the angle. Same morning, same storm.

Ice encased trees, beautiful. The reality of walking and driving on those icy streets, something else entirely.

Ice encased trees, beautiful. The reality of navigating these icy streets, something else entirely.

No, I’m not really going to talk about the weather again. There’s a lot in the world of pop culture I haven’t read/seen/heard because it doesn’t catch my interest. 50 Shades of Grey? Uninteresting, I’ve passed tons of articles, tweets, posts, and discussions without so much as an I-wonder-what-the-fuss-is-about. But then I was on Twitter the other day and saw a link to this blog post. Women and domestic violence? This is interesting to me, worth talking about again. So here I am, late to the 50 Shades party. I wasn’t going to talk about and pass judgement on something I hadn’t read, so I downloaded and read the book.

Oy.

Some writers are more about the writing. If the writing is beautiful enough, the characters richly drawn, I don’t actually care if the story has plot holes the size of Toledo, I’ll cry at the end because I’m sorry to close the book. If the story is excellent, I’ll quickly stop noticing excessive adjectives and dialogue tags, the occasional POV inconsistency, because entertaining stories are fun. Escapism means never having to get out the red pen, after all. Because this novel has sold a gazillion copies, I expected there to be a point where I would get sucked into the story. By page 15 I was certain all the writing wisdom I’ve ever read must be a trick to keep unpublished writers unpublished. This isn’t just seasoned with adverbs, it’s downright encrusted. By page 20 I was wondering why nobody was taking this poor girl to the ER, she had flushed and blushed so many times surely she was having a stroke.

By the time I was a quarter of the way through I was pissed off. Recently I saw something online saying a positive aspect of the Fifty Shades phenomenon is that it opened a new world to women of a certain age. (If you are one who believes this to be true, please do some homework and research the history of erotica.) In Walmart, woo hoo! I didn’t think I cared if erotica is available next to the Charmin. Go ahead and squeeze.

But I do care. Because this is being touted as liberation (you, tender young thing, are really the one with the power since you’ve got a safe word–and once you’re uncuffed and ungagged you can go ahead and use it). Because you, beautiful young woman, can say no and leave the relationship anytime you want to–though our hero is likely to show up on your doorstep if you do–middle of the night and roommate be damned. Because this is being presented as a great love story. Everyone knows real love involves stalking, right? And if you use the word stalking two hundred times it’s definitely ok, hell, you can even laugh about it with your stalker. Because nothing says I care about your well being like wanting to control what and when your partner eats. Oh, wait. This is where we have sympathy for the hero, because it turns out he experienced real hunger as a child. Plus, yanno, he’s handsome. And rich. Not just rich, uber-rich and powerful. Before the age of thirty, so he can still get it up and fuck his partner “into submission” 10 times a night and another 8 times during the day.

I didn’t want to judge. Different strokes and all that. But in every scene where he hurts her, it’s presented as “not really” hurting her, because even though her mind said no, her body responded in a positive way, so she must like it. And in every one of those scenes, I thought of the many instances where rape victims report feeling conflicted and wondering if they’re the guilty ones, because physiology is what it is, and sometimes the body responds. This isn’t a story of sexual exploration, this is a story of abuse. When her friend/roommate is worried about her, and she’s afraid her roommate will say something to antagonize him, that’s a clear sign of an abusive relationship.

In the end, I think we’re supposed to admire her strength and brains. Oh yes, of course she’s smart, we know this because she mentions having a high GPA thirty times. So smart that she finally realizes being hit with a belt really hurts–after she agrees to it, he’s done it, and she’s cried delicately on his shoulder. She’s so strong she walks away from him in the end (ok, she doesn’t quite walk away, she’s driven away by his driver/manservant/pimp who is so wonderful and discreet he never even mentions the instruments of torture in the so-called play room), and rejects his lifestyle, his lavish gifts, and his incredibly handsome face that has working class women everywhere fall immediately to their knees–while blushing, of course. This even though she isn’t incredibly rich. She’s just an ordinary gal, who worked a part time job through college. Now she will have to suffer the pain of a three bedroom condo shared with her by her wealthy roommate, a college degree, the publishing job she wanted, and family and friends who love her but don’t stalk, humiliate, or physically hurt her.

For a little while, anyway. Since this is actually book 1 of a trilogy, I assume they get back together. Maybe he buys out her publishing house and shows her the joys of erotic asphyxiation while declaring his love. Or maybe the little subplot started at the end of the book, where he’s distracted by SOMETHING BIG, turns out to be something personal, and she comes back to support him through his time of need. Whatever.

I’m sad there are so many women who think this is a hot fantasy, because it makes me wonder how many will ignore early warning signs in their relationships. This isn’t a small number of consenting adults engaging in whatever sexual activities they enjoy. This is the mainstream, young women being told that it’s sexy to be controlled, stalking is fine as long as you label it, almost anything is ok in the name of love, and of course, just hang in there– because he’ll stop beating you eventually if you follow his rules. If you’re a really good girl, he’ll come to understand you love him enough to heal him with your magical vagina and deep throat skills. Then he won’t even need to beat you anymore. Except, of course, for when you ask him nicely.

Yeah, we need to talk about this, especially as the movie is about to be released in theaters. Much like the first photos above, this story looks innocuous enough, until you look a bit closer.

Wake up, women! This isn’t sexy or romantic. This is predatory behavior.

What Do I Know?

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Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe or knows me in any other role knows I’m opinionated. If you know me well or agree with a lot of my thoughts, you might say I’m passionate. If you don’t, you might think ugh, that Mrs Fringe is such a bitch, I wish she would shut up already. But the quote I used for my high school yearbook said something like, “It often shows a fine command of the English language to say nothing.” I’m certain there were quite a few classmates surprised by that one, because I never shut up back then. I had to get kicked in the the teeth by life a few dozen more times before I really learned it. While I believe in the truth of that quote even more than I did back then, I still believe in the power of words. Of having an informed opinion and not being afraid to share it, while understanding opinion is not the same as fact.

Obvious, right? I mean, I’m a blogger ferchristssake. I think. Can I call myself a blogger if I don’t earn any money from it? Maybe it’s more like my fiction, where until and unless I’m published I prefer to say I write than I’m a writer. Fine. I blog.

Do I still opine too much? Probably. I’m not special, an expert in anything, or even formally educated. Who am I for anyone to take my opinions seriously? I’ve even been quiet on the writers’ forum. I’m not a grammar whiz (my unholy love of commas is well documented) and if I knew what made for publishable writing I’d be published.

In my little corner of Fringeland these days, most people I know are having opinions and sharing them; talking about racism, police, Eric Garner, Ferguson, protests and riots and what’s going on in our world right now. Yes, our world. Not just our city, our state, or even our country. This is our humanity. Some aren’t talking. Some are too genuinely busy with more personal crises, and some don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss these issues, some can’t because of their employers. Some are tired of talking about it and seeing it on the TV. I stand by what I said when I blogged about Ferguson–I think we need to talk about this. The grand jury’s decision in the Eric Garner case coming so closely on the heels of Ferguson is a clear illustration.

I’ll be the first one to say I don’t understand what happened with the Eric Garner case, don’t understand how anyone can see that video and say well, it’s a shame but that’s what happens when you resist arrest. Or he shouldn’t have been selling loosies. He wasn’t violent, not an immediate threat to anyone. I don’t understand how I’m seeing people argue that he didn’t die as a direct result of the chokehold placed on him. Every report I’ve seen says the medical examiner declared his death a homicide. Yes, his other medical issues were contributing factors, but not the cause. If any of my readers can cite a reputable source disputing this, please share a link.

Not all police are corrupt, or overzealous, or poorly trained. That doesn’t mean none are. Not all people are racist. That doesn’t mean none are. These things don’t balance each other out. Because police officers A and B came to the aid of persons of color C and D doesn’t mean police officer E didn’t harass person of color F. Or in too many cases, worse. And any number of these cases is too many. Police are human, yes. They deserve to be and keep themselves safe, absolutely. But something has gone wrong if they don’t feel confident they can peacefully defuse a situation and arrest someone who is unarmed and outnumbered.

I also don’t understand when I see people quote Martin Luther King while complaining about the protests occurring. Not talking about looters or violence, protestors. Just a little disconnect.

We have a problem, not “just” one rogue incident. The very fact that we have clear videotape of Eric Garner’s arrest and I’m still seeing such polarized responses shows our problem. But shelving the discussion? Being afraid to take a stand, have an opinion, because it might be uncomfortable? Because we’re tired of it? Because we don’t want to believe racism still exists in this country? That isn’t a fine command of the language.

I care, and I like knowing the other people in my world care, too. Our words do have power. And our opinions matter.

Happy Anniversary: Carpe Diem

Mrs Fringe is 2 years old. I could write a fun post, a retrospective of the highlights, discuss how very much this blog and all of my followers mean to me, but in true fractured Fringeland style, I’m not going to do any of those today. No silliness, no photos. Instead, I’m writing a PSA post, asking you all to please read and remember.

I’ve written epilepsy awareness posts before, I usually post one in November, but I’m writing another one today.

On the train this morning I got a phone call from Man Child telling me he was on his way to the ER, and when I arrived at the beach it was raining. Ok, life.

After the rain stopped and the clouds moved off, someone several towels down had a tonic clonic seizure. Tonic clinics are what used to be called grand mal seizures. I went over, as did several other people. Really nice to see so many willing to get involved and see if they could help, lifeguards were hailed, police were flagged down, 911 was called.

I was umm, happy? I don’t think happy is the right word, to see the person was on their side, and they were on a towel on the sand, away from the water, nothing to be injured on. This is probably the safest scenario for a seizure when someone is alone and outside.

But I was quickly upset, and I’m still upset now.

The problem. One woman pushed through, trying to turn the person onto their back, saying they needed to be held down. NO. There is no reason to restrain someone having a seizure, and doing so risks injuring them. No less than two people stepped forward ready to grab the jaw and force the mouth open, yelling that they were going to choke on their tongue. NO. NEVER, EVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE. It is physically impossible for someone to choke on their tongue. It is, however, possible for the tongue to block the airway, which is why lying on their side is the safest position for someone having a seizure. One woman tried to hold their head, saying she was going to put her finger in their mouth to swipe away the saliva. NO. Nothing in the mouth includes fingers, it’s a good way to a) have your finger injured, possibly bitten off, b) break the jaw of the person having the seizure, c) trying to force anything into the mouth when someone is seizing can result in chipping their teeth.

Yes, I spoke up.

But, why, oh why, is there not more seizure awareness? Seizures aren’t rare. 1 in 100 people can expect to have a seizure in their lifetime. Anyone can have a seizure. Epilepsy is generally defined as 2 or more unprovoked seizures. Epilepsy can develop in any person at any time. It is the fourth most common neurological disorder.

So how come, as the person was coming out of the seizure, the only question asked was if they had taken anything or been drinking? These are valid, important, sensible questions. But they weren’t asked if they had epilepsy.

Most seizures are self limiting, — end on their own. Without anything else going on (injury, illness) they are usually not considered medical emergencies. But they can be. People can and do die– from SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), status epilepticus (prolonged seizures), and injuries sustained during seizures (head injury, drowning, etc). These events are not common, but they can and do happen.

Please. Know what to do in case someone around you has a seizure (and tonic clinics are just one of many types).

Uptown

Had to take this shot, seemed so perfect.

Continuing with this summer’s theme of exploration, I have a billion pictures to share today.

While they’re doing a lot of field trips, Art Child’s summer class has a home base uptown. This is another neighborhood that has kept much of its unique feel, residents more vested in preservation and restoration than demolition and shiny new high-rises. Depending on which person you speak with, or the current real estate market, the area might be called Harlem, or more accurately, Hamilton Heights. It also contains the sub neighborhood of Sugar Hill (remember the Sugar Hill gang? Yup, named for this area. Nope, they were from Englewood, NJ).

In this little area, as you walk around it feels removed from the city, more like the outer reaches of the outer boroughs than northern Manhattan.

In any case, this area contains Alexander Hamilton’s home, open to the public as a museum, and, in my opinion, some of the most stunning architecture and brownstones in the borough.

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And more, no particular order

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On the way home. The architecture changes as you go through the different neighborhoods, but all within a thirty block radius on the west side.

: Yes, a swimming pool. Never seen anyone other than lifeguards in it.

: After a dip you can stop into church

: And then pick out dinner, plucked while you wait.

: I braved a swarm of bees to catch some scenic Manhattan views for you.

: You’re welcome.

Last but not least,

The Empress Has No

English: Drawing of Marie de Lorraine as the Duchess of Valentinois. She wears a ball gown (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve heard people talk about sharing their writing, how it feels/can feel like being naked. Not me. I don’t feel exposed when I share my work. Not to say I’m always completely confident, it’s like getting dressed and made up for an evening out–I think I look good, but I’m still hoping for some validation from whoever I go out with/run into. Cause there’s nothing worse than thinking you’ve got your game face on, and you run into someone in the lobby who asks if you’ve been ill. Because yes, that’s when I’m most likely to make the effort, when I feel the worst, physically or emotionally. That or I haven’t done laundry.

But submitting, querying…that’s a different story. At first I thought this end was more like working the pole, but no. Stripping may not be the most desirable way for every woman to earn a living, but it does earn dollars. This? Not a dime. I know, I know, I should have done this when my boobs were still in the same zip code as the rest of me. Living the dream, oh yes. The dream where you realize you’re standing in Times Square with no clothes on, not even a guitar to cover the saggy bits, a la The Naked Singing Cowboy.

Yah, yah, I’m not supposed to write these types of posts. Because for as much as you educate yourself about the business of publishing, follow agent and editor blogs and tweets about how things work, what their days are like, how many rejections they send daily (or don’t send, in these days of no response means no), the unpubbed and unagented are supposed to pretend we’re pure and innocent and virginal–just lucky enough or brilliant enough to know how to follow the rules or break the rules in a way that works, and haven’t received any rejections from anyone else. No matter how many times you read or hear publishing industry professionals talk about the many, many reasons they reject a work that often have nothing to do with with the quality of the writing, nope, those are the other wannabes. Not you, of course. Because, just like a wanton woman of yesteryear, no one’s going to want you/your work if someone else has already sampled the goods and didn’t like it enough to make a legally binding offer.

I’m a 40,000 year old woman with three children who are closer to grown than not. I think my days of playing the virgin are over. And Fringeland is about being honest, a blog to explore what it means to be downwardly mobile without being crushed by those climbing up.

Those stories you hear about people who receive an offer of rep and/or publication their first try? Their first dozen tries? Bullshit. Not saying they aren’t real, they are, but they are the exceptions, not the rule. I’d like to have been one of those stories, I’d like to be the mega lotto jackpot winner, but I’m not. The rules, the rules, all the rules passed on from wannabe to wannabe. The rules about how to interpret rejections, the nice and orderly progression from brusque form letters to nice form letters to personalized letters to invitations to submit more work to acceptance. Oh, the squeals of anticipation upon requests for fulls, personalized rejections, “you’re almost there!” Or not. I’ve been almost there since I started. Contracts in mirror are a fucking mirage, forget closer than they appear. The rules about the right way to query. Bullshit. There are wrong ways to go about querying, but no one right way. And hell, even amongst the wrong ways, there are stories of those who queried completely “wrong,” and still got an offer. C’mon now, there isn’t an agent or wannabe out there who hasn’t heard the story of the twelve year old kid who called the agent to query his book and got an offer. Not right then and there, and I don’t recommend calling agents’ offices when every US agent says not to do so, but obviously a phone call isn’t always the immediate and permanent never-to-be-published-blacklisted-forever-and-the-dystopia-beyond it’s portrayed to be. Does this mean I’m not smarter than a sixth grader?

I read broadly, across many genres. Yes, I have a special love for literary fiction, but I also love thrillers–political and psychological, some horror, contemporary, narrative non-fiction, and poetry. I read classics, and I read what’s being published today. Some books are so fabulous I want to swallow them so they’re permanently part of me, some are entertaining reads to pass an afternoon, and some, well, some I wonder what it is I’m missing that they were represented by an agent, championed by an editor, and published, a trade paperback I picked up for $14.00 off the shelf of the bookstore and wish I had instead tucked those dollars into someone’s g-string at the local Girlz Girlz Girlz. All my reading tells me something. I can write. Sharing manuscripts with writing friends (published and un, agented and un) and reading their feedback confirms I can write–if you don’t write, you’ll have to trust me here, no one is more adept at ripping apart a manuscript than others who write–feedback I’ve received from industry professionals tells me I don’t, after all, look sick when I think I look good.

Mrs Fringe hasn’t been innocent in a long time, if ever. But I’m still naked, and even though it’s July, it’s fucking cold outside.

Backwards Skate

Hellooo Fringelings!

It’s been a little bit since I last posted. You know what they say, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up. Really it’s just been hectic. Nerd Child is home for the summer, which is wonderful, and Mother in Law is in the hospital, not wonderful. On the bright side, she’s recuperating, getting stronger each day. Art Child is not finished with school yet, the NYC public schools are in session until the end of June every year. Just making sure that even with a late start to summer weather, the kids and teachers have plenty of sweltering days in the classrooms.

This has, of course, all involved a lot of back and forth and running around. Yesterday, Mother in Law told me I need roller skates. I agree, and would like the ones I had in middle school/high school, with the emerald green wheels and matching green sparkle laces and furry green pom poms. Yes indeed, I was stylin’ those Friday Nights at the Roller Palace. For some reason, my clearest memories involve the inevitable point in the night when someone’s wheel would bust off, and there would suddenly be a thousand little ball bearings rolling across the floor.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuFLTFCp7ps

Alas, my wheels are long misplaced, and I suspect if I tried, I’d be skating backwards when I tried to go forward.

Yesterday Man Child called me to touch base, and maybe, just maybe, give me a little nudge along the lines of, “Hey Ma, wtf?! You haven’t blogged.” So I brought my camera earlier today, to catch a few pics of St John The Divine, and the ~~assault~~ construction taking place on its grounds right now. In my opinion, this cathedral (Episcopal) is one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, in the city. Interesting, too. Construction began in 1892, and has yet to be completed. The campus involves something like 11 acres, and they offer a lot of free or inexpensive programs and classes for the public. They also house one of the fancy private schools of NY. Somehow, they’ve found themselves running with a deficit. There was a huge fire over ten years ago, and if I had to guess, I’d say they’re still trying to make up for the cost of restoration and clean up. Several years ago they leased a corner of the property, and allowed an apartment building to be put up. Now comes another one, this one much closer to the church itself. As I walked around with my camera, able to see in through the back along Morningside Ave, it broke my heart a little. They don’t have official landmark status, and I’m not familiar with the politics of this type of thing to know why, but somehow, seeing the excavation for the foundation up against the gorgeous granite and carvings, it feels wrong.

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Four Fingered Discount

Sometimes we all need a helping hand.

I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!

Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.

I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?

I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.

I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.

When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.

Yup, the one that inspired the song.

But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.

Gray Skies and Social Media Wallflowers

After a teaser of spring yesterday, this morning is pure damp and gloom.

This week I thought quite a bit about social media, the concept of “platforms” and followings, blogging and tweeting. Mostly tweeting, because so far it’s the thing I’m having the hardest time catching the rhythm of.

I keep saying this, but I just don’t get it. I hop on dutifully most days, but usually end up feeling like the girl who needs electrolysis and a better girdle at a 1961 dance. There are the cool kids, the nerdy kids, the popular rah-rah we’re running your student government kids, and the wallflowers. Then there are the spammers. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop it! I will usually follow links from new followers, check out blogs, etc. But if you’re tweeting multiple times a day for days, weeks, months on end about how I should buy your book, just stop it. I will start to remember your name/title of book, but only to make a note not to purchase it. But they say it’s a good thing to do, have a Twitter account and tweet, so I keep trying. I favorite, I retweet, I reply, occasionally I send out a tweet. Somehow it isn’t shocking when no one cares what I ate for dinner. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s not going to be the thing that gets me/my writing noticed.

Is blogging going to help me? I have no clue. As I query, some agents want to know about “web presence,” a more common term than platform when querying fiction. My stats won’t make anyone drool, but hopefully won’t make them cringe, either. If anyone looks closely enough, I think it could help that I tend to have long term followers who are engaged (thank you!). Maybe an agent or two will like the content, think I’m someone they’d be interested in working with. Or *gasp* become a follower. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll click onto the blog and be disgusted by my appalling language. (If so, they probably wouldn’t be into my fiction, either.) Maybe they’ll think, “Wow, this woman is a fucking fruitcake, I’m steering clear.”

If you hadn’t noticed, I like blogging. Mrs Fringe isn’t an overnight sensation, but I’ve got Fringelings, and gather more on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. Many can relate to that feeling of living on the fringe. As a wannabe writer, I should be keeping a blog about writing. Yawn. Pretty sure I’ve said this before, but I find most blogs on writing to be tedious. Writers, their individual lives and processes? Interesting. A good blog with an thoughtful or entertaining voice will compel me to follow links and click the little buy button for a book. Does this make me a voyeur?

No longer needed (Photo credit: eric.r)

Could be. Blogging lets me ramble with no pressure. I look at the blogs that hit it big, and the blogs that barely get any views, and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, it’s hard to see why one way or the other. My buddy kk blogged about this yesterday. I enjoy different bloggers and blogs, like making connections through reading and commenting. I don’t read and comment as frequently as I did when I started. Honestly, it gets harder to do the more followers I have, and I apologize to those whose blogs I’m not stopping by often enough. Every view, every like, every comment is important and valuable to me, thank you. It’s a process, I’m learning the curve. So I’m saying to kk and anyone else trying to figure out this blogging thing, relax. Figure out what you most enjoy blogging about, the voice that feels the most comfortable.

It’s Friday again. Not sure if Fatigue will come for Friday Night Madness, his pup has been sick. But if he does, we’ll have dinner and our usual routine discussing the trials and tribulations of being a wannabe in New York, trying to make it; one pen/voice/monologue/dance routine trying to hold firm and be noticed among millions. Funny, because I grew up here, pretty much always lived here, I always knew I wasn’t special by virtue of being a wannabe, having a dream I didn’t want to give up. Maybe the internet and social media have done the same for everyone everywhere.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qm6IJIVWLT4

Bio__________

Bioagent

Biodegradable

Biochemistry

Biohazard

Biothreat

Biology

Biography

Hmmm.

Last night I got another request for the full manuscript from an agent I queried. She made one of the loveliest statements I’ve ever received about my writing (sent the opening with the query), and if my back wasn’t still broken I’d have done a happy dance. She wanted a file type (you know, the dot whatever) that isn’t my computer’s default, but hey, no problem–Man Child showed me how to do that last month. I kept reading. She wanted my full bio, too. Errrr.

I went from feeling like this

New Moon, New Day, New Season

To this

the remnants of the rebel fleet escape the exploding death star II (Photo credit: lamont_cranston)

Let me say oof, to go along with that errr. I don’t have a bio. Not just that I didn’t have one prepared, I really don’t have anything to say. Average downward mobile gal, unremarkable life of trying to figure out how to pay the bills each month, extraordinary kiddos, dog poop picker upper with a vivid imagination. None of which is relevant to me as a writer, or the story of ASTONISHING. No alcoholism, no magic (good or bad), move along, please, these are not the splendid boobs you’re looking for.

According to the inimitable Janet Reid, patron saint of wanna be writers everywhere, this is not something to worry about. But I’m a querying wanna be–by definition I’m worrying.

I wrote two sentences having to do with my life in cyberspace as Mrs Fringe. Maybe I threw something in about dog poop.

Sometimes You Just Have to Say

Serious in an entirely different way.

Fuck it. And put on your favorite winter boots.

And go out, after searching the internet for the most steeply discounted tickets you can find. When I was a kid, we used to to go to the theater on a semi-regular basis. Not like we went every month, but once or twice a year. Tickets were less costly then, with discounts you could even get good seats. Hell, if I really liked the show, I would go more than once. Maybe because of the show itself, maybe because I loved a particular lead, or maybe because someone else was playing the lead and I wanted to see them. Now? Hah! The thought of spending money to see something already seen is obscene.

Les Mis is coming back to Broadway. Flower Child’s absolute favorite. I’d love to get tickets and take her, but those tickets are way out of reach, and will be for years. I hoped for Wicked, but no discounts there either. Mrs Fringe needs a steep discount. 20% isn’t going to cut it. Anything Disney is out of the question. I know, many are well done, beautiful–but it’s so rare for us to go, just no.

Found three tickets that might or might not have caused some vertigo and a nosebleed and broke out the Metrocard.

Neon and tourists

Running since 1988, and this was the first time I’ve seen it.

Yes, it needs to be said. Pizza is sold by the slice in most places in NYC

One way to tell NYers from tourists is their pace. NYers walk quickly. Husband rarely walks more than up the block to see his mother, but when he walks he’s fast. This was my only night out in I don’t know how long, I think it’s been 3?4? years since I’ve seen a show. I took my time. Sure, he was a block ahead of me–but I had the print out to pick up the tickets. Another way to tell tourists from natives is the camera hanging from their necks. Well, see, I’ve got this blog….So perhaps I looked like a tourist last night. I don’t mind.

I love live theater, and wish I could go every month. There truly is something magical, I think it’s in the theater houses themselves, in the plaster and gold paint, the chandeliers and hundred year old exit signs.

I was thinking opera glasses would have been a perfect accessory. Do they still make/sell those?

Yes, these not so little touches are everything.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I would like this over my front door.

The show, of course, was lovely. Flower Child gripped her armrests throughout (we were pretty high up for sure) but loved the music, the costumes, the singing, the trip to the lobby during intermission and the peek at the orchestra seats, lol.

A few photos of Times Square as we walked back to the subway–and perhaps an explanation for why Mrs Fringe can’t tell a star from a photo flare from a smudge on the camera screen. It’s bright in the city–even at 9:30pm on a mid-winter night.