you're full of cowardice

this week has been flying along at breakneck speeds dangerously close to the ground, grazing the heads of innocent bystanders. it has been long days at the theatre, tours (which have gone remarkably well (save discussions about what perfection is. how does one have a perfect show? not fumble lines? what about exploring space and text and moments and objectives? there are some people whom i tour with who build a crafted performance and they're convinced that it's the best they can do. i want to tell them that you have no idea if you've made the best choice until you've played in they abyss and found out everything that doesn't work. we're smart; use the text and the characters to keep finding specifics and different moments. dont' just say your lines perfectly. who are you helping? don't be a coward.) and now we're in the midst of what looks to be a very shaky tech process for 'taming of the shrew'. another thanksgiving for me will be spent away from family (3rd year running) and it's gonna be a bit of a stressful one because we open the aforementioned Shakespearean comedy the following day. i would love to just drink an entire bottle of cabernet and eat pounds of turkey and take a meat nap, and i hope to do so without this show looming in the distance.
sara palin has a book out, and boy is there buzz !!! here is the best way to read it. or if you would just to read christopher buckley's interpretation of the index, go here. both are, i'm guessing farily accurately, far better than the actual book. even in reading short excerpts from the book, i'm convinced she has the intelligence (and perhaps the temperament and fighting stance) of an Alaskan king crab. just briefly, in the first three pages, she refers to metaphorical train (which fast becomes a mixed metaphor in the next paragraph) as being 'increasingly derailed'.
but i know not much more about it than what i read about it.
speaking of reading, i'm re-reading 'lolita'. boy do i enjoy reading about a page worth of descriptive prose about humbert humbert's erections. if i could write, i would write like nabakov. he's so self-aware and witty and verbose and poppy and effete and daring

until later