tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23985769612429506322024-03-13T15:25:37.204-04:00web...blah...logIt's the blog that's not a blog... brought to you by Stephanie D'AbruzzoStephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.comBlogger255125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-65179086404566455342016-12-30T09:25:00.004-05:002016-12-30T09:25:35.381-05:00guest columnist: a message from 2016<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">So here we are, after a very long time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The nice thing about having a generally defunct blog-that’s-not-a-blog is that when you write something that you think is good enough to submit somewhere, and you do, and that somewhere does not necessarily agree with your estimation… you have somewhere to put it. The writing does not go to waste. This “web…blah…log” ensures that no part of my creative buffalo is lost, for better or for worse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was awoken by this initial thought at 4 AM on Monday morning (before the deaths of Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds). I wrote this a few hours later. I submitted it to a place I am too embarrassed to name. It wasn’t good enough for this particular place but I did want to share it with whomever of you might still be out there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Note: In the days that have passed, I have seen some similar sentiments on Twitter. But I swear that I didn’t copy ‘em. I have not edited the piece since I wrote it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Happy New Year to you all (few as you may be). Let’s keep a good thought for our uncertain future, whilst doing whatever we can to help that along. Hope is not a passive endeavor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And now, I’ll hand over the reins to our guest:</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 15px;">A MESSAGE FROM 2016</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now that my days are dwindling, I’d like to say something to you all, if I may. I know that none of you like me. I’ve read the headlines and hashtags. I’ve heard your expletives hurled at me. And I saw that John Oliver piece where I was literally set ablaze.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This week is always the hardest time for years like me. Everyone goes into review mode, making endless lists of bests and worsts, and they ultimately go on and on about what a horrible year it’s been and place all of their hopes and dreams on the incoming new year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s been harder than you can possibly imagine to be 2016. It’s been a tough me for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Every day, seemingly, whenever something bad happens, whenever a celebrity or legend passes away, whenever there’s a tragedy or other occurrence that leaves you all incredulous, everyone shakes their digital fists at me: “Curse you, 2016!” (Except you don’t use the word “curse.”)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I want to make it clear: I didn’t “take” your icons and legends. I didn’t kill Prince. Fentanyl did. I didn’t kill Bowie. That was cancer. Your anger should be directed at them, and at heart disease, and Parkinson’s disease, and all of the other diseases and addictions and disorders, as well as the inevitable passage of time and sheer mortality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You do know that I don’t have that kind of power, right? That I’m just a specifically timed cluster of days, yes? That I am merely a marker of events and not the cause of them?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because I don’t think you do. I think you’re making me a scapegoat because it’s far more convenient than looking at the harsh truths about yourselves. You blame me for the loss of your artists when you should be wary of those powerful enough to take away their art. You blame me for catastrophic events when in fact the blame lies elsewhere. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I didn’t come into the world rubbing my hands together with an evil cackle. I had no master plan to wreak havoc. Frankly, if it were up to me, I would have shoved another year ahead of me on January 1. I would have gladly yanked 2017 or 2018 up to front of the line and let one of them take the fall for all of this awfulness. But here’s the thing: you can’t change the hard-and-fast rules of time and space and truth because they aren’t conveniently suited to your particular needs and desires. 2016 comes after 2015. Nothing and no one can change that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We all have to do things we don’t want to do. We can’t wriggle out of them, even when they’re painful. We all have to face things we don’t want to face. We can’t shove aside the harsh, ugly realities, because when we do, they pile up and fester and get worse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You need to know that I was just as shocked and crushed to hear about Gene Wilder and Garry Shandling and Alan Rickman and everyone else as you were. So think about how painful it was on top of that to have all of you piling up on me and beating me up for it. I didn’t want any of this to happen. No year does. (1968 still cries every night.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">No year wants to be known as the year in which humanity lost its hope. But I suppose that’s my sad legacy. I did mark some good things, but you never seem to notice the good things. There were some great people born this year but you won’t know it for a long time. One of them is bound to be as eloquent as Ali and Albee and Leonard Cohen combined. Another just might be as prolific and beloved as Garry Marshall. And there’s a future author who could be as influential as Harper Lee. Just you wait. Not that I had anything to do with it, but if you’re going to blame me for the bad stuff I might as well try to take some credit for the good stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">No. No, I’m not going to do that, either.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because you can’t blame the when-it-happens for the what-happens. Misplaced blame comes at the cost of accountability, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you humans in my short time with you, it’s that when you allow someone to get away with something horrible and not be held accountable for it, the door is open for others to do the same, and worse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So if you keep up this blaming-the-year game of yours, 2017 isn’t going to be any better than I was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I know that you’re done with me. I’m done with me, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 15px;">But please try to be better to the new year.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome (back) to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-71578809630754996902014-05-09T12:45:00.000-04:002014-05-09T12:45:23.426-04:00from the vault: high school essay<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">It's been a while, I know. And I still have nothing new to say. But with the Internet all awash in misty watercolor memories of a seemingly ancient </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">political</span><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> scandal, and seeing </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">all sorts of fallout articles about how Millennials view feminism, </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I thought I'd dredge up an old, unpublished gem from my laptop's innards that I think is a wee bit timely. It's a parody essay about feminism, written from the view of an ignorant-yet-trying-to-be-intelligent high school student in 1998</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">. It was </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">rejected</span><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> - years ago - for </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">publication</span><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">elsewhere when I initially wrote it in 2007, so hell, why not here?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">("Hell, why not here?" is, coincidentally, a rejected tagline for this site.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I reiterate: it's a parody essay, written in another character's voice. It does not reflect my own opinion, beliefs, or general knowledge. Don't be all snarky and quote any lines out of context. And again, think 1998</span><span style="font-size: 15px;">. </span><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Oh, and it's supposed to be funny, or maybe it isn't… but that's the way it always goes here at "web…blah…log."</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I shouldn't have to qualify a post that much, but it's the Internet, so you know that I do.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">They Almost Came an Even Longer Way, Baby: A Report on Feminism</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">By Shannon LAST NAME BLACKED OUT</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">11</span><span style="font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Grade</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">December 8, 1998</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Feminism was invented in the 1970s by a woman named Gloria Steinem, based on the principle of “I could be beautiful, but I choose not to be!” Also known as “Women’s Liberation,” or “Women’s Lib,” it revolutionized the American way of life. Dinners were often late, but the sex was better. Women decided they did not want to be defined by marital status and preferred to be called “Ms.” and liked it so much they made a magazine called “Ms.,” the first women’s magazine not to have any recipes in it. Another women’s magazine, “Cosmopolitan,” or “Cosmo,” also hit the newsstands, and it began to publish the word “orgasm” more often, which up until that time was only known as “the big o,” or as nothing at all.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some people wonder why feminism happened when it did. After all, it was not the first women’s movement. In the early part of the 20</span><span style="font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> century, women banded together in both America and England, fighting for their right to vote. They were known as suffragettes, and featured in the 1964 film “Mary Poppins.” American women finally got the vote in 1920 and afterwards, women cut their hair short and wore short dresses, smoked and became flappers. This was popularized in the 1970 film “The Great Gatsby,” starring Robert Redford before he was a director. Then the men went off to war and women filled the factories. They collectively became known as “Rosie the Riveter,” the image of which became a famous poster, and they even played professional baseball, as was proven in the 1992 film “A League of Their Own,” which, coincidentally, starred Rosie O’Donnell. But once the men came home from World War II, the women went back to the kitchen and stayed there until feminism came along.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why was there such a huge gap in between these movements? Why did feminism take so long to happen? And why did the fashions in the women’s movements from 1900 to 1973 get uglier and uglier? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The latter question begs an answer. Women went from wearing lacy long dresses with big hats to short cute little frocks to overalls and head scarves to polyester bellbottoms and sweater vests to wearing Nikes with skirts. One only wonders what the fashions of the next women’s movement will bring about.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As for the timing of feminism, there is a strong correlation between the breakup of the Beatles and the feminist movement. With no more Beatles to idolize and follow around, young women got bored and had nothing better to do than to look at their surroundings and realize that they were being screwed, both literally and figuratively, by men. The hippie movement was also winding down, and so they too had lots of time on their hands, and because they were already quite skilled in protesting, they took this new message to the streets. They borrowed big signs from the African American community, who had already triumphed in their fight for equal rights, and marched. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some of the things that the feminists wanted were: equal pay for equal work, recognition of the duties of wives and mothers, and no more bras. Many bras were burned in protest. Some men argued that they were just trying to show up the men who were burning their draft cards at the time. But whatever the reasons, lots of fires were set in the early 1970s, mostly due to feminism.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some women were tired of the concept of traditional beauty, and marching alongside hippies inspired them to stop shaving their legs. Other women felt that they wanted more control over their bodies, so the already popular birth control pill, or The Pill, as it was more well known, became even more popular. And still other women were tired of the preconceived notions of women-as-housewives that were being paraded on the television programs of the time, so shows such as “That Girl,” The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and “Maude” became big hits. They were the same in many respects in that they featured independent women, but they were different in that “That Girl” was about a pretty, single woman dating a pretty boy in the big city, “Mary Tyler Moore” was about a pretty, single woman dating lots and lots of men in a different big city, and “Maude” was about ugly married people who were nonetheless independent presumably because they talked loudly and had abortions.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Feminism was a political hot-button. Many people were afraid that feminism would replace femininity, and that women would no longer be attractive. But they needn’t have worried. Soon contact lenses and hot pants would be invented and women would once again be sexy. Still, it was a little ways away. And feminism wasn’t quite over yet.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The most exciting thing to happen to feminism was the infamous 1973 tennis match between Billie Jean King, a woman, and Bobby Riggs, a man, bitter rivals who for some reason both had unisex names, big eyeglasses and unfortunate hairstyles, yet could not find common ground. It was called “The Battle of the Sexes” and even though Billie Jean King won, it didn’t really decide or change anything societally outside of tennis. It did, however, give Billie Jean King a lot of notoriety, more money, and the opportunity to become friends with Elton John and have him write a really good song, “Philadelphia Freedom,” in honor of her, so that is a very good legacy to have.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The biggest issue of the feminist movement was the ERA, or Equal Rights Amendment. It went to Congress many times in the 70s, 80s, and even 90s but never got passed. Some argued that it is easier to just keep paying women 70 cents for every dollar a man makes than to go through all of the trouble of making all salaries equal. In fact, some considered equal salaries to be Communist. This theory is furthered by the fact that feminism was officially dead by the time the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, not long after the San Francisco earthquake, which seems related but is not.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Feminism may be gone, but its effects have lasted a long time. A woman named Geraldine Ferraro ran for vice-president in 1984, but Ronald Reagan was so popular in 1984 that even a famous and beautiful movie star like Meryl Streep would have had trouble getting any votes. Even though there have not been any more female presidential candidates or running-mates so far, many strong, independent women have brought down powerful male politicians by having affairs with them, which has opened doors to young women everywhere. Today, any woman can achieve fame and fortune by dating, marrying, or having an affair with a famous man. By this method, it is easier than ever for a woman to achieve success. After all, a First Lady doesn’t have to run for President, but she still gets to live in the White House.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some say that there is no more need for feminism at all. Now the word “bitch” is said on television and in movies all the time and no one gets offended by it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Perhaps feminism and the ERA were not meant to be, but women have equality in other fields: for every Best Actor category at the Emmys and Oscars, there is a Best Actress category. That should make women proud. Many women have won awards, in both serious roles where they wear conservative suits and thick glasses and talk in accents, and also in lighter roles where they are pretty and funny and wear great clothes. And at the Grammys and Olympics, men and women sometimes even compete in the same categories, like Best Song and Best Album and equestrian and pairs figure skating. Women have even surpassed men in some areas, such as having more attention paid to their gowns at awards shows and having more pictures of them published the day after. And in sitcoms, the wife is always the smart one, even if she’s not as funny as the husband. There is even one woman, Oprah Winfrey, who is just as rich, influential and successful as the hundreds of men on the Forbes list. That is amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> It is good to know that we live in the greatest country in the world, where women can be almost anything they want to be, except for President. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
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Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-76837224287118406822013-09-03T00:00:00.000-04:002013-09-03T00:00:07.617-04:003rd blog-iversary<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are, on the third anniversary of <b>“web…blah…log.”</b> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It seems appropriate that today, on this [insert adjective of your choice here] occasion, I should let you know that there’s going to be a bit of a change here: we’re retooling.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, those of you in the showbiz-know are aware that the term “retooling” is a loaded word. It means change, and it probably means cancellation, although not always. It definitely means the end of something, even if what that something is isn’t clear. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Endings are not necessarily bad. Everything has to end at some point. Things that don’t end with a clean break tend to slowly deteriorate, and goodness knows we don’t want that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, with that in mind, I’ve decided to stop writing regular posts for now.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This does not mean that I’ll never post anything here again, but I’m not going to set out to write the way I used to. If the spirit moves me, or if I have wacky adventures and anecdotes worth sharing, I may write again. I may use this little corner of the Web to showcase other, older essays of mine. I may turn this not-a-blog into an actual blog. I may even change my mind eventually and return to the old rhythm. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know yet. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What I do know is that I spend way more time on this <b>“web…blah…log”</b> than you’d think, and now I’d like to use that time to pursue other creative endeavors. I’ve done this for three years, and now I’d like to try something different. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ll be sure to tweet if and when I post again. Also, I’ll occasionally tweet links to vintage posts, just for fun and nostalgia. The archive will remain active, and this site isn’t going anywhere until Google pries it from my death grip, so you can always peruse the old nonsense at your leisure, whether you are a newcomer or one of my Devoted Dozens giving it a second read.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Speaking of which: to my Devoted Dozens -- and you know who you are -- I thank you profusely for your loyalty and support over more than a thousand days. You may not have turned into Hardcore Hundreds or Thirsting Thousands, but it’s that very exclusivity that has made you so special. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So for now, I say a goodbye that’s not-a-goodbye:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Until we are here again...</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-22985115161448350212013-08-30T00:03:00.000-04:002013-08-30T00:03:20.248-04:00internet debate<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is no such thing as a slam dunk on the Internet. There is no such thing as an uncontroversial opinion, no matter how innocuous it may seem to be. You can’t win. Let me repeat that: <i>you can’t win</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For example, let’s make an innocent little point:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Point:</b> <i>I like cookies.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And now, the rebuttals:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counterpoint:</b> <i>You shouldn’t eat too many cookies.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counterpoint:</b> <i>You shouldn’t eat too many cookies if you are too fat, but if you are thin, you can eat as many cookies as you want.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counterpoint:</b> <i>You shouldn’t make thin people eat cookies because cookies are not healthy.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-counterpoint:</b> <i>You can make cookies healthier if you take out all the things that make them delicious and only use ingredients that are healthy.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-counter-counterpoint:</b> <i>These healthy cookies taste like crap. No one should eat them at all.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Let’s try again:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Point:</b> <i>Cookies are delicious.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>New counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies are poison.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies are not poison. Poison is poison, and poison is everywhere, in the water we drink and the air we breathe and the plastic that cookies are often wrapped in. If you don’t eat cookies because you think they are poison, you might as well not breathe or drink or sit on your flame retardant-laden sofa, either.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies are full of sugar and are horrible to give to your children and you are a horrible parent if you give cookies to your children because you are essentially killing them.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies are childhood captured in pastry form. They are simple, elegant treats that celebrate the sweetness of life in a cold, hard world. Watch a child eating a cookie and tell me that their eyes don’t light up with joy. Sharing cookies with your children is one of the happiest things you can do together.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-counter-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies make kids want more cookies, and that makes them bounce off the walls and have no attention span and use too many electronics and spell words wrong and fail math and eventually drop out and live in my basement and eat cookies all day long. Cookies ruin children. Cookies ruin lives.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-new counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies do not ruin lives. Cookies are good business. Cookies are a thriving commodity in our capitalistic society. Cookies are vital to the economy. Cookies create jobs for people who bake and sell and market them. Cookies are what makes America great. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Cookies give people diabetes and make their legs fall off and put a strain on health care, draining the economy. Cookies are what’s wrong with America.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hmm… one more time:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Point:</b> <i>Cookies are good.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Brand-new counterpoint:</b> <i>You are horrible for thinking that cookies are good.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-brand-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>You are horrible for thinking that cookies are bad.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-brand-new-counterpoint: </b><i>Your opinion is ruining everything.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Counter-counter-counter-brand-new-counterpoint:</b> <i>Your existence is ruining everything.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ll say it again: you can’t win. And if we all can’t even agree on cookies, what chance do you think we have with everything else in the world? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-75609358520256964522013-08-25T00:00:00.000-04:002013-08-25T00:00:06.711-04:00priceland<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If the world was like <i>The Price is Right</i>, everyone would be so happy just to be here. There’d be excitement in the air every day, just because of all of the possibilities.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Everyone would wear colorful shirts, and no one would complain at all, even though they’d been waiting in line for hours. People of all walks of life, of every race and gender and age, from every corner of the planet, be they students or grandparents, servicemen/women or dancers, tourists or natives, teachers or freelancers, would all live in this euphoric utopia, cheering each other on. Gay and straight, married and single, Republican and Democrat, rich and poor, the pious and the sinful, they would all sit happily all side by side by side, not giving a hoot about cultural labels of any kind. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’d be no bitterness, even if someone bid a dollar more than you. There’d be no disappointment, because even the ones left in Contestants’ Row go home with something, even if it’s only Rice-A-Roni. The only violence would involve overly enthusiastic hugs and perhaps the occasional sting of an intense high-five.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">People would be thrilled with whatever possibilities lay ahead of them, even if those possibilities were nothing but furniture or cookware. Nobody would turn their nose up because they’re playing for a boat they’d have no use for in their landlocked hometown. No, sir. They’d clap and smile and look giddy at the sheer hope of it all.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Even losers would be cheered for trying, sympathized with for failing, and they’d still get to spin the big wheel. They wouldn’t be bullied or made to feel small, ever. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And if you listened and were smart, you would be absolutely guaranteed to win the Clock Game. You wouldn’t have to know anything. Think about that. You wouldn’t have to know anything, and yet with a little common sense and concentration, you could go home with two nice prizes and a thousand dollar bonus. That’s a world I would not mind living in. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If the world was like <i>The Price is Right</i>, there would be so much more presence and actual being in the moment. You’d never see anyone texting or distracted by their Twitter feed. The air would be thick with <i>whoooooos</i> and upbeat music and pure joy. A triumph would be punctuated by <i>dings</i> and <i>whoop-whoop-whooooops</i>. Even your tragic losses come with the sound of apologetic horns. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You’d never be made to feel stupid, either, because each game would be thoroughly explained to you before you played it, and you’d never forget anyone’s name because everyone would be wearing giant yellow name tags. And if you happened to be stumped by the price of Eggland’s Best eggs, the entire crowd would be more than happy to help you out. Everyone else would be there to support and encourage their fellow human beings. Everyone would genuinely want to help others win, even though they wish they were up on that stage. It wouldn’t be a petty place at all. Can you imagine that?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But of course the world is not like <i>The Price is Right</i>. Instead, there is pettiness galore. If someone does the equivalent of bidding a dollar over you, there will be blood drawn. In this world, people point and laugh at losers. People scoff at being given carpeting, without a shred of gratitude. And nobody wants to wait in line, ever. Plus, there are way fewer saturated colors, and way less of an illusion of pure sunshine indoors.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Still, we do live in a world where there is a full hour of this example of unfathomable human harmony (and also fabulous prizes) broadcast five days a week. It may not be world peace, but it’s a-few-hundred-people-at-a-time peace. And even if you are, like me, a Time Warner Cable customer whose CBS has been temporarily blacked out, it’s still out there somewhere, even if you can’t see it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I guess we could do a lot worse. I mean, it’s not like a world where no matter what idiotic thing you say, people tell you<i> good answer, good answer</i>… even when it is most definitely not a good answer. That’s why no one writes an essay about how great it would be if the world was like <i>Family Feud</i>. (They shouldn’t call that show <i>Family Feud</i>. They should call it <i>Two Families in Denial</i>.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-61157936608926907452013-08-19T00:00:00.000-04:002013-08-19T00:00:03.715-04:00mixed messages<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are, at my 250th post.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I can’t say that I’ve learned a lot from my 249 previous posts, or, for that matter, from my 41 years of living, mostly because everything I’ve learned so far seems to be contradicted by all of the other things I’ve learned.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To wit:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be truthful, but not too truthful. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be honest, but not so much that you reveal your weaknesses. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be frugal, but not a miser. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be funny, but not at inappropriate times.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be pretty, but not intimidatingly so. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be coy, but not a tease.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be healthy, but don’t spend your life at the gym. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be careful, but still take chances. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be brave, but not a reckless idiot. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be strong, but not so stoic that no one can get inside.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be sensitive, but not emotional.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be thick-skinned, but don’t lose your soul. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be successful, but stay humble. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be humble, but not at the cost of success. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be put-together, but don’t look like you put too much thought into what you’re wearing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be ultra-stylish, but don’t carry a $20,000 handbag that looks like it cost $20,000. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be shabby chic, but don’t carry a $5 handbag that looks like it cost $5.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be a bargain-hunter, but don’t go so far as to get a cashier fired over an unaccepted coupon. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be real, but wear makeup. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Wear makeup, but don’t look like you’re wearing makeup. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Lose weight, but don’t say you can’t eat anything at this restaurant. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be thin, but eat burgers all the time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be smart, but don’t make others feel stupid with your big fancy words. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be perfect, but still accessible. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t try to hide your imperfections, but for goodness’ sake, don’t draw attention to them, either.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be young at heart, but not too childish. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be mature, but still have fun. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be silly, but be an adult. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be passionate, but not obsessive. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have focus and drive, but don’t forget to smell the roses. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be proud, but not braggy. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have a sharp wit, but don’t use it to make fun of people. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be cute, but not annoying. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t be too smart, but don’t be an idiot, either. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have faith, but not blind faith. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have hope, but be realistic.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Believe in something, but not something stupid. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Indulge, but not too much or too often. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be pragmatic, but not a wet blanket.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be your own person, but be part of society.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Stand out from the crowd, but not for the wrong reasons. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Own your feelings, but don’t drown in them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t be ashamed of your shortcomings, unless you should be. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be a maverick, but follow the rules. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Break the rules, but don’t be a criminal.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Stand up for what you believe in, but don’t get killed or arrested in the process.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You really need to have kids, but don’t talk about them all the damned time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Get a smartphone so I can reach you in a myriad of ways, but don’t be on it all the time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be someone who is well-connected, but don’t be an obvious networker. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be artistic, but still be able to make a living someday. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be a strong leader, but not a dictator. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Care deeply about animals, but don’t become a crazy cat lady. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Buy lots of things, but not too many. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Compete fiercely and do whatever it takes to bring home the gold, but remember, it’s not about winning. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have an active imagination, but don’t live in your head. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Believe in the magic of fairies and Santa Claus and puppets, but only up to a certain age.</span></div>
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<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t be a bully, but do whatever you can to deflect from your own flaws. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love yourself, but not too much. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Allow yourself to be sad, but don’t invite everyone to your pity party. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Make bold choices, but not ones people might point and laugh at. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t let anybody tell you what to do, but don’t be disrespectful.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be proud of your age and experience, but only if you look younger than you actually are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t trust everyone you meet, but don’t be cynical about humanity.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Create something unique, but just know that it’s all been done before.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The world is a beautiful place, except for a lot of places in the world.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t let anybody tell you “no,” but remember, “no” means “no.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t ever stop thirsting for knowledge, but get some fresh air, Poindexter.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You shouldn’t have to change for people to like you, but a makeover can make you feel so much better about yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t be self-centered, but you have to love yourself before others can.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t be greedy, but capitalism is the backbone of America.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be charitable, but not a bleeding-heart.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You can be whatever you want to be, but life is full of disappointments.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Spread your wings and fly, but stay grounded.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You deserve good things, but the universe owes you nothing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Flaunt your assets, but don’t dress like a whore.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Seek monetary success, but don’t sell out.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be spiritual, but not the nutty-and-talk-to-trees kind.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Search for the truth, but don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be nice, but not a pushover.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be clear, but not condescending.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Live out loud, but not in my damn ear.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Be different, but not weird.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have a routine, but be flexible.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Know everything, but don’t be a know-it-all.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Fix your flaws but be yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">and finally…</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Change the world, but not my life.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-52081099623411621572013-08-13T00:00:00.000-04:002013-08-13T00:00:01.444-04:00dear singers<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here is mostly what Every Sound Guy/Gal says to singers, more or less:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Hey, man, how’s it going? Okay, so this is your mic, and here’s how the mic stand works. Yeah, it’s the kind you squeeze to adjust… right, like that. You got it. Oh, and it’s better if you slide the mic in from the back when you put it back on the stand. The clip is a little wonky. We good here? Ready to check?</i> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, here is what Every Sound Guy/Gal secretly wants to say to singers, but doesn’t ever say because every sound guy/gal is very laid back and cool and would never want to do anything to mess up a show because he’s/she’s just that professional:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Oh, one more thing: don’t drop your mic. I don’t mean by accident. I mean, don’t drop your damn mic at the end of your set like you think you’re some kind of hot shit or something. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t do it. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Microphones are pretty sensitive. I don’t care if someone once told you that they’re indestructible. Nothing is indestructible. It’s not just about denting the screen. There are coils and ribbons in there. That shit is aligned. You think dropping something can’t hurt it? Would you like me to drop your phone that I borrowed from you at the end of my call because I just won an argument? </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I don’t understand you singers. It’s like you don’t even understand this very tool that you rely so heavily on. You want a mic, you need a mic, and then when you’re done with it, you drop it on the ground like you didn’t really want or need it at all? How the fuck does that make sense? How can you not appreciate your microphone?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I’ve been through the drill: you’re gonna stand there at sound check and bitch about the way your mic sounds, that it’s not high enough, or that there’s too much treble or too much bass, and you never once actually think about how amazing it is to have this tiny little piece of engineering that amplifies sound so beautifully, do you? Of course you don’t. You don’t even know how great you have it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>You wanna go back to freakin’ vaudeville and amplify your voice with one of those damn megaphones? You wanna do that “vo-vo-dee-o-doh” shit? You wanna be Rudy fuckin’ Vallee? Then fine. Go get a megaphone for 5 bucks and you can drop that shit as much as you want. You can smash that damn thing over the drummer’s head. I don’t care. It’s fucking cardboard. This is electronics, man.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Also, someone has to pick up that mic off the floor afterward. Yeah. You don’t think about that, do you? Hell, no. You’re only thinking about how everyone in the audience is going to tweet “Mic drop - DONE! BOOM!” and they’ll be in awe of you. Guess who’s not in awe of you? Guess who has to clean that thing off because you’ve stuck it in your mouth all night and then dropped it on this nasty stage? You have no idea where this stage has been. No idea. A stage is basically the bottom of one giant shoe. And now everything on the bottom of that giant shoe is stuck to the saliva that you got all over my microphone.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>That’s right. My microphone. My equipment. My very expensive equipment. I had to stand in line at B&H for that. Have you ever been to B&H? It’s a madhouse. You have to wait in three different lines just to buy a cable. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>And it could be a rental. You don’t know. Rental places are ruthless, man. They don’t care who did the damage. I’m the one who has to pay for it. Would you want me to drive a car that you rented, and proceed to put a huge dent in it just because I think I’m badass, and then hand it over to you without so much as an apology? Do you think Hertz gives a shit that the crowd went wild? Let me tell you something. They do </i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><i>not</i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I can guarantee you that if singers had to bring in their own sound equipment, they wouldn’t drop the mic. No way. And if someone decided, hey, let’s start dropping mics, you know what would happen? Someone would invent a stage pillow to drop the mic onto. Yeah they would. This little soft pillow that would be strategically placed onstage to catch and cradle the mic gently when it was dropped. There’d be some huge Kickstarter campaign for mass production of these little mic pillows and stage cushions. There’d be sequined ones on Etsy. Because no one would want any harm to come to their own microphone. No way.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>But my mics? My carefully-purchased-and-selected-on-the-basis-of-sound-needs mics? You just treat them like shit. Not even a second thought. Drop, drop, drop, thinking you look amazing when you do it. You don’t look amazing. You look like an ass who has no regard for other people’s property, that’s what you look like. You look like a toddler who doesn’t know how to hold things yet because his hands are still too chubby. You look like you have depth perception issues and can’t see the mic stand. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>This is about respect, man. Respect. Respect the mic. It’s been good to you. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Okay. Have a good show.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Granted, I am not a sound guy/gal, and this post is pure speculation on my part. And I’ve <i>whoooo-</i>ed at a good mic drop. But I have been to B&H, I have bought microphones, and I have experienced empathy.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Respect the mic, kids.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-53959992675981699762013-08-07T00:00:00.000-04:002013-08-07T00:00:01.806-04:00rejection letter<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">An odd thing happened when I tried to post something to this <b>web…blah…log</b> earlier this year. I got the following form letter:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Thank you for your submission to the Internet. Unfortunately, at this time, we are no longer seeking mindless personal essays such as the one you have tried to post. As we are sure you can understand, we already have so many of these that we simply have no more room for them. If in the future the day comes when anyone actually takes down his/her rambling stories about that time he/she did something seemingly innocuous that led to a disastrous adventure and ultimately taught him/her a life-changing lesson, making room for other such literary selfies, we will contact you. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>It may also be of value to you to know other things that we are no longer able to accept:</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Chocolate chip cookie recipes. We have every possible variation known to man -- including chocolate chip cookie recipes that do not even call for chocolate chips -- and are simply not in need of any more. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Pictures and videos of any baby animal: puppies, kittens, pandas, chicks, piglets, bears, orangutans… especially pictures of them nestled in unexpected places, like jack-o-lanterns or teacups or salad bowls. Seriously. Stop. You’re killing us. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Porn. We have more porn -- of every imaginable kind -- than anyone could possibly look at in a lifetime, even if that lifetime was spent entirely in a parent’s basement. Even the most obscure fetishes (i.e. prisoners’ toenail clippings) are represented by shots, videos, and stories that number in the quadrillions. If that’s not enough porn for you, then you need to start your own Internet. Go ahead. We dare you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>All-cap screeds, manifestos and conspiracy theories. (This has become a liability issue as well, but mostly it’s because now people are writing all-cap screeds, manifestos and conspiracy theories *about* the all-cap screeds, manifestos and conspiracy theories, and it’s just getting way too creepy.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Off-topic comments. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Pictures and videos of your children. We know, they are adorable. And yes, they are special. And of course, you want the world to see them, because your angels are nothing like anyone else’s. But that’s why Man invented wallet-size photos and lockets. Annoy people face-to-face like your ancestors used to do. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Count Chocula - Frankenberry - Boo Berry fan fiction. It’s not that there’s a lot, but there’s enough.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Made-up bullshit quizzes about how to figure out which “Mad Men” character you are, or what kind of ice cream flavor reflects your personality. We love wasting time, too, but seriously, nobody’s getting anything done anymore. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>YouTube videos of stupid people doing stupid things. Really, we have more than enough already, thank you. And no, we don’t need smart people doing stupid things, either. We have plenty of stupid things on video. Trust us. We’re good.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Recaps of television shows written by contributors who are paid by the word and clearly believe that on the Internet, “recap” is another word for “AP English book report.” We’d rather use our available space for actual TV shows that people can just sit and enjoy, not pick apart until all the fun is sucked out of them. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Also, we are filling up fast with selfies and latte art. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>We thank you for your continuing interest in the Internet and hope you will try to submit to us again soon. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Sincerely,</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>The Internet</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">(Needless to say, this didn’t really happen. But don’t you wish every now and then that it did?)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i> </span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-10386728121679300622013-08-01T00:00:00.000-04:002013-08-01T00:00:07.294-04:00apology<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Whenever a public figure messes up -- or, rather, messes up and gets caught -- said public figure usually puts on his most contrite face, stands in front of a podium, and no matter what the scandal actually is, recites the same, generic, carefully worded speech:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Ladies and gentlemen, and members of the press, I stand in front of you today asking for your forgiveness. It seems that my actions have wronged and offended some of you, and for that I am deeply sorry. I hope that we can all get past this lapse in judgment and move forward. Thank you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It never seems satisfying, does it? That’s because it’s not a real apology that says “Oh, man, am I sorry” but rather “I’m sorry that I have to apologize, but my very valuable future depends on it.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I am waiting to hear an apology that sounds a little more like this:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Good afternoon, everyone.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I gotta tell you, this stinks. And that’s a kind word for it. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Man, I thought I’d get away with this one. I’ve gotten away with so much already. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>And I know that I really blew it when I tried to deny that I did it. But you can understand why, right? I mean, when you were little, and you broke that window or ate those cookies, you tried to cover it up, didn’t you? Of course you did. That’s natural. That’s human. We’re all human. We mess up and then we think, hey, if I pretend like I didn’t do it, and then believe in that lie hard enough, maybe I can actually convince myself and the rest of the world that it never happened. Well, that’s what happened here. So much so that I can't actually remember why you're all mad at me.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>So now we’re looking at me having done two terrible things: the terrible thing and then the lying about the terrible thing. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Now, I could stand here and lie to you some more. I could say that I’m sorry when I’m really just sorry that I got caught. I could say that there were outside forces at work when, let’s face it, it was all my own doing. And I could tell you that I’m never going to have such a horrible lapse in judgment again… but I can’t predict the future. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I’d love to think that I will learn from this mistake, and I very well may do that. I might live the rest of my days a clean and scandal-free human being. I hope that’s the truth, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that hope a reality. But when you’re a public figure, things get screwed up fast, faster than you have time to process what’s actually happening.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>So, I don’t know what to tell you now. I really am sorry this happened because it messed up everything. Everything. You’re all making fun of me now and calling me names and now I can’t sleep. But then again, I can’t really blame you. If I were you and I saw what someone like me did, I’d tell that person that he was a great big steaming pile of dung. So I guess that makes me a great big steaming pile of dung. And trust me, when you’re a great big steaming pile of dung, it’s not fun anymore.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Like I said, this stinks.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m a great big steaming pile of dung. I’ll say it every day if you want me to, until you’re satisfied with my apology. I’ll stand on the street corner with a sign if you want me to. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>But at some point, we all have to go back to living our lives until some other great big steaming pile of dung comes along that we can all point and laugh at. And if you could make that time when we all go back to living our lives sooner than later, that would be really great for all of us, I think. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m not holding my breath for a speech like this, though. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Of course, it would be hilarious if someone in the midst of a scandal plagiarized this speech and thusly created another scandal. (They never learn, do they?) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-27965821439395322532013-07-26T00:43:00.000-04:002013-07-26T00:43:14.664-04:00fine line<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ten years ago this month, AVENUE Q came to Broadway. It began previews on July 10, 2003 and opened on July 31, 2003. I was in it, making my Broadway debut. Ten months later, the show won the Tony. There are so many things in this paragraph that still seem unfathomable to me, but there you have it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In honor of this anniversary, today’s post is all about the fine, fine lines there are between things. (It was the best song in the show, after all.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve already mused upon the fine line between bravery and stupidity in 2010’s <a href="http://www.stephaniedabruzzo.blogspot.com/2010/11/brave-or-stupid.html" target="_blank">“brave or stupid”</a> (where I referred to it as a “thin line” so as not to cause people to say <i>oh you said the words from that song you once sang!</i>), but thankfully, there are so many other fine, fine lines out there that we can ponder, other than between love and a waste of time, of course. They may not be good lyrics, but they are apt nonetheless:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between extreme self confidence and total delusion.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between a hipster and someone too lazy to look in a mirror.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between a frittata and an omelet.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between gourmet and “there’s sea salt on it.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between being young at heart and being a man-child.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between having exquisite taste and being a complete snob.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between thinking outside the box and not understanding what’s supposed to go inside the box in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between art and garbage.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between sharp comic observation and cruelty.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between vintage and just old.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between being careful and being a coward.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between well-marbled and fatty.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between paying homage and plagiarism.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between funny and sad.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between high fashion and ridiculousness.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between today’s triumph and next week’s failure.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between talented and loud.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between social networking and desperation.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between muffins and cake-for-breakfast.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between kindness and needing a favor.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between expertise and obsession. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between freelancing and unemployment.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between self-deprecation and the truth.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between edgy and just a lot of cursing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between a follower and a lemming.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between dreaming and denial.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There’s a fine, fine line between a reboot and a complete lack of new ideas.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But the finest, finest line of all is the one between a “web...blah...log” and utter nonsense.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-23427113991157320872013-07-20T00:00:00.000-04:002013-07-20T00:00:03.300-04:00hovering<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are, in a parallel universe:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I can’t wait for the day that we finally develop cars that run on the ground, and I don’t understand why we don’t have them yet. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have all this technology, and we can’t make a rolling car? It would be so simple to just take one of our existing flying cars, put however many wheels you think you need on them and then they could move on the Earth. We could create special driving lanes, dedicated just for the cars. It would be so much easier, because I am so damned tired of these sky-jams.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s gotten worse since the drones started becoming so prevalent. Between the drones and the commercial airlines, and the private planes and the recreational gliders, you can’t even fly your car to the corner replicated goods station without getting stuck in traffic. I swear, my flying car spends so much time hovering, it might as well be a damned helicopter!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And these people with their jet-packs! Idiots! They’ll just zip in front of you without even looking where they’re going. Oh, and don’t get me started on those retro-hipsters with their ridiculous hot-air balloons... they’re the reason why we have all this air-rage. I wish I had some darts. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Think about it. If cars just moved on the ground and they happened to crash into each other, the wreckage wouldn’t keep raining down on everyone’s backyards in the lower atmospheres. How great would that be, to not have to keep paying those outrageously expensive roof insurance premiums? It would solve so many problems if we just got rid of all these flying cars. I hate them. I hate my flying car.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I hear that there are some guys in Europe who are working on a rolling-car, but they’re having problems with the design and keeping the costs low. Plus there’s a big issue with ground rights and oversight and what kind of fuel those cars would run on. It’s probably the government’s fault. They don’t want us to have ground-cars. I can’t figure out why. Rolling ground cars would be so amazing. So Earth-age.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Remember when you were a kid, and science fiction was full of rolling cars? Rolling cars, and stationary sidewalks... Everyone was walking everywhere and it looked so cool! They cooked actual food instead of taking these stupid little nutritional pills. And no one was dressed alike! Everyone wore something different! Flouncy blouses, blue jeans, sweaters, ballgowns, tuxedos... none of this shiny mylar unitard crap. They promised us! The future promised us denim!! Denim!!! And motorcycles!! I want my motorcycle!! Do you hear me?!? Why aren’t we living that “Grass Trek” life yet???</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Eh, forget it. This is reality. Some things aren’t meant to be. I should just replicate a cup of digital tea, snuggle up with my robot dog, pretend he’s real, oil up my cyborg extremities and dream of a day where nobody lives forever and this boring-ass life in the sky can finally come to an end.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-3907398731673564622013-07-14T00:00:00.000-04:002013-07-14T12:42:09.747-04:00aspiration<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are, in the mind of someone else:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">by Billy K, age 10</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What I want to be when I grow up is a powerful man who secretly runs the country like on that TV show I heard about.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My friend Alex wants to be president when he grows up. He is a fool. First, the president does not make that much money. Also, you have to shake a lot of hands and kiss a lot of babies to get to be president. I don’t like babies and I think that a lot of people get sick if you shake too many hands. Also, if you are the president and you do something wrong everyone gets mad at you. Really mad. And comedians make fun of you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But if you are a powerful man who secretly runs the country, no one knows if you have done something wrong or makes fun of you, because nobody knows who you are or even that you are secretly running the country because it’s a secret. And you never have to kiss any babies, and you make way more money than the president does, I bet. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Plus, you get to actually run the country, not just pretend like the president does, and I think that would be cool. People would have to do whatever you tell them to do and you get them to make whatever laws you want them to make. Like if you want a law that lets you have more candy than other people, then you can make that happen with maybe just a phone call or a secret meeting like you see in movies. You have to talk to a lot of senators, but that’s okay. I can handle that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I think it would be great to be able to get whatever I want and also run the country without having to make speeches or anything like that. It’s even better than being a spy, even though spies are cool, because if no one knows that you secretly run the country, then no one will try to kill you like they try to kill spies.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I don’t know how you get the job of being a powerful man who secretly runs the country, but I hope that I can do it someday. Maybe I can write a letter to the president and ask him if he knows the guy who has the job now and if he can put me in touch with him, and then maybe I can get some advice on how to do that. Or maybe you just start telling people what to do and see what happens. Maybe if I start telling people what to do now, I can work my way up to telling more important people what to do until the person I am telling what to do is the president. That sounds like a pretty good plan.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That is what is good about America. Anyone can do anything if they just decide to do it, unless someone like me tells them they can’t.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-87022704879821083212013-07-08T00:00:00.000-04:002013-07-08T00:00:09.740-04:00hollywood diet<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ooh, what have we here? A toothy entertainment news gal is chatting up a brand-new-mama actress on the red carpet! Let’s eavesdrop, shall we? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">TOOTHY ENTERTAINMENT NEWS GAL: Oh, my gosh! Here we are, talking to [Brand New Mama Actress], who’s a brand new mama! You look fantastic!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">BRAND NEW MAMA ACTRESS: Thank you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: No, I mean it! You really look fantastic! How did you lose all that baby weight?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: You know, breastfeeding really helped a lot with that. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: Seriously? Because your transformation is so incredible. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: And of course, there was some diet and exercise, too.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: That’s it? Because you just gave birth a month ago and you were the size of a house!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Well, it was a lot of exercise. A lot. I actually can’t stop. In fact, standing here and talking to you now is the longest I’ve gone without exercising. But I’m trying to do isometric squeezes as we speak.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: But my goodness, you were huge! And now you’re just this little slip of a thing! There must have been more to it than just that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: To be honest, all I eat are chia seeds.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: But come on, sweetie, look at you! Chia seeds and nonstop exercise did all this in just one month? I don’t believe that. You don’t go from whale to frail in 30 days without some sort of secret formula!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: I did take up smoking. That helped control my appetite. I mean, I don’t even want to eat the chia seeds anymore. Sometimes I just have a teaspoon of sriracha at noon and I’m good for the day. So, that’s a little boost. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: A little boost? Oh, please, hon. You look stunning! There’s nothing left of you! Those tabloid pictures of you coming home from the hospital were brutal! I would have killed myself if I ever looked like that!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: The tapeworm I swallowed got me sick, so that helped things along. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: See, tapeworms never work for me. You lucky thing. But still. You lost a ton of weight in no time at all. I’m not even exaggerating. A literal ton.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: I’ll admit that I also had a bit of liposuction. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: It had to be more than a bit, darling. Everyone thought you’d destroyed your career, you looked so fat and hideous! And now you’re so healthy-looking! Look at your shoulder blades! They look so sharp and healthy! And that breastbone crater you have now is just gorgeous. You’re such a vision of what every Hollywood starlet should look like.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Yeah, I had the lipo pretty much everywhere. I haven’t been able to pick up my baby since I had her because of all the abdominal bruising when the suction tube hit my muscle wall. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: Well, it’s been worth it, because you look absolutely terrific. Congratulations on such a huge accomplishment.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: And the cocaine really helped speed up my metabolism. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: (to camera) Okay, let’s cut. (to MAMA) You know what? We really don’t want to encourage drugs to our audience. It might give them the wrong idea, and we in entertainment news don’t want to be seen as being irresponsible to our younger viewers. So why don’t we start this interview over again and when I asked you how you dropped that 60 pounds of baby weight in a month, you just say “breastfeeding,” okay?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Okay.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: But you really do look amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Thank you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: By the way, do you have any upcoming projects?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: I’m supposed to start a new movie in a couple of weeks, but I need to take off five more pounds first.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: You are vomiting, right?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Oh, fuck yeah.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: But don’t say that on camera.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Say what, <i>fuck</i> or <i>vomiting</i>?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: Vomiting.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">MAMA: Of course. I know I’m a role model.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">GAL: Well, you have another twenty pounds to go before anyone calls you a model. Okay, let’s start this again. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-2176455804685409212013-07-02T00:00:00.000-04:002013-07-02T00:00:04.128-04:00al fresco thanksgiving<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Two summers ago, I wrote the post <a href="http://www.stephaniedabruzzo.blogspot.com/2011/07/christmas-in-july.html" target="_blank">“christmas in july,”</a> likening Independence Day to essentially a secular, summertime Christmas. It seemed like a decent analogy at the time. Both holidays revolve around vacations and food and department store sales. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was dead stupid wrong. Independence Day is not secular, summertime Christmas. Christmas is global and ancient. Christmas is presents and peppermint. Christmas is silent and holy. The Fourth of July is none of these things. The Fourth of July is American and gluttonous and filled with illegal fireworks.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">No, Independence Day is casual, summertime Thanksgiving. Our big celebration in the seventh month of the year is exactly like our big celebration in the eleventh month of the year, only hotter and al fresco. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of Dad holding court with a carving knife in his hand in front of the turkey, he holds court with a barbecue fork and tongs in front of the grill. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of relatives gathering around the dinner table, they gather around the picnic table. Plates are still piled high, but the plates are disposable. Instead of gravy dripping everywhere, it’s barbecue sauce and ketchup and mustard that stains your shirt. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is much corn either way. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of watching football, we watch baseball. And when it comes to counter-programming, instead of watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, we watch dogs of another kind go down in the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. Instead of knowing some network will air the black-and-white classic film <i>Miracle on 34th Street</i>, you know some network will air the black-and-white classic film Y<i>ankee Doodle Dandy</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of Macy’s putting on a huge parade complete with celebrities singing big powerful ballads, Macy’s puts on a huge fireworks display, complete with celebrities singing big powerful ballads. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">While Thanksgiving is filled with head-bowing and thankful prayers but mostly <i>now-let’s-eat</i>, the Fourth of July is filled with head-bowing and solemn readings from our Founding Fathers but mostly <i>now-let’s-eat</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And even though Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July are just one day, we somehow find a way to stretch that long weekend into a whole week of nothing really getting done. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Sure, Thanksgiving has more cornucopia centerpieces and sure, Independence Day has more bunting, but both have copious amounts of pie.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, sir. Nothing says America like pie. Come to think of it, nothing says America like stretching that long weekend into a whole week of nothing really getting done, either.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">God bless America indeed. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-74869348926584429862013-06-26T00:00:00.000-04:002013-06-26T00:00:04.002-04:00asylum<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know that America’s birthday isn’t until next week, but I have an early present to give to my country: the assurance that I won’t ever commit treason, and if I did happen to commit treason by accident (say, if I knocked over something at the Smithsonian), I promise not to flee overseas. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I can make this bold statement because I’m pretty confident that I would have no way to navigate the complex waters of international political asylum. At all. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I wouldn’t even know who to call. After hours of just staring at the phone with my finger hovering over the keypad, talking myself out of just dialing numbers at random, and talking myself out of calling Information (<i>could I please get the number of someone in a country that could grant me asylum? thanks, I’ll hold…</i>), I would give up and stay home, eat whatever ice cream was left in the freezer and wait for the authorities to come a’knocking. That’s how bad I would be at being an expatriate traitor. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And even if I </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">did</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> know who to call, I’d feel really awkward about it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Maybe this is just me, but whenever I’m in a situation where I’m asking a friend if I can crash with him/her for a few days while I’m in town, I feel a little uncomfortable, but it’s usually okay because this person is a friend, someone with whom I have broken bread, someone with whom I have shared laughter and conversation. Also, being a friend I am aware not to overstay my welcome, and also that dinners are my treat. But I still get very self-conscious when I make a request to invade anyone’s home and life for any length of time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So imagine, then, calling a total stranger in a foreign country and asking if it’s okay to crash there. <i>Yeah, um, hello, is this Russia? Okay, great, hi… you don’t know me, but I think you know America, right? Right, the America with the United States. That’s the one. Well, I’m from there and now I really can’t be there anymore because I did something that could be seen as not-entirely-legal, so, I was just wondering if you could take me in for, oh, I don’t know, a few decades? Would that be okay? </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And even if I could pass that stage, what happens after the plane lands? I don’t know how that part works. How did Edward Snowden get the cars to be there waiting for him when he landed in Moscow? Whenever I land in New York City - my sweet home, mind you -- even if I’m not on the run from the law, I still have to call the car company after I pick up my bags and then wait for the text confirmation, and half the time you’re waiting forever, or the car they send you is really old and smelly, or the driver goes to the wrong doorway and yells at you for not being in the right place. It's a crazy mess. They never drive up to the tarmac. I bet if you asked, they’d laugh at you. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Is there a special International Asylum Car Company? Can you find them on Google? Do you have to already have an account with them beforehand? You probably do. So if you’re fleeing without a lot of lead time, well, you could be fouled up by something as simple as the lack of a ride.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">These are the things you have to seriously think about before you commit treason. You really have to have your ducks in a row beforehand, and you have to know the right people. Don’t get me wrong, I know some very entertaining people. But they are only the right people if you need a bunch of performers to raise money at a Monday night benefit, or if you have a puppet that you want brought to life. None of their character shoes have phones in them. None of these people puppeteer regimes.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, happy early birthday, America. You can rest easy, knowing that the only asylum I will probably ever seek refuge in is of the rubber-room-n’-straitjacket variety. I bet that's much easier to Google. (And hey, you’ll be the first to know when I do Google it!)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-85155474172895991792013-06-20T00:00:00.000-04:002013-06-20T00:00:03.983-04:00long day<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is so much sunshine. I wake up in sunshine, no matter how early my eyes flutter open. I stay up late, past what seems to be never-ending dusk, and even the night seems less dark. It is absolutely beautiful.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And I can’t stand it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s not for the reasons you’d think. It’s not that I am Pillsbury Doughboy-pale and am prone to spontaneous combustion at precisely the 16th minute of unprotected sun exposure. It’s not that I refuse to subject humanity to my wearing shorts, either.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">No, I can’t stand it because all anyone can think of as the days grow longer is how soon the days will grow shorter, and every day is an implied contest wherein we all must grab, hold, and soak in the most daylight before it is spirited away. <i>Hurry up, get in all that living, because your carefree summer is fleeting and soon it will be autumn, with all of its dark chill, and then it will be winter, where everything turns gray and dies. Did you hear that? EVERYTHING DIES. You can’t prevent December’s death with a picnic, but you should go on one anyway because it’s your last chance! Go! Now! </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Is it just me, or am I too sensitive to the obvious metaphor here?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And of course, it’s always hammered home the loudest on the day of the solstice, all at once a beginning and an end. <i>Summer has begun, but now the days grow ever shorter.</i> Thank you, local newscast with way too many minutes to fill. Thank you for that reminder that no one really needs to be reminded of. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t get me wrong. I love any excuse to eat ice cream, and if that’s what grabbing summer by its hot, burning horns means, then it’s certainly not my place to fight it. But it’s this constant drumbeat of impending doom - <i>Enjoy it while you can because we are all doomed to the inevitable decay that time and cold nights bring! Have a great Summer!</i> - that sinks my soul.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And isn’t it ironic, when you consider that it’s always the day of the summer solstice when we are urged to savor every drop of daylight, to remember that it’s when we are at our most weary, when we are absolutely spent and done, when we are running on nothing but mere fumes of patience and sanity, that we always say:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Man, it’s been a long, long day.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">(And when we say it, we usually don’t mean that we’ve been enjoying ice-cold beverages and fun water sports the whole time. Silly humans, we.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Enjoy that solstice tomorrow, kids!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-36346380978870035942013-06-14T00:31:00.000-04:002013-06-14T00:31:35.714-04:00everyday agita<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know that a lot of big, bad things have been going down this week. But take heart, for it’s not the huge, grand problems in life that give us the most agita… it’s the many, many little things:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>If I throw a few coins into this horrible musician’s guitar case, is it really doing anybody any good at all? Is it encouraging the wrong thing, or is it pity? Or does it not matter when you’re playing for money? I’ve already passed the guy. Do I double back? Is that worse?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>That tweet I just sent... did people get it? Are they laughing? Or is it stupid? Should I just delete it? Or should I send another one to explain it? Why did that person I don’t know unfollow me? Why do I care if an egg avatar thinks I’m worthy to be followed? Wait, is Twitter just a giant game that I let myself get sucked into? Am I an idiot for only realizing that now?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Am I screwing up future generations every time I talk to a kid? Does the kid know I’m lying?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I need to re-grout. I don’t want to re-grout. But I probably need to re-grout, because no matter what I use on the grout, it still looks dingy. Should I get someone to come in and re-grout? Or will that be too expensive? Should I try to re-grout myself? Or will that make it worse? And does anyone really notice my grout, or is it just me? Am I spelling “grout” right? It doesn’t even look like a word anymore. Grout. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I shouldn’t eat that muffin. It’s bad for me. But that salad could be full of salmonella. Do I want an E. coli salad to possibly be the last thing I eat in this life? Am I being overly dramatic or could I actually drop dead today, and not even necessarily from the salad?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Could my browser history be deemed unsavory in a court of law just because I searched for “cartoon character nudity” when wondering why Donald Duck and Winnie The Pooh are pantsless?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Did that dream I had last night mean anything significant? Or was it just a dream? Do dreams forecast the future or do they just amplify our fears? Is it a bad thing that I had that dream? I can’t remember all of it anymore. Why can’t I remember that dream? Am I losing my mind? Or is my mind purposely blocking out that part of the dream to protect myself? Why would my mind need to protect me from my own psyche? Am I going crazy? </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Can I pull off this green nail polish? Is anyone looking at my nails? Why aren’t they noticing the green nail polish? Or do they notice and don’t want to say anything because it looks so bad? Why did I buy that green nail polish to begin with? Is this what a mid-life crisis looks like? Am I old enough to have a mid-life crisis? Why do I care if people notice my green nail polish? Is it so they don’t look at my pores? Is that it? Do I subconsciously know that I need to distract from my pores with ridiculously green nail polish? And if so, what does that say about me?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>It hasn’t rained in a while, has it? That’s not good. They say that our future wars will be fought over water and food. What if I’m really old when there’s a massive water shortage? Should I sacrifice myself and just dehydrate away? How would that work, exactly? Would we get water ration coupons like in World War II? Would I just not use mine, or would I give them to someone else? Would it be a painful death? Or will I even still be living when that happens? Maybe I’ll already be gone. Is that a selfish thought? Am I completely selfish?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>(or) It’s been raining a hell of a lot lately. I keep hearing about the ocean levels rising. I wonder how much they’ll rise in my lifetime.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Why do I keep saying “in my lifetime?” Do I not care about the next generation? Is this that selfish thing again? Or is it just easier to think about my own lifetime, because thinking that far down the road makes me too depressed? </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Did I need to keep that receipt I just threw out? Do I need to prove ownership of this bottle of fabric softener? You never know. It could be my alibi in a murder trial or something like that, because it shows I was at a certain place at a certain time. Damn. I should never throw out anything ever again. But I don’t want to become a hoarder. Damn.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I hope that no one I know saw me buy this embarrassing personal product at this drugstore. I hope I never need to buy anything embarrassing once Google Glass is on the market.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>How should I sign off on this email? Apparently “best” isn’t good anymore, according to that online article I just read. Some people apparently don’t like “best.” I don’t understand why not. Should I care? Should I treat it as sheer opinion, or as fact? Will I be considered a rebel for going against the norm, or will I just be considered annoying for signing off in a way that people don’t like? And how many people really don’t like “best,” anyway? Maybe the person who wrote the article interviewed the only three people in the entire world who don’t like “best.” Maybe the person I’m writing to right now prefers “best” to “sincerely.” No one is that sincere these days. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Do I sound old when I say “these days?” I bet I do. Should I try to sound younger, or would that just sound ridiculous? </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Did that baby just give me the stink-eye?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Times are tough. Maybe I should grow a garden. But am I potentially taking away income from the people who have stands at the farmer’s markets if I grow my own produce? Is that bad for the economy? And would the rabbits just eat the whole damn thing, anyway? Should I be feeding rabbits? Is it like feeding pigeons? Where are rabbits on the food chain, anyway? Are they important to the ecosystem? Am I rationalizing all of this because I don’t really want to put the work into growing a garden and need an excuse not to do it?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I am way too embarrassed to ask if this trendy thing I am eating smells funny, because maybe it’s supposed to smell that way, and then I’d feel like an idiot who doesn’t know how this trendy food is supposed to smell. Am I worthy of eating this trendy food? Am I shallow for waiting in line to try this trendy food?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>If I admit to being shallow, does it make me less shallow? What if I’m just a little bit shallow, or selectively shallow? Or does it not matter what degree of shallow you are, only that you are, in fact, shallow? Because I keep coming back to the green nail polish. Shallow no longer seems like a real word, either. Shallow. Grout.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Should I have used an emoticon in that last text I sent? Should I have not?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Should I bother dusting if the dust is just going to come right back? Is that a metaphor for life? You just keep chasing the dust, and in the end it’s all just dust? Should I be thinking this deeply about dust?</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And this, kids, is why we self-medicate.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-38728762288688635832013-06-08T00:00:00.000-04:002013-06-08T00:00:07.120-04:00after-living the dream<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Come here, honey. Mama wants to talk to you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You know that actor you used to like, sweetie? It’s time you knew the truth. They didn’t send him to a farm like we told you they did. He’s not out in the country with your Uncle Fred. He’s in actor heaven.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But don’t you worry, baby. Actor heaven is a great place. Really it is. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, the actors get to romp and play - doing or not doing trust exercises - all day long only with the actors they like. They don’t have to nod and smile at other people’s personal drama, because there is no personal drama, and there is no personal drama because there is no insecurity, and there is no insecurity because it’s actor heaven.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, tech is a breeze, and there are no critics. The shows run as long as you like, with full houses every night. The best part about actor heaven is that there is no texting. No photography or recording devices, either. And absolutely no chat boards or columnists or bloggers to tear anyone’s performance apart. Believe me, your actor is much happier there.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, you are clothed and fed and housed, and there is no need to schmooze. People actually sleep with people because they genuinely want to. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, there is a show to see and a show to do every night if you want. It’s all favored nations, and no one gets a vocal nodule. Ever. You don’t have to worry about making enough to qualify for health insurance, either, because there is no bronchitis and no laryngitis and no stomach flu. You’re dead, honey. That’s why. But it’s really very nice. If you’re already dead, no one can stab you in the back.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, there are cookies and no acid reflux and you never have to use a Ricola. You never have to pee in the middle of Act II. You never have to treat your job like an audition for the next job, and all of the plays and musicals and films and TV shows are perfectly structured and flawlessly written because there aren’t any studio or network or first-time-producer notes, the writers are grownups, and there are no egos or axes to grind. No one is miscast. No one. Doesn’t that sound like a wonderful place? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, there are no auditions, and no network callback after your fifth regular callback, because everything in actor heaven is offer-only. Your series runs just as long as it needs to in order to tell its story, but when it ends you can easily get another job, without being typecast as the role you just spent seven seasons playing. And in actor heaven, 18-hour days are no problem, because all days are 40 hours long. Turnaround time is always respected and calls are never forced. All the gigs are union, and you get fully vested after only two years. Isn’t that great, honey?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, you’re never forced to create your own jobs unless you really want to. There’s none of this do-a-web-series-so-you-can-get-a-real-job crap. You never have to get buried amid all the puppies and autotuned nonsense on YouTube, and fame doesn’t matter at all. Did you hear that, sweetie? Fame doesn’t matter. Not a damn bit. No one is famous in actor heaven. There are no celebrities, and no reality shows, and no Q scores in sight. Just wide open stages. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, there’s no press, no PR, no red carpets, no stylists, no plastic surgery, no hustling, no plugging. You just get to be an actor. You don’t need retouched headshots or worry about your resumé. You don’t even have to tweet if you don’t want to. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, everyone is the front end of the horse and no one cares what order they’re in at curtain call. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, costume designers never, ever judge your figure. There are juicy roles for every age, every height, every weight, every race, every gender, every type. There are no test screenings or audience surveys, and no one ever gets replaced at the pilot stage. Even the child actors are reasonable and only upstage you when the laugh is absolutely necessary to the storyline, because there are no stage mothers in actor heaven. There are also no agents, no lawyers, no managers, no executives and no slimy producers, only the honest, old-school Sheldon Leonard-types. What about the term “actor heaven” don’t you understand?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, actors can warm up as loudly as they like without their neighbors complaining. They don’t have to show off at karaoke night to prove their self-worth to no one in particular.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, people don’t ask you what you’re working on next just to make themselves feel superior. Everyone is too busy having fun after-living the dream of being a working actor to need to feel superior to anyone.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, there are no awards to compete for, no bitterness, no snubs, and every show has equally wonderful craft service with ice cream sundaes every Friday, and everyone actually eats real food. There aren’t any who-wore-it-betters or gossip columnists or baby bumps. The one and only downside is that there aren’t any goody bags. But you don’t need goody bags in actor heaven. Don’t cry. Trust me. It’s so much better than goody bags, hon’.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In actor heaven, no one has to put up with divas. Divas go to Hell. But that’s another story for another time, sweetie. You don’t need to worry about that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Believe me, child. Your actor is in a better place now.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-2622842443843565652013-06-02T00:00:00.000-04:002013-06-02T00:00:06.600-04:00gaps<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m a member of Generation X, strictly by nature of my being born in 1971. Being a member of a generation is the only membership that no one signs up for, yet it still defines you. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For a while, we were the worst. Just the worst, with our flannel and grunge and tragic realization that none of us would ever get a pension, ever. We were deemed worse than the Baby Boomers, if you can believe that... and </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">they</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> were the ones who created disco and took all that cocaine and became yuppies and gave my generation the idea of helicopter parenting!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Thankfully, Generation Y and the Millennials came along to usurp our place atop the Worst pile, they with all their texting and streaming and usage of the word “totes” and refusal to pay for entertainment or news content of any kind.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The only generation currently alive that seems to have escaped the negative labels is the Greatest Generation. But that’s only because no one was officially naming generations until the Greatest Generation was older and better known as being made up of war heroes and Depression survivors. Their parents, in the Suffrageneration, would have laughed their asses off at the notion that their little whippersnappers, who spent their young days wreaking havoc Little Rascals-style and softening their minds with all that newfangled radio, would become known to history as the Greatest anything. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Of course, the Suffrageneration was a huge headache when its members came of age, too. Bonnet sales went way down, and the girls suddenly started having opinions and short hair. Their parents, the Little Housers, didn’t want their spawn to make history, only butter and preserves. Too bad, Little Housers.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But the Little Housers were no real treat, either, back in their younger days. Their generation made square dances downright scandalous, and their parents, the North-Southers, quickly tired of finding their kids spooning (or worse, reading) in the haylofts. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">See, even before they were documented by pop culture and Wikipedia, the younger generations have always been the worst. In the 1600s, it was the Young Puritans who shocked their parents by not just being pure, but by being </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">outrageously</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> pure. During the Renaissance, it was the Fresco Kids who terrorized the neighborhood with their beautiful vandalism and rampant paint theft. In Ancient Rome, it was Generation XXVII who wore their togas way too short and often went without sandals, much to the chagrin of their parents, the Elders. (Yes, there was a young generation called the Elders, simply because back then everyone was born old and died young.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And don’t forget the first generation to piss everyone off: Generation Ug, who insisted on walking upright. They thought they were soooo great, with their fancy fire and wheels. (Of course, their kids, the Crude Tools, would go on to deface all those cave walls, back when caves were called “yards,” which inspired the phrase “get out of my yard.”)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But hold on to your hats: the iGeneration is graduating from college in another 3-10 years. You’ll know them from the chips implanted in their skulls, and you’ll hate them for officially changing the entire English language by eliminating all vowels and reducing every single word into a syllable or less. That’s right, linguists, they will create the half-syllable. But it won’t really matter since most words will be replaced by emoticons. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Fortunately, Gen Y and the Millennials will be too bitter to notice because they’ll be too distracted by their rampant thumb injuries from over-texting. Us Generation Xers will distract ourselves while we run out the clock quoting old television shows and singing commercial jingles and blogging about vintage toys, and the Boomers will be trying to convince themselves at the age of 90 that they can still change the world. But we’ll all shake our fists together at the iGeneration. Because </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">they’ll</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> be the all-time worst. Not us. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">P.S. I never promised you historical accuracy.</span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-11668758894617449572013-05-27T00:00:00.000-04:002013-05-27T11:28:22.780-04:00happening<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Holy cow. These are exciting times. I mean it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I don’t want to sound conceited, but you wouldn’t believe how full my email inbox is. Not with boring old messages from friends. Not with silly old job offers or invitations to dreary galas and assorted springtime soirees. No, this is really amazing stuff. Big, big news.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Did you know that there’s a really simple way to get your credit score? Yeah. There is. All I have to do is click on the link that was sent specially to me. That’s it! What could be easier than that? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ll tell you what could be easier: discount cigars, that’s what. Yeah. Easy-peasy. All the discount cigars you could ever want, all available to me any time I want. Discounted cigars </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">and</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> printer ink. I know you’re jealous. You should be. They don’t send these emails to just anyone.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Did you know that there’s another Viagra, only it’s spelled “VjaqrRa?” It’s apparently quite exclusive. I’d tell you more about it, but I probably shouldn’t. I think you have to be on a special list or something.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I don’t mean to make you feel bad or left out or anything. I don’t know how I got so lucky, seriously. But I must have done something right to hear about bathtubs that you can actually just walk into. You don’t believe me, do you? A walk-in tub? Sounds made up, right? But guess what? It’s not. I know, right? Crazy space-age stuff we’re talking about here. They’re all over me, those walk-in tub guys. Not to brag or anything like that.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Because it’s not everyone who gets told about dentists in their area or how to get Lasik. That’s right. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">They</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> tell </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">me</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">. I don’t have to Google a damned thing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s pretty sweet, especially to be able to have access to “As Seen on TV Products” without having to wait to see them on TV. Who wants to wait for things? And who wants to go through the hassle of dialing a phone number? (Come on! What year is this, anyway?) I can just take my pick of the 30 emails these guys send me every week and click on the link and I am hooked up, sister. Hooked up. I’d tell you where to find them, but they’re so hush-hush that you can’t even reply to the email. It’s some real clandestine stuff, my friend. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Speaking of clandestine, apparently I could become a Secret Shopper. Did you even know there was such a thing as Secret Shoppers? Of course you didn’t! Because they’re SECRET!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Just like the Classy Watches. Not plain old ordinary watches that just anyone can buy. I’m talking </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">Classy</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Watches. All you have to do is click, and there they are - classy watches. You can tell they’re classy because the brands are spelled exotically. And I barely had to lift a finger to check them out. It’s like the entire world is brought right to me!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Oh, and I almost forgot about the Hot Rewards. That’s right, I said </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">Hot</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Rewards. They’re not just rewards, which are already great, but they’re hot! I told you, things are really happening for me these days! These people are beating down my door! It’s amazing!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Crap. You know what? I think I’ve said too much. It’s kind of an honor to be on these lists, and I don’t… just… never mind. Forget I said anything. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But you know, it’s just a lesson to never give up hope, because you never know: someday you too could become eligible for a Subway gift card just for taking a simple survey! Think about that! Free sandwiches, just for answering a couple of questions from the privacy of your own home! I bet the gift card would be good for chips and cookies, too. Their cookies are pretty good, when they’re fresh. So maybe that could happen to you someday!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I mean, providing you know the right people on the Internet.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-47494663597198569162013-05-21T00:00:00.000-04:002013-05-21T00:00:09.338-04:00dreams and candy<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">From the time you’re a wee peanut, you’re aware of your dreams and all of the lovely things you hope will come true in life. As you grow up, you’re encouraged to follow your dreams, and you attach your heart to successful mentors who stand at lecterns and assert that with hard work and a little luck, your dreams can come true. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, there are not-so-lovely things that no one tells you about dreams, mostly because it would make the worst graduation speech ever. But since I’m a person who insists that inspirational graduation speeches from successful people are boring and often unmemorable (as I implied in 2011’s <a href="http://www.stephaniedabruzzo.blogspot.com/2011/06/pomp.html" target="_blank">“pomp”</a>), let’s lift the veil and expose some truth… just in time for the start of commencement season. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We’ll try to keep it light, though: Let’s say that your ultimate dream-of-all-dreams is to live in a house made entirely of candy. (Hey, it’s no more ridiculous than wanting to win a statue of a little gold bald man, or to make a living as a puppeteer.) You’ve wanted to live in a house made entirely of candy as long as you can remember, and if that dream ever came true, you just know that you’d be happy forever and ever and ever. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Using that as our example, here come the cold, hard facts about dreams, kids:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams do come true, with persistence and hard work:</i> You can go to pastry school, engineering school, and architecture school. You can spend untold hours handcrafting the building materials out of the finest ingredients. You might toil for months, even years putting it all together, but it is not completely out of the realm of reality for someone to be able to create a dwelling that is completely made of candy. It takes a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and sugar to get to that home sweet home.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, but you might have to buy them:</i> You could hire all the right people for your research, design, construction, and confectionary team, and that doesn’t come cheap, my friend… but with deep enough pockets, any dream can become a reality! (I’d list examples of people who purchased their dreams, but I don’t think I need to.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, with a lot of luck:</i> Who knows? You could win a candy house in a contest! You could find a genie or a monkey’s paw and simply wish for a candy house to appear out of nowhere! You could bid pennies on the dollar for a candy house that was seized from mobsters in a police auction! You could have a candy house fall on a wicked witch and you happen to be her next of kin! Who cares how it happens, only that it happens! Done!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true due to a sheer lack of luck:</i> Just one load-bearing candy wall that was boiled at the wrong temperature because of a malfunctioning thermometer or a copper pot with a tiny imperfection, can shatter and destroy everything. A simple gelatin mixup at the marshmallow factory can impact the integrity of your roofing. Global conflicts or unfortunate weather patterns can negatively affect sugar cane crops. And goodness knows what might transpire if you happen to look exactly like your cocoa distributor’s ex-girlfriend and he has a vengeful streak. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true, but it’s not your fault:</i> There are laws and zoning issues and building codes that would most assuredly prevent the creation of a 100% candy domicile in most states and counties. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true, and it might be your fault:</i> Just sitting at home eating Skittles and crossing your fingers isn’t going to get you that house made of candy, no matter what the Internet and YouTube would have you believe. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, but sometimes they don’t </i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><i>stay</i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i> true:</i> One good rain, one invasion of ants, one pair of kids named Hansel and Gretel… these are things that will eventually erode that dream house. And then what? Your dream came true and then it was gone. Is that a happy ending or not? Is there another dream you can turn to? What now?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams probably shouldn’t come true, and that’s for the best:</i> After a few months of living in a house made entirely of candy, your shoes will no doubt start sticking to the floors. Crumbs will become embedded in the candy countertops. Let’s not even speak of the toilet situation. You are better off without this dream, and maybe you don’t want to realize that the hard way.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, but when they do come true, they’re not at all what you thought they would be:</i> When you dreamed of living in a house made entirely of candy, you probably dreamed it because you wanted to be surrounded by - and especially eat - candy all day long. But if you actually did build and live in a dream house made entirely of candy, you wouldn’t be able to eat it at all… because you don’t want to destroy your own home. Also, the calories. Also, after a day or two of chewing on your Snickers end tables, I can guarantee that you’ll desperately want to cook a steak, and you’re not going to be able to do that on a lollipop grill. Also, streams of tourists will be trampling your bubblegum begonias as they take pictures of your magical candy house all day long, and that will get old fast. You never thought of all that when you dreamed of living in a candy house, did you? Of course you didn’t. No one ever thinks of the downside of dreams. No one even thinks there </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">could</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> be downsides to dreams.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, but they might change you:</i> How could you possibly live in a house made entirely out of candy and not be changed? Just the expectations that come with living in a candy house alone would probably cause stress of some sort. Could you ever live up to them? Also, you’d likely become paranoid that others were out to steal your candy. You’d accuse loved ones of being jealous of your house. You’d become obsessed with maintaining every grain of sugar on every gumdrop, especially during pollen season. And you’d never, ever have a puppy. Not to mention the effects of your inevitable, crippling sugar addiction. Yes, you’d become the witch who stuffs Hansel and Gretel in the oven. Is this dream worth giving up who you are, or who you always wanted to be? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true, but that might lead to something better:</i> Maybe your candy house didn’t come to fruition, but in the midst of that pursuit you found great joy and satisfaction in sugar sculpting, something you’d never thought of doing before. Or you may find that what you really wanted all along was to live in a plastic house that just </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">looks</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> like it’s made of candy. It may not be your original dream, but it’s a happy existence… and a happy existence is an amazing thing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true until long after you’d given up on them, and when they do, they might be a little different:</i> Perhaps it won’t be until there’s just the right 3D printing technology, genetically modified sugar beets, or heat-resistant chocolate, that candy houses are a reality… so you might have to settle for living in a candy retirement facility. Or maybe you’ll have to compromise a little once you realize your dream may be ahead of its time, and dwell in a house made entirely of nuts. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams don’t come true, but that doesn’t make you a faulty human being, and vice versa:</i> A good person who failed to live her dream in a candy house is still a good person. A rotten person who succeeded in living her dream in a candy house is still a rotten person.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Finally...</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Some dreams come true, but they don’t automatically make everything in your life better:</i> Even if your candy house was a domestic utopia, you’d still have to face the same illnesses, the same taxes, the same headaches and struggles that everyone else does... you’d still experience all of the everyday heartaches and pains that come with life. And yet, everyone on the outside looking in to your candy-filled lifestyle will say, <i>What does she have to complain about? She lives in a freaking candy house!!!... </i>even if a candy house doesn’t help your broken leg heal any faster or fix your dented fender or prevent deeply personal crises from overtaking your soul. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">These truths are not intended to be rain on a candy house. By all means, keep dreaming. We need dreams to drive us forward, to give us hope, to innovate and to prevent us from becoming useless clumps of cells. But all dreams require perspective and a dash of reality to keep us grounded. If we define ourselves by our dreams and only our dreams, we are bound to be disappointed on some level. Better to put in the lion’s share of work on our selves than our somedays. After all, isn’t it better to be a quality person, with or without a candy house?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And now you know why I’m not speaking at any commencements this spring or getting endorsement deals from M&M Mars. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">P.S. By the way, I did forget to mention that sometimes, dreams do come true for all the right reasons, they stay true, they are everything one hoped the dreams would be, there is no downside or personal cost, no one is hurt or changed by them, everything is magically okay, and life is long, sweet, and full of literal and figurative candy until a quiet, peaceful death that comes in one’s sleep. Of course, this happens to approximately four people every 100 years, and none of them are you. </span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-38256751615064043022013-05-15T00:00:00.000-04:002013-05-15T00:00:02.862-04:00twitter psa<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It has been exactly two months since I joined Twitter under my actual name. I have learned much in this time, and since I work a lot in educational television I feel that it is my responsibility to pass on some of that learning to my devoted dozens. Also, just in case I ever do anything bad, maybe this can act as pre-emptive community service, since I don’t think I can pull off the orange-vest look. So, here now is a public service announcement...</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">HOW TO ENSURE THAT YOU WILL NEVER SEND OUT AN EMBARRASSING, INFLAMMATORY, OR INSULTING TWEET THAT WILL HAUNT YOU FOREVER:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Compose tweet but do not send out </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Check tweet for spelling and grammar</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Make sure that the app you use for spelling and grammar is trustworthy and not one that you got free with the counterfeit wallet you bought out of the trunk of a 1975 Firebird (not that such apps exist, but you can never be too careful)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Check tweet for sanity and clarity</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Count to ten</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Go get a snack</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Eat snack slowly</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Go back to tweet</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Double-check tweet for sanity and clarity</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Check tweet for accuracy (for example, if your tweet is in reference to a celebrity death you just found out about on Twitter, make sure said celebrity is actually dead)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Read a book</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Read another book</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Watch the movies based on those books</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Wash your face</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Walk the dog. If you don’t have a dog, maybe go get a dog</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Go back to tweet</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Triple-check tweet for sanity and clarity</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Check tweet for inflammatory watchwords; consider that even something seemingly innocuous like “bacon” may be an inflammatory watchword today based on some random event you might not have heard about yet</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Go back and forth about whether to use that serial comma or not</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Look up what “serial comma” means, then engage in online debate about it for several days</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Go back to tweet</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hover over “tweet” button, do not click</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Delete tweet</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Compose entirely new tweet but do not send out</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Repeat</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Sure, this defeats the immediacy and entire purpose of Twitter, but now you can rest easy knowing that your embarrassing, inflammatory or insulting tweet will never be embedded in a poorly written HuffPo article for everyone to point and laugh at.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Of course, if you purposely intend to post such an embarrassing, inflammatory or insulting tweet that becomes embedded in a poorly written HuffPo article that everybody points and laughs at just so it possibly brings you that Internet fame you’ve been craving because all other success has eluded you and all you want is notoriety and you don’t care how it happens anymore… you may completely disregard this PSA.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, if that is indeed the case and our paths ever cross, know that I will slap your stupid face.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-89598102224754196122013-05-09T00:00:00.000-04:002013-05-09T00:00:04.726-04:00fancy yokel<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Last week, I had a slightly awkward situation: My Pittsburgh was showing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There we were, husband and I, at the swank-tastic Café Carlyle to see Paul Williams, legend and pal. Fancy nights like these are somewhat rare for us. It’s not that we’re hermits; we’re simply humble… not to mention that there are certain factors that play into whether or not we find ourselves where the elite meet to eat (or alternately, where the refined combine to dine). But when the stars align -- seats are available/schedule is free/nothing good is on TV -- and we find ourselves with the appropriate disposable income, it’s a treat to play dress-up and play the Manhattanites that our zip code suggests we should be.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve been living in New York City for just shy of two decades, and even though I have hit all the necessary rites of passage to call myself a New Yorker, there are times when I walk into the sweller city establishments and can sense every affluent head snapping up in unison, like forest creatures who have just smelled Man: <i>something is not right.</i> The waitstaff size me up, and I feel like a Zooey Deschanel character without the huge eyes and inherent charm. I smile, and hope that my new lipstick will fool them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Can they tell that I don’t drink, and therefore will not be running up a giant tab? Or is it that I chose not to check my coat? Neither of these actions are cost-cutting: I rarely drink, and I’m usually chilly. (There must be something about the wealthy and well-bred that prevent them from being cold. The ladies are always sleeveless.) Or do they know the truth - that I’m from Pittsburgh?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pittsburgh is not a hick town by any stretch of the imagination, even if it’s technically flyover country. It has more than its share of culture, this city that gave the world Warhol and Wilson and Carnegie, the city where Previn held the baton and where radio was born, the city of cathedrals and rivers. But it’s also a land of pierogies and Steelers and cans of Iron City Beer washing down a hoagie. To put it bluntly, no restaurant would dare open near the Three Rivers that offered a $75 fish, even for the richest, snootiest Pittsburgher who’s working to ditch the accent. Granted, I’ve been gone a while. But I don’t think I’m wrong about the fish. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I shouldn’t care about any of that. I really shouldn’t. But just as I’m not brave enough to wear a Yankees cap at Fenway, so too am I not brave enough to let my Pittsburgh show at fancy times, wherever the glitterati embody to party. Perhaps I tip my hand when I express joy at the fact that the Diet Coke is served in classy little glass bottles, or when they have those fabulous thick hand towels in the ladies’ room (they are great for cleaning glass), but I play it cool as much as I can.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I try to be a polite person under normal circumstances, but when I am nervously treading social waters, my manners go through the freakin’ roof. I suppose it’s my “tell,” to use the gambler’s phrasing. Everything is lovely, nothing is troublesome. Do not even glance at the prices. You have seen and eaten double-digit bisque before. Yes, please, pepper would be lovely. Certainly, yes, bread would be lovely. Everything would be lovely, as there is no other adjective I can think to use other than <i>lovely</i>. And where, may I ask, is the <i>la-va-to-ry</i>? Zooey Dechanel is gone; now I am Jennifer Tilly in <i>Bullets Over Broadway</i>. Charm, charm, charm…</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Paul’s show was fabulous, and the magical thing about the Carlyle, as everyone who has been there will tell you, is the sheer intimacy of the space. You are there and then some, all together, artist and audience communing as one. That room is probably where the term <i>rubbing elbows</i> came from, as there is much of it literally occurring. But the best part is that once the house lights go down and the spotlight comes up, nobody cares where you’re from.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the end of the show, the little leather folios came out en masse. It had been previously established that the evening was my treat. (Lucky am I to have such a progressively-minded husband that he doesn’t mind this at all.) I’d done a mental tally of the cover charge and our appetizers and dessert and several little glass bottles of Coke - diet and classic - and I was ready to splurge. It had been a great night. We never do this. Bring on the truth. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then I started giggling. Uncontrollably. So many numbers. So many gratuity lines. I’d never had the option to tip a captain before. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to Google <i>captain tipping</i>. But I kept giggling. My shoes grew 6 sizes, my dress hung on me like a caftan - I wasn’t a New Yorker enjoying a night out on the town. I was a little girl playing dress-up. A little girl from Pittsburgh, giggling at a fact she could barely fathom:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The little glass bottles of Coke were eight bucks. Each. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s New York’s little secret that no one likes to talk about: no matter how long you’ve lived here, you never truly get over the sticker shock, unless you’ve hit the motherlode. And even then, I would wager that billionaires like Mike Bloomberg would still widen their eyes at the notion of an eight-dollar Coke in a little glass bottle. That’s a dollar an ounce, Mr. Mayor. A buck for ten measly calories. Not even he would have the gall to add a soda tax on top of that. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And I giggled, not just because it was ridiculous, but also because I could hear the thickly ‘Burgh-accented voices of my late grandparents, and my mother, and my uncles, listing all of the other things that eight dollars would buy, as they were wont to do - and still are: <i>You gotta be kidding me! Eight dollars? You could get a *blank* for that! You could get a *blank* plus a *blank* to go with it for that! You gotta be out of your mind! Eight dollars? No thank you!</i> And that was my Pittsburgh showing. Because I was thinking the same thing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I eventually composed myself, grinning in a big stupid way that no one should grin when they are doing math on a number that big. Sure, my Pittsburgh was showing, but if I tipped 22% post-tax, no one would care.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was totally worth it. Plus, I like ramen noodles and peanut butter. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-16147601756365388342013-05-03T00:00:00.000-04:002013-05-03T00:00:08.880-04:00miss<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here are some things that I miss:</span></div>
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record stores</div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the smell of mimeographed paper</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">handwritten letters</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">going to Dairy Queen after the chorus concert</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">trick-or-treating</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the old porch swing</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the thrill of finding a five-dollar bill in a birthday card</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">my grandmother’s cooking</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">not seeing any gray hairs when I look in the mirror</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here are some things that I don’t miss:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the school bus</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the limited selection of Beta movies at the video store</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">garage sale Barbies</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">acne</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the existence of Zima</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">standard-definition TV</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">gym class</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">freezer-burned fish sticks</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the isolation of suburbia without a car</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here are some things that I will someday miss:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">delicious victuals</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">naps</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">music</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">good, hard laughter</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">dresses that fit perfectly</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">walking in the city</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">my 11-inch MacBook Air</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">intoxicating fragrances</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">holding hands</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here are some things that I will not miss at all:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">misogyny </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">racism</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">cruelty</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">idiocy</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">intolerance</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">general crappiness</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">reality television</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">cellulite </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">chest colds</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But mostly, I miss the time before I started thinking about the things I miss and don’t miss... ironically, back when people called me “miss.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me. </i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2398576961242950632.post-2503408392095435222013-04-27T00:00:00.000-04:002013-04-27T00:00:03.817-04:00thanks, pals<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Twenty years ago, right around this time, my life changed. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I didn’t know it was changing at the time. That’s the thing about life changes - you don’t often feel their effects for a long time. But I can pinpoint the spring of 1993 as a real turning point for me. In that time, I won an award for a comedy video featuring puppets that I’d written, produced, and performed in which inadvertently led to my auditioning for the Jim Henson Company, which ran parallel to my being thrust into the life of the man who would become my husband... and six months later, I’d be living in New York City with him, starting my new life trying to get on the very bottom rung of the showbiz ladder.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And none of the cherished Muppet and Sesame and Broadway pals I have today would be in my life at all without my dear friends from twenty years ago: my dormmates at Northwestern, the alums of a place called CRC. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But twenty years ago, I dreaded change. I was too close to graduating, too close to being pushed off the cliff into the abyss of real life, and too close to leaving all of my pals behind. I feared things would never be the same again. I was right about that. Things would never be the same again. That is both good and bad.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">CRC, or the Communications Residential College, was less a dorm and more like a co-ed fraternity-meets-artistic-commune, filled with like-minded, supportive souls who were up for any adventure as long as it was creative and had the promise of fun. Shoot a video at three in the morning in the stairwell? Come on to a freeform campus radio show and play silly characters for an audience of six? Start a really bad band? <i>Yes, yes </i>and<i> hell yes</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And best of all, it was the one place where I felt totally at home and completely, unconditionally accepted.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I got fat and fatter in college. I was trapped in a horrible perm cycle (get a perm, start to grow it out, oh crap I can’t wait that long for it to grow out, get another perm). And while I do blame myself for my own actions that led to these results, I also partially blame my dorm pals... because none of them ever mentioned it to me. And I love them for that. None of them ever openly judged me for my appearance, which also included less and less makeup and darker and darker undereye circles with each passing year. All that mattered was the fun.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And for me, at that time, the fun meant that I was trying to create a sketch comedy show with some misshapen little puppets I’d built, as a way to truly test the waters of television puppetry as a possible career path. Other people outside of my dorm laughed at this, family included. They scoffed. They chortled. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Not my CRC pals. They dove right in with me, giving me their evenings and their talents and their support, all in the name of fun. And I look back on photos of those people who worked on the project with me and I think of who they’ve become in the past twenty years: the sitcom writers and the entertainment pundits, the novelists and musicians, the journalists and professors, the editors and artists. They have huge Twitter followings, they run their own companies, they invent and create and crew, and they are doing incredible things with their lives. And I was lucky enough to have them on my team once upon a time, to believe in me and to never once look at me funny as I pounded down pint after pint of Ben and Jerry’s. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Everyone should have an experience like that. Everyone should have friends like that. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But that was twenty years ago, and like I said, things would soon never be the same again after we all went our separate ways. Change trumps all, and sure, these brilliant souls had to move on with their lives, creating careers and children, and becoming the well-respected people they are today. But I miss them all, and I miss our crazy little commune with its constant promise of adventures, when we were nothing but brand-new voters.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For more than a thousand performances of <i>Avenue Q, </i>on and off Broadway, I sang “I Wish I Could Go Back to College,” and every single time I did, I thought of these people. They’d helped to give me that time on stage, my years under Muppets, my life in New York, without even knowing it at the time. (None of us knew anything at the time. That was the beauty of it. Sometimes I miss being that naïve.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So today, twenty years after the ball of my future started rolling, I find it appropriate to post this little musing as a thank you to those dear friends, and as a reminder to the rest of you readers to take a moment to cherish the high-quality souls in your life who accept you as you are. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To sum up in a bumper sticker fashion: Real friends believe in you, but mostly they let you eat as much ice cream as you want.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Yes indeed. Welcome to me.</i></span></div>
Stephanie D'Abruzzo: blogmastrix, actress, and puppet-ette...http://www.blogger.com/profile/16718435768988281667noreply@blogger.com13