(no subject)

*head on desk, laughing* Oh shit.

I mentioned this, right? Last summer, during my portfolio review with like a third of the school of drama faculty, I mentioned that I thought a conservatory program might burn me out; after all, I felt pretty burned out at the end of six weeks of pre-college. My drafting teacher gave me a look and said, "Really? Because I was trying to burn you out, and I never saw any evidence of it."

Which, you know, is an extremely flattering thing to be told by a member of one of the most prestigious drama schools in the country, in front of a third of the faculty of that highly prestigious drama school.

It's kind of intimidating to learn from your advisor, when you come back, that you still have that reputation.

*shakes fist* Damn you, Type A personality! Daaamn yoooooou!


I'm in a good mood, if you couldn't tell. I had three shots of espresso this morning, followed by creating a brilliant metaphor in Dramaturgy* and having a spirited discussion about art and authorial intent in Interp. & Argument. BWEE.

I have a question, O friends-list, because many of you are author/visual art/theatre/music/whatever types -- artists, in other words. What is art, to you? How do you define it? I've been asked this twice in the last few days, and I'm sure I'll get asked again, and I'm already sick of trying to answer it, so I'm going to inflict it on y'all. What is art?


*Doc: Stuff like Legally Blonde and The Wedding Singer on Broadway have as much depth as a parking lot puddle.

Me: And with that same oily slick on top.

Doc: Exactly. And all the parasites that live in them.

Me: But the oily slick sure makes a lot of pretty colors.

Doc: . . . I really like this metaphor! You should write it down.

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Dramaturg pick-up line:

"Hey, baby, I'm writing a paper on hetairae. Want to help me with some primary research on re-enacting The Marriage of Dionysus and Ariadne?"

So uh, yeah, saw Grindhouse.

*stares* Quentin Tarantino, did you just . . . did you just treat women with respect?

*slaps self* No, no, you spent three-quarters of that movie treating women just the way I expected.

But that last half of "Death Proof" is fucking up my image of you, man! The women were heroes! Granted, they were your heroes, meaning they were cold-bloodedly violent and swearing a blue streak . . . but they were clothed, and one of them was non-traditionally good-looking, and they were your heroes.

WHAT THE FUCK.

That's really all the coherency I can manage. There are a few notes below the cut that aren't really spoilery, but are kinda squicky.

( Screw El Wray, I'm calling him Preston. )

I hope I don't have zombie nightmares tonight.