ARTISTIC ANGER

When we’re kids, we have far fewer choices. Being a kid means that you have to spend your time filling workbook sheet after workbook sheet with polynomial solutions. It means you have to listen to someone talk at length about the economy of Finland. Sometimes it means canned peas. It means you have to endure things that you didn’t choose.

When we grow up, hopefully, we get a lot more choices about what we want and don’t want to endure. And yet, when it’s time to sit in an audience and watch a show, sometimes we end up feeling like we’re twelve and it’s Fish-Hatcheries-In-Helsinki all over again. 

Sometimes, not liking a show can make us mad, with all the madness of years of a child’s lack of power. We wish we were the kind of douchebag to unwrap a candy or let a cellphone ring. We want something to happen! We don’t want to watch the show anymore! We scan the room for life, everyone seems glazed over, wanting to be somewhere else——we become filled with righteous indignation. Especially if we, too, are artists. We take it personally. 

I have taken some shit personally in my life. I spent the early aughts in New York City being furious at the improv comedy scene there. Seriously, I was so mad. Who was I mad at? No one, of course. Nobody did anything to me. But I bristled against most of the art that I saw. And then I went off and got pregnant with that anger and birthed an art baby that’s pretty interesting to me, and in general, I like the artistic path I’m on. And actually, I credit my anger, or at least, I give it its due as a shaping force for my child-artist soul as it tried and still tries to figure out what it wants. 

But I wish someone had told me then that I could calm the fuck down and let some of that anger go. Or that it was okay, that it would all lead somewhere. 

Anger, as they say, can be healthy. If you are not a Angry-all-the-time person, that is. It is healthy to have feelings, to allow yourself to have feelings, even when they aren’t cute and cuddly feelings. And it’s good to be passionate about things! Look at you, having strong opinions! That means you’re alive! That means you’re invested! That means you’re not passively receiving your experiences like a defeated automaton, not you! You’re engaged with life! Go on!

The downsides of artistic anger, however, are many. Your anger is so personal that it really feels like the artists responsible did something to you.  You see them at a party and avoid them. You act like they stood you up for coffee. Douchebag! your heart cries silently, to your own childhood, to the world, to no one. 

It wasn't fun, but watching improv comedy for years that made me mad made me better. It put me on a path of clarifying what’s important to me on stage, and getting better at delivering it when it’s my turn to get up there. The artists who anger us, for whatever reason, do not deserve our personal animosity; they’ve done nothing to us directly. They’ve opened a dialogue between us and ourselves about who we are and what we like. And this is a blessed thing.

These days, when I’m watching something that doesn’t tickle my taste, I “play at home,” to quote a friend. I consider the possibilities for revision, reconstruction, improvement, enlightenment. I can practice my art from right there in my seat. 

Of course, it’s still your time, and your time is valuable. You’re right: some people shouldn’t be charging us money to watch them do their art. I know. But geez: some people charge us money so they can build weapons of mass destruction. You paid twelve bucks to watch garbage that isn’t hurting anyone? You lucky puppy. 

We have to have so much gratitude for artists of all types!

Thank you and may Satan bless you, everyone, for sucking and not sucking, all! 

DOES WALLOW-IN-SHIT TEACHING WORK?

I once paid a lot of money to spend a month in France studying clown and bouffon with a master teacher. I'll call him Riffippe Shmaulier. I spent the month crying. I mean, I was in an adorable little town outside of Paris, living in an adorable little flat and eating the best cheese and pastries, so it wasn't that bad. But considering all the money I had shelled out to work on my craft, it was pretty shitty. 

The second-to-last day of class, Master Shmaulier had a former graduate in to assistant teach, kinda. The assistant had us do some martial arts stuff to warm up, cool. Then, when class started and it was my turn to stagger out on stage, terrified as usual, something different happened. The assistant sidecoached me. Not a lot, you know, but he fucking gave me a clue what to do. He gesticulated with his face and body—for a few seconds—to indicate that I should give more, now, a lot, right away. Ohhhh my brain and body said. So then I did that, and I killed the room. Just like that. After almost a month of total failure, one little note changed the game. And I killed the next day too, because a teacher had—oh how shall I put it—taught.

A few years ago, I took a 5-day physical theatre workshop. I flew across country to do it. I was excited about it, the teacher was well-known and respected, I looked forward to a lot of learning. And I definitely learned some stuff; it wasn't all about crying that time, at least. But my first three days, I wasn't "doing it right." I wasn't succeeding on stage. I knew that I wasn't, but I didn't know why. Finally, at the end of Day 3, I asked my teacher point-blank for some feedback, and the teacher gave it. OHHHHHH said my soul. Then I totally got it and found success. But if I had gotten that feedback on Day 1, how much further could I have progressed?

My point here is, there is a philosophy among many performance teachers that you should wallow in your own shit, or, figure it out for yourself. Some of these teachers are just lazy teachers whom nobody taught to be a teacher and they don't want to be a teacher anyway; they want to be on The Daily Show but here they are being a teacher and you are stuck trying to learn from them. They don't give you personal feedback because that would involve them having to think about your feelings and what would best land on you, and they can't do that because their brain is a punchline in the monologue of a late night talk show host, and their heart is a spec script. 

But we’re not even talking about those teachers. 

We’re talking about teachers who actually care about teaching—and when those teachers are letting you figure it out for yourself, as their pedagogic method, in a short-term workshop environment—that seems especially too bad. 

And, actually, what is really wrong here is Time. These master teachers probably came up in a time, and spent a lot of time, figuring it out for themselves. They probably had, what, at least 2 years to wave long sticks around in a dance studio and find themselves. It must have been great. It's amazing to have the luxury to discover success from within. 

But I don't know that many people nowadays who can afford to spend two years with long sticks in dance studios—AND I'M NOT KNOCKING THOSE LONG STICKS. I love those sticks. I carried those sticks all through college. I gave a graduation speech about those sticks!

I'm just saying, a lot of people don't have two years or even six months. A lot of people have a night, a weekend, a week, maybe sometimes a month. Metaphorically speaking, they have a twig or a branch, not the whole freaking stick. 

It is your teacher's job to make sure some learning gets done no matter how long the class is. Teaching means more than disseminating information. It means giving each student feedback on how it looks like they are incorporating that information. No matter if the class is three hours or three years. Feedback is what makes people get better at things. 

And of course there is such a thing as too much feedback. It is a balance. We want to keep our classes moving, plus there's only so much a student can absorb at once. But we can keep our students on i.v. drips of personal feedback, all the time. 

Once I feel like I see enough of a student to get a sense, I set a little personal goal for them in my mind. If they can get this, or, at the very least, hear this, at the end of our time together, cool. And everyone's got a different little goal. And each student might have their own goal that is independent of the goal you have for them. And all of that is good.

But none of it is wallowing in shit. 

We have no time left to wallow. Not everyone gets a long stick in this lifetime. 
But everyone deserves a little wood. 

SHOULD YOU MAKE A SOLO SHOW?

Imagine the biggest bed you've ever seen, a California King next to a California King next to a California King and so on and so on. It looks amazing, this bed, you've never been in a bed so expansive—a field of daisies and clouds for you to rest upon, an endless relaxing silken desert of dreams. Why wouldn't you get into this bed? You deserve it, right? Of course you do! 

Just watch yourself. Because once you start climbing into this bed, the edges blur and disappear, and then it's just you and bed and bed and you, for all eternity. You may never get out, and no one else may ever get in.

Consider deeply before you make a solo show. 

What is it about solo shows? A shit-ton of performing artists either have one or want to make one. I  see it in their eyes when they come up to me after a show. 

Oh I have an idea for a solo show... 

oh there's this SOLO SHOW I want to make...

Wow... you have a solo show, I WANT A SOLO SHOW...

Why? 

Is it the obvious financial advantage of not having to split your potentially-paltry monetary compensation? Is it the ease of not having to work around anyone else's life choices but your own? Is it some sort of marker of total success—if you can get 'em to stand up just for you, then you're REALLY THAT GOOD and maybe the WHOLE WORLD WILL WAKE UP AND SEE YOU FOR THE MESSIAH OF PERFORMANCE THAT YOU HAVE ALWAYS SECRETLY KNOWN YOU ARE... 

Those are all reasons why I made a solo show. Here's another one: ever since I was first getting on stage as a little kid, I have always felt more connected to the audience than whomever I was on stage with. There have been moments where I felt connected to a fellow performer, certainly, but for whatever reason, I have always felt some sort of film around myself when I'm on stage, a thin filmy membrane that feels like it is directly flowing into the audience's membrane, like we're in the membrane together... we vibrate together, the audience and me, and thus forms a weird gelatinous force field that prevents me from feeling something as deep with other people on stage, because I don't need it somehow, because when it's me and them I'm already whole...

How did that filmy membrane develop? Who knows. All sorts of ways. It could be a pathology or a virtue or none of the above. But it's for sure that filmy membrane that really propelled me to go it alone, and still does, more than the finances or the convenience or the imagined glory. 

Do not misunderstand me. It is profoundly lonely. It is, possibly, unsustainably lonely. If we are thinking of the Artist Life as a marathon and not a race, it may not be the right call in the long run. Difficult to say. 

It's worth considering deeply what your reasons are for making solo work, and understanding what the bad parts are going to be upfront. 

Here are the bad parts, bullet-numbered for your ease of reference:

• You're alone.
• You're alone.
• There's no one else.
• There's just you.
• It's lonely.
• It's isolating.
• Do you hear me? Total Solitude. 
• And no one else will really understand, not really. Other solo artists, sure, but they are so busy with their own bullshit that they don't have time or energy to absorb yours. You're on your own.
• You're by yourself. 
• Is anyone else there? Anyone at all? NO! 
• Just you!
• Do you get what I'm saying?
• ALONE! 

And yet, maybe it's going to be great! I have great experiences all the time. 

You know what's great? That feeling after a show that has gone well. It is the closest I have ever come to utter peace. It's better than a day at the Korean spa. It's the absolute best. You're high on life and nothing at all. You're utterly centered. 

Maybe you're wandering around in a park you find near the venue, because you're too jazzed to go home but there's nowhere else to go, so you just wander around this park in the dark and the drizzle and you watch the city lights twinkling not so far away, and in the park there are some young men playing some sort of role-playing tag-game with their phones, and you think that's cute, and you eat the two chocolate turtles that an audience member gave you, and you don't need a thing, no-thing, not one thing. You are complete and you are with the world and the world is with you and you're not lonely in the least because you are with everyone.

But technically speaking, let's be honest, you're still by yourself. 

My opinion is always the same, when it comes to figuring out if anything performance-related is going to work for you. Build a 10-minute solo piece and perform it a lot and decide if you love it so much you wanna marry it. Because that is the only reason to make a full-length solo show. You gotta be willing to marry yourself over and over and over again. Does that sound nice to you? Have at it. 

Consider your options, that's all I'm saying.

If you actually like performing with others, if you feel unity on stage with others, then for satan's sake go with that. Go with it despite your ego's calls for more attention. If you feel really good and connected on stage with other people, you will probably prefer that to solo performing, and the audience will probably prefer you that way as well. 

More people make solo shows than should. That's okay. Just the same, does the world really need your solo show? Do you need it? Just think about it, that's all I'm saying. 

Once you get into that big empty bed, there's no guarantee you're ever coming out. 

CONSENT

Accidents make me proudest. Of course, accidents shouldn't make me proud because they are, after all, accidents. So maybe pride isn't the emotion. Gratitude. Accidents make me feel gratitude. But I'm proud of my gratitude for those accidents. All very non-Buddhist, probably, but anyway.

Regardless, lately I've been feeling especial pride about a part in my show. It came from a rehearsal, years ago, back in the Early Years of Butt Kapinski. I was trying to make sure the people watching the rehearsal understood what I was saying, and I asked them if they were clear, but because of Butt's speech impediments, it came out as "queer." And it was funny, but it also ended up being incredibly important thematically, as the show developed to be queer, the character is queer, the audience is queered.

So at every show there's a moment early on when I ask the audience, Is everyone clear (queer)? And I wait for everyone's delightfully-multilayered affirmation that yes, they are clear, and also, yes, in a way, they are queer, or willing to be for the course of the show.

It's not unusual that someone pipes up at that point and says they're not queer. It feels defensive, but not necessarily aggressively so, just testing. So I clarify for that person that I'm really making sure that they are CLEAR, as in, comprehending what is going on (but yes, it still comes out like "queer"). And at that point, they tend to give in (or on rare occasions, realize that this is the wrong show for them, and duck out, god bless).

Lately I've been thinking a lot about consent, and I realized recently that the reason why I love that Is everyone queer moment so much, and why I'm so grateful I accidentally found it so many years ago, is because that is a moment that seems to get consent from the audience. It's not conscious on their part, necessarily, but I do think this moment is one of the reasons why everyone gamely plays along. They just feel asked, somehow. And they feel like they've said "yes."

Now, just because they've said that they're "queer" does not mean that they have given consent to do the other crazy things that I ask audience members to do. They have not agreed, in that moment, to hit or kiss me, to sit on other audience members, and so on. I have to get consent for those things too.

That's more complicated. That's about sensing, hinting, approaching with caution. If you're paying attention, you can tell who's up for it. There are those who are sitting there looking delighted, those people are definitely up for it, and maybe too up for it, depending on what you need from them. There are those who are really focused on you, you can feel their intense level of presence with you, those people are up for it too, but they may not be as crazy-from-the-word-go as the first category. Sometimes this second group is the best group, because their level of playing along is a bigger surprise. Then there are those who are kind of with you. They might give you what you want, but they're more of a gamble. And of course there are all the shades in between these groups. Audience members are individuals. I have to treat them as such.

"You also get away with doing what you do because you're a woman," a male comedian friend once said to me. "I'm so jealous of you because of all the things you can do to audience members that I can't."

And he's right about that! Ha ha ha, patriarchy! When it comes to getting away with unbelievable levels of audience interaction, female performers can wipe the floor with their male counterparts! We win in this arena, girls! Centuries of being oppressed has made it far easier for us to dominate our audience members and have them like it! It was all worth it, after all!

But really, it's also about the fact that if there's one thing I would like to believe I do, I pay attention to my audience members. It is the most important thing I do. It is the most political thing I do. It is the only way I can combat the gazillion performers who have given audience inclusion a bad name with their tiny-ego-inspired abuse, their wah-why-aren't-you-laughing-audience-it's-your-fault, their conception of their audiences as authorities to be undermined. It's not that way anymore, bros! Your audience is not your parents who didn't love you enough! Your audience wants to be your friend, and you who bulldoze and energetically-assault because you think it doesn't matter or because you think it makes you a big man, you scar audiences for the rest of us. You make them all afraid when they don't have to be. 

It's not just a gender thing (even though it often is). A woman could still be a bulldozer, hypothetically. It's just that she usually isn't. Because consent is something a bitch knows in her bones. So female performers do tend to naturally be more gentle in this way. And men can be subtle if they want to. I've seen plenty of that. They can't do all the things that a woman might be able to do, true, but they can dance along that spectrum, they can flirt with the same boundaries. They just have to be cautious motherfuckers. In this and all things, dudes!

There is a mistaken assumption among some performers who interact with the audience that by buying a ticket and sitting down, audience members have given consent. But they fucking haven't. They agreed to sit down and passively absorb entertainment and clap at the end. They did not give consent to be hauled up on stage or to be made fun of or to any way be a part of your show. That's not to say they won't, I'm just saying, they haven't yet.

There are loads of ways to get consent, right?

Just get it, that's all I'm saying. 

WHERE DID YOU TRAIN?

When people ask each other where they trained, what they're asking is, what did you study. Not just "clown" or "bouffon" or "physical theater"—they know you studied that. But did you study "Eye Control"? Did you study "Delightful Gestures"? Did you take classes in "Fucking Awesomeness", or were you born that way?

In the past I've made the mistake of answering that question by naming this theater teacher or that. But the truth is, other people have trained a lot more with those people or in actual grad schools, and I haven't. I'll tell you where I really trained. I trained in pleated pants and wingtips teaching The Scarlet Letter to tenth graders in a New York City prep school. I trained by being a high school English teacher.

Here's the thing about New York prep school students: either their parents have MOHNAY or those kids are AWESOME and on MAD SCHOLARSHIP. Either way, you're not dealing with what commonly comes to mind when people think of high school students in America. You're dealing with kids who mostly want to be there, at the very least, they want the bells and whistles associated with wanting to be there. Grades and recommendations and internships and law school and eventual second homes. So as a teacher you've got a real advantage there.

But that doesn't mean your students want to be in class. They show up, they did the homework, but let's be serious, how many kids would rather discuss The Scarlet Letter than do anything else on earth? One or two a year, tops. Little English teachers-in-training.

Most of the kids I had in class were initially distrustful of my ability—of any teacher's ability—to really hold their interest and inspire them. I had to prove myself. It wasn't crucifixion/StandAndDeliver-hard to prove myself, but it was still a learned skill. And it was satisfying, to see them fall in love with old musty books, even a little bit, to see them believe me when I said The Scarlet Letter was the sexiest book ever written about Puritans. I must have convinced them, or they would never have enthusiastically pointed out the double meaning of that rose bush, or that flogger, or that pumpkin patch.

With your average show audience, a performer is facing a similar vibe to that prep school classroom—at least if the performer is not famous (audiences for famous people are different, slavering things). The audience members have made the time for you, they got the tickets, they put on pants, but they still need convincing.

I put in lots of hours exploring how to keep the energy up in a room full of sleepy teenagers for an hour.

That's where I trained.

And if I could tell all performers where to train and they'd listen to me, I'd say, teach teach teach. Teach something worth learning. And more importantly, teach people who would rather be elsewhere doing something else.

I think that's probably what I need to start doing more of, again.  

THE SMARTEST/DUMBEST THING I'VE EVER DONE

Over time, I have made some rules for myself as a creator of things. This isn't because I'm some psychic genius who has always known which way to turn—OH NO—instead, these rules are the results of failures and disappointments and shitty performances and massive financial losses. So you'd think I would trust these rules at this point. Except recently, in the creation of my newest show, a site specific immersive comedy spaghetti western called WESTWARD HO'S, I've broken a shit ton of them. Here are just some examples of the rules I've triumphantly broken.

1) DON'T PERFORM OUTDOORS. This is one I learned in 2010 when I took Butt Kapinski outside and built a street show in Brooklyn, in which audiences met me on a corner and proceeded to basically walk around the block, meeting scenes and having experiences along the way. In theory it was actually cool, and actually, I think the audiences enjoyed it. But I didn't, so much. I was used to a certain energy and focused attention in the room. Take the ceiling away, there's too much competition with the cosmos, or whatever it is. Performing outside wasn't as fun for me. Lesson learned.

Except not at all. Now I've mounted an ENORMOUS show in an outdoor ampitheater. Why did you do it, fortheloveofchrissmas. See, I've known for years that I wanted to make a spaghetti western show. I visited the Lookout Arts Quarry last summer, saw The Saloon—a gorgeous little mini-Old West town built in the round, surrounded by trees—and knew immediately that it was the place for my new show. Another theater-maker-friend-of-mine came to visit and saw it too and said, "You can't NOT make a show here." IT'S THAT AWESOME.

But it's outside fortheloveofH-E-doublehockeystick. Yes it is. But there are indoory parts of it. Sort of. But you're right. I know.

2) DON'T MOUNT A FULL-LENGTH SHOW FIRST. This came from what I experience as success with the Butt show. I started with 5-7 minute bits, and worked it up to 15-20, then 45, then a 60-70 minutes. It developed over years, with lots of audience response along the way. So the character felt "experienced" even when I debuted the full-length show. And I had the confidence of having done the character a lot. It was all very organic and gradual and good-for-you-Deanna-pat-pat-pat

except who has time for that shit anymore? I mean, I still think that people just starting out doing shows should work that way, ABSOLUTELY. I still think I should work that way. Except I'm mounting this huge new show as a full-length extravaganza. Right out of the gate.

The semi-good news is that we've performed a 30-minute chunk once, and a 5-minute chunk twice. And those went very well and definitely helped the overall process and the performers' comfort-level. So I guess it's a tiny bit better than full-on-rule-break-suckshit. But, really, if I were doing this 100% by my rulebook I'd have done "workshops" of it where we tried out sections and served hot cider and called it a day.

Not doing that. Biggest show I've ever done. Catered dinner. Drinks. A Band. 10 performers. Myself. Humongous. Could go horribly wrong. Or...

3) DON'T BE IN A SHOW YOU'RE DIRECTING. I know there are theater schools out there that promote director-less models of creation, and I get it—directors usually charge for what they do, and if you're a theater company with no money, dot dot dot. And of course I'm a director so I'm biased but seriously friends when a show doesn't have a director you can TELL. Fascism is good in theater. It's good to have someone outside the work, seeing what the audience will see, and having opinions about it. And I love being a fascist! I love being the big bad authority so the performers can just relax and wear only one hat: their adorable vulnerable performer hat made entirely of skin and instinct.

Except this time I'm in the show that I'm directing. I'm playing a narrator, which is of course how I justify this gross indecency to myself and my cast. And I am really enjoying my role, and people are laughing. But still.

4) DON'T GET IN BED WITH CO-COLLABORATORS ALL-AT-ONCE. This is similar to my rule of not mounting a full-length show before doing small bits. Start collaborating with others to make a 10-minute bit so you can learn how each other works, then if it goes well you can develop more. And if it doesn't go well you can shake hands and part not having invested your left kidney in—if I may mix a metaphor here—a sinking ship.

Yeah, so I didn't follow this one either. First of all, there are 10 other people in the show. A lot of them are working together for the first time. Some of them I've had in workshops over the last few years, some of them I just met a few months ago. The truth is, though, none of them were strangers to me. They were all friends, former workshop participants, or friends-of-friends. Still, I guess it was risky.

But it's really gone surprisingly well. We seem to be as in sync as a cast this size could be. I mean, it is a really beautiful group of humans and I'm basically crushing on all of them, not just because they do what I say, but because they're intuitive and creative and fun to work with. Maybe I got lucky. Whatever, I still think Rule #4 is a great rule. Follow it, not me.

So there you have it. I'm not necessarily proud of all the rules I'm breaking to make my new show. On the other hand, I'm fiercely proud of all the rules I'm breaking to make my new show. It's great to have rules. It's great to break them. Much learning will ensue.

There's a showman in San Francisco that I admire, name of Chicken John. Chicken John has an elaborate graph he's created to show a concept rather dear to my heart: it is only the art that could be a complete shitshow which has any chance of being divine.

I'm doing it. I could fail miserably. So could all my co-collaborators who have trusted me so much.

But I kinda don't think we will. 

ARTIST RESIDENCY!

A few jugglers, aerialists, shadow puppeteers, a musician. Very slow wifi. Communal kale. I came to an Artist Residency.

Here in the studio, the musician is working with a singer and a looping pedal. They're making a simple song with a simple, clean chorus

how you gonna get your crazies out—

and then they loop that chorus and the singer sings are you gonna dance 'em out but it gets looped in this cool way that I don't understand yet (I'm still a newbie to the looper) so it ends up sounding like

how you gonna get your crazies—

are u gonna dance 'em out

The contact improv has paused for the moment, and the improvisers are now lying on the floor, talking, cozily, about group dynamics.

I've been touring hard for a few years, and when I wasn't touring, on the computer, setting up touring. I've been teaching and directing and doing one show—a show that varies a lot, sure, but still, same character, same energies, ebb'n'flow, here you go, how you gonna get your crazies—

are u gonna dance 'em out

Now they've stopped and the singer is yawning. Je suis fatiguee, she sings into the mic. Then, she murmurs, Good practice. They relax.

The studio is glowing dimly, just one light in the corner. The trapezes cast their shadows on the vast walls.

I didn't know what the hell I'd do here. I had a few ideas. I had no idea how I'd work on them by myself, as I don't do great creating on my own. Or at least, that's the narrative I've built for myself over the past few years. But how much creating have I been doing? I live a creative life, but man, these creative trees we call creative lives have so many branches, and you can neglect some, and they'll wither, but the rest of the tree keeps on and gets tall and maybe doesn't even notice the few dying branches. The birds notice, though.

It's a delicate, flowing thing, an artist residency. Living among artists. Artists come and go, they are present, they are absent. I have put myself as another fish in this river, gliding along in the strange water. The echoes of dishes being put away upstairs. It's late.

I bowed out of Edinburgh Fringe, and I came here. It has been so much business. So much career. I think of something a producer friend of mine said when I told him I was not going to Edinburgh this summer, that I need to take care of myself. He said, "All I see around me are artists not taking care of themselves."

And so here I am. For the first time in a long time, I played in front of the mirror, pretty much by myself. I danced butoh, and then I put on a devil mask and played with that, and I made a juggler laugh.

What am I going to make here? I don't know. I'm going to be an artist here. It's easy to get swept up in the business, and then that is all it is. We think, before we make money as artists, that all we want is to be in the business. We think that will solve everything, that that will be all we need.

I need to bring myself to the mirror and not know what's there.

The music is done for the night. Some cuddling has commenced. I'm going to watch "Dirty Dancing" in bed. It's the only movie I have.

how you gonna get your crazies—

    are u gonna dance 'em out